i'm a thinker, not a talker
Casimir barely notices the way Thorn's arms wrap around him and pull him close so wrapped up in his personal crisis. There's a spark of hope that flickers in him when Thorn says they'll figure it out together, which is quickly drowned out by a further wave of despair. He should be heartened by Thorn's offer of support, his use of together, but instead it just sends his head deeper into his hands. Thorn, who could do anything and could go to the desert to build his empire or just enjoy the leisures of life, committing to stitching up a broken bartender who’s last name he might not even know. The injustice of the situation rises parallel with his hopelessness.
He drags his hand across his eyes, dropping them back on his lap heavily and lets free a small sigh. How does he begin to explain to Thorn that he doesn’t have an obligation to fix him, or to let every broken man rest their sorrows upon his lanky shoulders?
”I like tending bar,” He says weakly, trying to salvage what the tender morning had succumbed to. He had liked fighting too, because things turned rotten and the consequences of his actions formed like cuts along his knuckles. Maybe he should run away to Halo and join the soldiers. Maybe then his capacity for blunt instrumentation could serve something greater than drunk patrons.
He wonders if Thorn would let him follow him to the desert like a lost puppy, or a guard dog, just letting him hold Thorn and resting the man’s head upon his chest. Why did the man want to get to know him and figure out if there was anything under his shell? (What is there wasn’t anything, just that hard suit of armor with nothing inside?)
”I don’t know if there’s anything to get to know,” He offers in his strangled baritone. ”Maybe it’s just this.” Not like Thorn, with his swirling, caring depths of kindness and personality and ambition.
He drags his hand across his eyes, dropping them back on his lap heavily and lets free a small sigh. How does he begin to explain to Thorn that he doesn’t have an obligation to fix him, or to let every broken man rest their sorrows upon his lanky shoulders?
”I like tending bar,” He says weakly, trying to salvage what the tender morning had succumbed to. He had liked fighting too, because things turned rotten and the consequences of his actions formed like cuts along his knuckles. Maybe he should run away to Halo and join the soldiers. Maybe then his capacity for blunt instrumentation could serve something greater than drunk patrons.
He wonders if Thorn would let him follow him to the desert like a lost puppy, or a guard dog, just letting him hold Thorn and resting the man’s head upon his chest. Why did the man want to get to know him and figure out if there was anything under his shell? (What is there wasn’t anything, just that hard suit of armor with nothing inside?)
”I don’t know if there’s anything to get to know,” He offers in his strangled baritone. ”Maybe it’s just this.” Not like Thorn, with his swirling, caring depths of kindness and personality and ambition.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
