i'm a thinker, not a talker
Casimir has been touched gently tonight more than he had in literal years. He could count on one callused hand how many touches had been meant with love intended. Particularly, hands intended to make contact with his face oft had violent intent behind them, looking to shatter a cheekbone or bruise an eye. Perhaps that's why he always seems to melt whenever Thorn's hands grace his face with such gentleness he always feels like he's melting into the touch, his face curving into Thorn's fingers like a cat bumping its head against something it wants more of.
As Thorn's hands grace his curls, brushing his hair against his ears, it takes everything he has not to drop his head into Thorn's fingers and lean, asking for more. He holds that much dignity within himself, but his eyes do flutter shut just for a moment as Thorn's fingers grace his face.
He's a terrible liar, and a terrible speaker, which usually covers the terrible liar part, and as Thorn looks at him with that open, hopeful look, he doesn't have to ability to lie to him about how he slept. He keeps his face carefully blank, the act of keeping it so carefully neutral an admission in itself and then, realizing that, he tries to shift it into something more normally casual, which he knows makes it worse. Fortunately he knows Thorn doesn't anticipate anything, so he keeps quiet, shifting himself to begin the process of extricating himself from the bed.
He doesn't know what to do now, in this domestic moment, the blanket pooling in Thorn's still-naked lap, the sunlight soft on his shining face. It was easier in the dark of the night not to bolt, but now, the urge pulls at him, near-overwhelming. Casimir recalls, once again, that he does not know how to merely exist, to have a pleasant moment in bed with someone he truly wants to with, and the knife's edge between joy and fear begins to grow just a little thinner. Will Thorn still want him in the light of the day, with the exhaustion and alcohol out of his body?
Feet resting on the floor, he tries to force his breathing deep and even and regulated and not frantic bursts. "What now?" Rips from him abruptly, and he hates the way desperation laces in it.
As Thorn's hands grace his curls, brushing his hair against his ears, it takes everything he has not to drop his head into Thorn's fingers and lean, asking for more. He holds that much dignity within himself, but his eyes do flutter shut just for a moment as Thorn's fingers grace his face.
He's a terrible liar, and a terrible speaker, which usually covers the terrible liar part, and as Thorn looks at him with that open, hopeful look, he doesn't have to ability to lie to him about how he slept. He keeps his face carefully blank, the act of keeping it so carefully neutral an admission in itself and then, realizing that, he tries to shift it into something more normally casual, which he knows makes it worse. Fortunately he knows Thorn doesn't anticipate anything, so he keeps quiet, shifting himself to begin the process of extricating himself from the bed.
He doesn't know what to do now, in this domestic moment, the blanket pooling in Thorn's still-naked lap, the sunlight soft on his shining face. It was easier in the dark of the night not to bolt, but now, the urge pulls at him, near-overwhelming. Casimir recalls, once again, that he does not know how to merely exist, to have a pleasant moment in bed with someone he truly wants to with, and the knife's edge between joy and fear begins to grow just a little thinner. Will Thorn still want him in the light of the day, with the exhaustion and alcohol out of his body?
Feet resting on the floor, he tries to force his breathing deep and even and regulated and not frantic bursts. "What now?" Rips from him abruptly, and he hates the way desperation laces in it.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
