At first, Larus hadn't wanted to deal with Casimir's fluctuating moods, the soft promises of things that would never be real or the fleeting pressure of his lips when they entertained the notion of kissing. He's only so strong as to resist the temptation, half-dating a man who's in a committed relationship with an abusive idiot he could kill and stage the murder as an accident. The desire to have Casimir in his bed or filling that lone silence every moment had become too much each time he caught glimpses of them together, and he needed to get out. He needed to go somewhere far away from this town with its desperate housewives and gossip mill, contacting a few "friends" to arrange some work that would take him out of the country.
Of course, the job had been a disaster. He'd botched the intel, which lead to a difficult death, and he's now got a broken rib and a throbbing knife wound in his hip—neither luckily nonlethal. But they both hurt, and he isn't in a good mood, driving back from the airport without really thinking about what he might be coming home to. Casimir in his pool, drinking his wine. Casimir curled up on his sofa or in his bed. Casimir, Casimir, Casimir. It's so frustrating not to have any peace of mind, and he sits in his car in his driveway for half an hour too long when he finally gets home, forehead resting against the steering wheel and body aching. He's going to have to end this, or he's never going to be free; there's just no other way around it. Reaching for his phone feels like a blessing and a curse when he notices Casimir's name pop up across the screen.
But he only gets a second to glance at the message before the car door is being ripped open and someone is trying to drag him out of the vehicle by his hair.
Larus curses, a deep breath causing pain to flare through his chest, and his hand shakes as he tries to dislodge those fingers, maneuvering in a way that he's outside without more discomfort than he's already in. Yet, there's no real way to fight someone who is both drunk and wanting to actually do him harm, grappling with Nik until he's got an arm locked around his throat. The bastard tries to use his body weight to slam him against the car door, and even though the sharp burn from the knife wound lances through him, he doesn't let go. He'd been trained for this, knew his limits, and he squeezes at him, writhing and all, until he feels the signs of unconsciousness start to take hold, carefully letting him slip to the ground before stepping over him.
He sweating as he walks up the front walk to Casimir's house, holding his side and ignoring the fact fresh blood is beginning to seep into his pants. There's a smear of it left on the door when he opens it, trying not to breathe but panting at the same time. He's tired and irrational, and when he finally figures out that Casimir is in the closet, he undoes the lock to throw it open and look at him. This is not what he wanted to deal with.
It takes him several long seconds to get his mouth to work. ]
I'm not doing this anymore. [ And though it's supposed to make him feel better, he just feels worse, grimacing as he turns to limp away from him. ]
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At first, Larus hadn't wanted to deal with Casimir's fluctuating moods, the soft promises of things that would never be real or the fleeting pressure of his lips when they entertained the notion of kissing. He's only so strong as to resist the temptation, half-dating a man who's in a committed relationship with an abusive idiot he could kill and stage the murder as an accident. The desire to have Casimir in his bed or filling that lone silence every moment had become too much each time he caught glimpses of them together, and he needed to get out. He needed to go somewhere far away from this town with its desperate housewives and gossip mill, contacting a few "friends" to arrange some work that would take him out of the country.
Of course, the job had been a disaster. He'd botched the intel, which lead to a difficult death, and he's now got a broken rib and a throbbing knife wound in his hip—neither luckily nonlethal. But they both hurt, and he isn't in a good mood, driving back from the airport without really thinking about what he might be coming home to. Casimir in his pool, drinking his wine. Casimir curled up on his sofa or in his bed. Casimir, Casimir, Casimir. It's so frustrating not to have any peace of mind, and he sits in his car in his driveway for half an hour too long when he finally gets home, forehead resting against the steering wheel and body aching. He's going to have to end this, or he's never going to be free; there's just no other way around it. Reaching for his phone feels like a blessing and a curse when he notices Casimir's name pop up across the screen.
But he only gets a second to glance at the message before the car door is being ripped open and someone is trying to drag him out of the vehicle by his hair.
Larus curses, a deep breath causing pain to flare through his chest, and his hand shakes as he tries to dislodge those fingers, maneuvering in a way that he's outside without more discomfort than he's already in. Yet, there's no real way to fight someone who is both drunk and wanting to actually do him harm, grappling with Nik until he's got an arm locked around his throat. The bastard tries to use his body weight to slam him against the car door, and even though the sharp burn from the knife wound lances through him, he doesn't let go. He'd been trained for this, knew his limits, and he squeezes at him, writhing and all, until he feels the signs of unconsciousness start to take hold, carefully letting him slip to the ground before stepping over him.
He sweating as he walks up the front walk to Casimir's house, holding his side and ignoring the fact fresh blood is beginning to seep into his pants. There's a smear of it left on the door when he opens it, trying not to breathe but panting at the same time. He's tired and irrational, and when he finally figures out that Casimir is in the closet, he undoes the lock to throw it open and look at him. This is not what he wanted to deal with.
It takes him several long seconds to get his mouth to work. ]
I'm not doing this anymore. [ And though it's supposed to make him feel better, he just feels worse, grimacing as he turns to limp away from him. ]