tell me what you need

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

“Snapping.” Comes the blunt response, all poise and proper tones falling away in his exhaustion and tension, muscles feathering in his jaw as he tries to formulate words that haven’t even crossed his mind just yet. Thankfully, he isn’t a teeth grinder, intending on keeping his own teeth as sharp as can be, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t clench his jaw when everything happens.

He doesn’t know what will help, doesn’t know whether or not he should just retreat back to his room, but the warmth of Danta at his back and the nose in his hair like a shield against lingering inky wings in the recesses of his mind puts him at ease enough, curling in on himself to hide his chest all the same, like with the two of them combined he might be less vulnerable. Something he hates the idea of – the vulnerability – but cannot escape.

Letting the Maverick take his hand, Astaroth tries to take a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose, squeezing the other man’s hand back. He does as instructed, listens to the crackle of dry, burning wood, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses outside the door, but there is no sound of swooping wings and no horribly croaked out comments of meat and eyes. “I don’t know what happened. I was doing fine.” He says as if that’s the crux of the issue – feeling fine, having even touched Moira, and yet his subconscious reaches the deep recesses of his mind, drawing back the trauma first and foremost, perhaps from when he’d tried to ward away the gore crows day after day.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Eh, you've done worse to me," Danta murmurs, closing his eyes as if he might be able to slow the thunder of Asta's heartbeat just by listening to it and trying to match it to his own. "Sometimes on a daily basis." His smile is a wry thing, and it's clear that whatever bad blood was once between them is long gone. Which is why even if the other man thinks it might be best for him to sneak away to his own room, he'll have a hard time escaping the Maverick.

"Doesn't matter how you were doing. It's not surprising, really," he continues, the words mumbled into Asta's crown of dark hair. "This is the closest you've come to a crow since it happened, right?" In reality, they ought to have seen it coming a mile away. "Let's just stay here for a bit. You'll be alright."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

The initial comment doesn’t really help, but he isn’t wrong either. It’s a statement that has him huffing out a little sound of agreement, even if nowadays he hates that it’s true. Once again transported back to that time that they’d both been puppets, attack dogs, pinned against one another again and again. This time, though, in lieu of everything, Danta’s the one protecting him, and it sparks other confusing feelings that thankfully begin to overtake the one from his nightmares, smoothing out his heartbeat fraction by fraction.

“Yeah.” Astaroth says, his accented tone far more Whitebrim than it had been in the Climb. He wants to say how tough it is, how he wants it to go away and not be that hairpin trigger that sets him off, how he’d hoped that by doing it he might one day be able to handle any crows and potentially any gore crows in his vicinity. He also hates the hardened, ridged scars on his body that remind him of it day after day. “I want to get over it. I don’t want to be like this.” Comes the quiet admission, hand squeezing Danta’s as if to punctuate the point.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"You will," Danta says, far too easily in truth, but it doesn't make it any less honest. "The Climb wasn't built in a day, after all." Smiling into the other man's dark hair, he clasps his hand firmly, tail curling up and around his leg as well quite without his knowledge. "Today was a big step. Just keep taking small ones, you'll get there."

Saying it like that, one would think Danta would also be able to apply it to himself; alas, he doesn't give himself nearly the same sort of credit. Besides, the Maverick's own issues run deep and tangled, rather than in the shape of gore crows. "Maybe next time we try introducing you to Moira, you can be a little more sober?" he suggests; probably not entirely so, but at least that way he's less likely to succumb so easily to nightmares.

Maybe. Danta's just guessing.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

The Climb was not built in a day, that’s true. And it’s a statement that has Astaroth’s shoulders relaxing ever so slightly, trying to loosen the closed off posture he harbors as the lingering nightmare begins to fade away and the nausea thankfully starts to vanish. “I want it fixed now.” He complains, selfishly wanting to have this opportunity been a magical cure. He knows, realistically, that it wouldn’t at all be the case, but it doesn’t stop the burn from lingering in his mind.

Huffing out another sigh, he nods from where he’s settled on the floor, his head and dark hair pressing briefly back into Danta’s face even as he makes room for Danta’s tail to wind around his leg. “Yeah. And maybe without the Halovian liquor.” Two things to spur on the nostalgia likely didn’t help when transporting him back into the past, but at least he’s stopped feeling so tense and wound, like he might combust.

Silent for a moment, Astaroth starts to actually allow himself to relax, shifting slightly in the Maverick’s embrace, trying to get his mood to brighten, to ward the nightmares away. “I know that we have had worse in the Climb, but, this floor is not all that comfortable.” He complains after another long stretch of silence, even if he doesn’t make that much of an effort to move.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

Hearing the other man out, Danta can only offer a soft hum of agreement - neither one of them is particularly patient, and after so long with a chip on his shoulder in the shape of a corvid, he doesn't blame Asta for simply wanting it gone. "Maybe we can look into hypnosis," he suggests, voice low and amused. "I've heard it can make people do very strange things."

Still, with the agreement of no further Halovian liquor and a fresh complaint on the butcher's lips, Danta can't help but bark out a laugh. "So demanding," he teases, but nevertheless uncoils himself from around the other man so he might get to his feet and stretch. "Back to bed, then," he murmurs, ushering Asta to follow suit.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

“Horrible.” Astaroth grimaces a little, unsure what kind of very strange things it could make him do – but again it returns back to that lack of control that he can’t function with. It’s partially why this has burned so terribly for him. As such, he hears Danta’s bark of laughter and somehow that does even more to relax the butcher from where he remains on the floor. He hadn’t overstepped. He hadn’t done anything terrible. He’d managed to work it out, even if he isn’t sure if he’d be able to fall back asleep – too worried that it might come back.

The murmured demand as Danta rises to his feet has Astaroth slowly moving, too, pulling himself up to stand with slumped shoulders and dark hair falling forward into his eyes that he tries to push back as he collects the blanket he’d taken with him in his tumble off the bed to replace it when he crawls back in, he somehow seems smaller than he always comes off. Perhaps that’s due to the sagged shoulders or the way he seems almost frail in comparison to the typical brawn strength he harbors with his height and menacing appearance, he seems like everything but the butcher of whitebrim in the moment. Anything but the Mighty Astaroth.

Even so much so that when Danta crawls in after, Astaroth’s position changes from how it had been before, shifting to take Danta’s place previously with his head nestling in against the blonde’s shoulder, forehead pressed to his neck as if to keep his teeth away from it and keep himself just as small as he had been on the floor.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Noted," Danta says with a mischievous smirk, and Asta will never be sure whether the Maverick is locking that information away to be used later as a prank, or merely jotting it down in his memory. Regardless, he steps back enough to let the other man get on his feet, only for his smile to fall away to see him just as hunched and fragile as he had been on the hard floor.

And so it isn't that much of a surprise, as he slips back beneath the blankets as well, to find Asta curled against him, small and vulnerable in a way that has Danta's breath catching. "You're sure I can't get you anything?" he mumbles automatically, as if there might be a drink or a drug or some magical item of clothing in the other man's room that might fix this.

Sighing as if knowing the answer to his question even as he says it, Danta spends a moment drawing the blankets back over them properly before his arms slip around the butcher, holding him tightly against his chest. "I'll stay awake with you," he decides; even if it's just like this, in the quiet and the firelight.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

The question is met with the beginning of a shrug, Astaroth’s eyes shutting as he tries to listen to Danta’s own heartbeat in the hopes it might calm his. Instead, he just hears the reverberations of the Maverick’s voice through his body alongside the audible hum. “I don’t know what would help.” He answers honestly – unfamiliar with any kind of drugs these days aside from cigarettes and alcohol – both of which utilized heavily back before he had taken his slumber in stone. He’d never partaken much from those endeavors, though a fan of the occasional cigar and pipe, alcohol had been his go to. Everything else was unbeknownst to him.

As such, he only starts to relax when Danta’s arms wind around his shoulders and he adjusts his head slightly to rest easier on the blonde’s shoulders, arms winding around him in turn to keep him close. “You don’t have to.” He offers quietly. After all, Danta had also had an exhausting day, and he doesn’t want to be more of a burden to prevent him from getting the sleep he needs to function even if Asta can’t fall back asleep.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

Humming out something contemplative that he doesn't have the words to express, Danta's brow furrows and he shifts to get more comfortable as Asta does the same, his fingers stroking in slow passes accross the other man's shoulders. He purposely doesn't trace the overlapping patterns of scar tissue, more interested in the man beneath them, his cheek pressing against dark hair (expertly avoiding sharp horns as he does so).

"Well, I don't know if it's worth trying anything now that it's happened," he murmurs. "I wouldn't want you to not be able to wake up if it happens again." So unfortunately that rules out the sleepiest of narcotics he knows. "But I can check and see if there are any sedatives at the infirmary." Ones that won't put the other man to sleep, but will simply take the edge off his panic and tension.

"And I know I don't," he adds, leaving it to Asta to finish the end of that sentence. Danta will stay awake because he wants to. (And he also doesn't want to wake up with his jugular missing, but that's besides the point).

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

“Hmm.” Astaroth hums, as if the thought has just occurred to him to seek out the infirmary for something that might alleviate the panic. It hadn’t been a thing prior – more of a get over it and be good kind of situation that he’d been thrust into. He’d simply assumed it would have been the same when he likely could have sought out any potential options that might have become a thing in the centuries he’d been asleep. “It would be worth seeking out.” Or Isla, as he thinks about it. She likely knew of anything that could help him, too. “I will inquire with Isla, too.” A plan in place to maybe make this easier and a less common occurrence.

Listening to Danta’s admission, he seems to bury himself further into the embrace of the other man, as his fingers trace along the smooth skin of his shoulders above the brunt of his scar tissue. He thinks he understands the underlying meaning, but he hasn’t been kicked out yet for it, so he selfishly clings to Danta in the interim as his mind continues to spin. “Perhaps a different kind of muzzle may help, if this is a sign I’ll return to how I used to be.” He admits, and Danta would feel the way his nose wrinkles with the idea, but at least they’d both manage to get some sleep.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Pretty sure Isla used to run the Infirmary back here. Hopefully the people left behind share some of her knowledge," Danta murmurs, brow furrowing as he considers what to do for the here and now. Alas, aside from kicking Asta into his own room - or having one of them sleep on the couch - there's nothing for it, seemingly, other than staying awake. (Call him getting soft, but he's not keen to force the other man away given how tightly he's nestled into him).

Raising his eyebrows gently and glancing down at Asta enough that he might see his face a little, Danta feels as though he's belatedly putting two and two together. "This was a common occurrence?" he murmurs. "That... explains a lot of things." More than he'll say out loud to spare them both the awkward conversation. Instead, with a frown he nuzzles back against the other man, letting out a heavy sigh.

"A bedtime muzzle? Kinky." His smirk is tired, but at least he's still able to bring levity to the situation. "Or you'll just have to be little spoon forever."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

“She did.” Astaroth hums, muffled as he is with his face pressed against Danta’s soft skin. “I believe she did train some of them, if memory serves.” Though with how strained his mind feels right now, it’s really a give and take. He can’t commit to whether or not it’s true, so he buries his face again even as Danta’s glance moves his head enough that the butcher’s dark gaze can see the briefest glimpse of the Maverick’s pale face. “It’s why no one shared my room with me in the Climb.” He offers after a moment, exhaling a soft sigh.

After a moment of pause to think, Astaroth shifts a little. “It was worse in the Climb. You could hear the crows outside when they’d make their passes.” He offers unhelpfully, even if his mind is thankfully still wandering enough away from it to keep him from tensing. Perhaps it’s the crackle of the fire, the voices that drift from below calling for another round, or something else.

At least the nuzzling, even paired with the teasing ribbing, has Astaroth relaxing further with a snort. “But my reputation.” He says in a tired air of dramatics, the arm over Danta’s middle lifts to wave unhelpfully as if to punctuate the point. “It would be more like… Protection.” He decides on, too tired to think of the innuendo he’s just made.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"I'll have someone look into it first thing in the morning," Danta decides - perhaps earlier, depending on whether he'll be able to eventually drop off or not. For now, at least, he isn't going anywhere, and his fingers stroke up the back of the other man's neck to slip into his dark hair. "I mean," he says softly, "you clearly have more control over it than you did, otherwise I'd be dead right now."

No, it's not a point he particularly likes to linger on, but it doesn't make it any less true. And here he is, still, continuing to make questionable decisions by sharing his bed with a cannibal.

"I hate to break it to you, Asta, but between these four walls, at this point your reputation is dust." Smirking, it's nonetheless said with affection, and he can only scoff at the other man's last point. "Protection?" he complains. "That's no fun. I like my bedtime antics to come with a little risk."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //