laps up the vice like a wolf in the night

so what, my friend, whatever will it be?
i can give you what you crave, just not for free

The objection isn’t one that the butcher expects, typically used to Danta just going with it. He doesn’t get that today, though, and despite everything, he concedes this time if only so the guilt won’t grow further in his gut for everything he’s done today. “I didn’t know what kind of date it was.” He begins, maneuvering to step back toward the portal, easily letting Danta fit back up against his side.

The portal comes into view and he’s silent — not that it’s unusual, but what is unusual is the way it seems like he’s trying to figure out what words to say. “She wanted to come here, to the Climb, to Frey’s Breath. And I took it as a great time to announce little tidbits of how things once had been.” More… informative than sexual. Because despite everything, the butcher had never been on a real date.

He draws silent as they step into the portal and Danta’s magic splits the bonfire so they keep their clothes, and he tugs Danta a little closer and protectively despite the multitude of people around. “We probably should have.” He says with a sigh, because it was far too late now.

Instead he guides the Maverick toward the Dusklight, toward more seclusion, staying silent until people can’t pry into it just yet.

Astaroth

you know what's on the line

you were automatic and as hollow as the 'O' in god

"You didn't know it was a date at all," Danta concedes with an equally as guilty shrug. "Which is on me. I figured it would be a fun story to yank your chain about when you got home." Nothing more, nothing less. Just oblivious, gentlemanly Asta having to tail along with the Queen of Torchline's vibrant hijinks. And now apparently she'd almost died (but hadn't, he remembers that much from Asta's snappy explanation) and the butcher has arrived back late and like this.

Raising his eyebrows to hear that they'd come to The Climb, Danta stifles his next question about why the fuck Asta had been so late, swallowing it back because it helps precisely nobody at this point. Instead, letting some of the flames lick at their cheeks and hair to burn away the blood if only so they don't look quite so monstrous at a first glance, he leans shamelessly against the butcher and hurries on bare feet back towards the Dusklight.

If anything there's a raucous sort of cheer that rises up to see the two Ancients return, the patrons clearly assuming there had been a fight between the owner and his security, but that their camaraderie signals that all is well again now. And it's a relief, honestly, because Danta is able to seize yet another bottle of wine and demand some hot water be brought up to his room, before he's leading his way upstairs on weary feet.

Dantalion

so what, my friend, whatever will it be?
i can give you what you crave, just not for free

Waiting, letting the words sink in because while it likely would have been a funny story had it not been a whole means of having sex, Astaroth might have thought it was funny too. But of course, there’d be less teeth in shoulders and circular bites lodged into thighs.

Anyway.

The blood flecks off with the fire, ashen now and blending into nothing more than looking like they’d stepped too close to the fire (which was true, in a way), and he remains just as close to Danta as they make it back to the Dusklight to be greeted by cheers and excitement — excitement and relief he doesn’t feel, but plasters one of those fake smiles on his face in lieu of it. Hiding it. Not even making his own request while Danta snags a bottle of whine and requests hot water.

Instead, he’s stuck to Danta’s side as they walk back up toward his room, and when he’s sure that nobody else can overhear them, he heaves an equally weary sigh to the movement the Maverick has. “It would have been if she didn’t want to have sex.” He says with a far too casual shrug, eyes focused ahead at the door he’d left swung partially open, the bag and burnt mark in the floor still exactly where they’d left them.

Astaroth

you know what's on the line

you were automatic and as hollow as the 'O' in god

"Ah," Danta says, having the decency to wince at the revelation, though he still apparently doesn't know the half of it. "I suppose I should have expected as much from Flora. I take she didn't respond well to your letting her down gently?" Because no part of the Maverick believes Asta would have actually engaged with the Doubletake's attempts. Not because Flora isn't smoking fucking hot and powerful in a way that Danta can absolutely appreciate, but because of the obvious implications when it comes to the butcher and his sexual appetites.

Sighing deeply and stepping into the room as the scorch mark and the bag become visible once more, Danta parts from Asta for no other reason than so he can stoke the fire with his magic and shrug out of the now tattered, bloodied and ruined scarlet robe. Tossing it into the flames, the Maverick is left covered in streaks of black and rust red, rubbing at his face and leaning back against the mantelpiece. Gods but he's exhausted, and far too sober now for any of this to feel remotely easy.

Dantalion

so what, my friend, whatever will it be?
i can give you what you crave, just not for free

“Well…” The butcher trails off, slipping into the room and shutting the door far more gently behind him. He lingers there as Danta parts, only going so far as to reach for the bag and set it out of tripping distance, trying to formulate the words. The knock reaches the door and his gaze is averted from the Maverick to turn back to the door to snatch the bucket of hot water. “I did not, really, let her down.” Not at first. Even as the words leave his lips; he winces, clicking the door shut again and returning to offer the bucket of water.

“I warned her from it, of course, but… She said she could heal and it would be fine, even after I explained how my whole bloodlust works.” His nose wrinkles and he stares into the flames harder, like he might be able to burn from the inside if he tried to blind himself with the light of the flames. “It did not go well.” At first, it had as far as he was concerned. After? When he’d gotten too greedy? When he’d already warned her?

To when the mood broke and she still tried so desperately to pull him back and all he can see is how he’d mangled her shoulder.

Astaroth

you know what's on the line

you were automatic and as hollow as the 'O' in god

Well, says Asta, and Danta is already raising his eyebrows incredulously at the butcher even as he goes to fetch the hot water from the server who has brought it up to them. "Asta," the Maverick scolds, though if there's any heat at all in the words, it's weary more than anything else.

"Fuck." He doesn't need to tack on what the fuck were you thinking, because one look at the other man says that question is already rolling around in his mind. Instead, having fetched a clean cloth from one of his drawers, he soaks it in the hot water and straightens up, silently starting to clean the blood and ash from Asta's shoulders and chest.

"Was she alright, when she went home? She... I mean, you did see her home, right? She didn't run out screaming?" Already Danta is having to compose a very carefully worded letter to Flora in his mind, and gods, he already knew he owed her for the whole Safrin tree thing, but gods, this is a mess.

Dantalion

so what, my friend, whatever will it be?
i can give you what you crave, just not for free

“I know, Danta.” He says on a whisper, jaw locking tight, teeth clicking together. What he doesn’t expect is for Danta to start cleaning away the ash and blood on him first, the hot water melting away residual ointment Flora had used, the scent of clove and cinnamon reignited briefly. He reaches up to take the cloth from Danta’s hand, dipping it in the hot water and rising to clean up his face, his dark gaze shadowed and already apologetic.

“She used her compass. She was fine, just, I don’t know. Disappointed? She went to the healing fountain as far as I am aware.” The tears that fell from Flora’s eyes sear into his mind briefly, his jaw working. “She had a specific plan, which I ruined as per usual. I bit her shoulder and surprised her and she dropped the tide jaguar on my stomach.” And he remembers the realization, the coming to, the sudden realization with the tear in her shoulder. “I stopped, of course, I realized the mistake I made. She wanted to recover the situation but I had already gotten out of the mindset. I politely declined.” Which had been devastating for her, as it turned out, but Danta would know that the mood was a fickle thing for the butcher in the first place, and to try and recover it meant that it would essentially be an entire thing.

And that’s not even to say it would work despite the attempts.

Astaroth

you know what's on the line

you were automatic and as hollow as the 'O' in god

Sighing, because he knows Asta knows, Danta surrenders the washcloth to let the other man scrub at his face, snagging it back only to rub at a stubborn bit of blood on his cheek before he's bending to rinse it out again. "Can't fault her for being disappointed, having to step away from a dalliance with a gentleman like you." One with a maw full of sharp teeth, granted, and a helluva problem with keeping his bedmates alive, but what's a little murder among friends?

"Don't per usual me," he adds, washing away the remainder of the blood and grime from the other man's torso. "It sounds like no one was to blame." Or everyone was to blame. "Glad to hear she used her compass, though. I'll get in touch with her soon." When he's slept, and slept a lot more after that, too.

Only once he's content that the butcher is clean does he step back, Danta nodding towards his wardrobe. "What's mine is yours," he says - providing it fits, of course, though anything has to be better than the charred, bloodied swim shorts Asta is still wearing.

Dantalion

so what, my friend, whatever will it be?
i can give you what you crave, just not for free

But it is as per usual. He’s ruined two things lately. His date with Flora, and whatever this was between him and the Maverick. But he pipes down with a heavy sigh, relinquishing the rag to Danta to scrub at a particularly stubborn spot. “She took my shirt with her.” He says as if it helps anything at all. “Perhaps she shall send it back.” If she knew he got attached to the clothing he picked out. Which, he assumes she does.

But assumptions never really were something to settle on, as he’s figuring out.

Helpless in stopping Danta from cleaning him up, he allows it with a weariness to his gaze, a tight set to his jaw that pushes at muscles he otherwise rarely used unless to smile, the butcher ensures Danta is just as clean before the gesture to the closet is met with a shake of his head. “It’s okay, truly.” He doesn’t want to take more away from him, not his clothes or anything else, not if he was to leave in the morning, not if he was to give him space.

Instead, he slips out of his shorts and also tosses it into the fire, like it might wipe his mind clean of what happened today. “I will send her the letter, Danta. You don’t have to.” It was his mess, after all. Both of them.

Astaroth

you know what's on the line

you were automatic and as hollow as the 'O' in god

"Or perhaps she'll make a voodoo doll with it and stab it regularly. Do speak up if you start to feel like someone is knifing you in the back each night," Danta drawls, though the joke falls somewhat flat as he finishes cleaning the blood from the other man. Not expecting the same treatment - though really, what ought he have expected after automatically falling into those same familiar gestures with Asta - the Maverick stills and allows himself to be wiped clean of gore and dust.

Opening his mouth as if to scold the taller Ancient - for refusing his offer, for wanting to take over the plans and letters that Danta has already considered, for everything else that has already happened leading up to this point - in the end he can only sigh heavily enough to drag his shoulders away from his ears. "Let's get some sleep, then," he decides, letting one last wave of fire roar over his bare skin to ensure he's clean and warm, before he heads for the blankets to slip beneath them.

Dantalion

so what, my friend, whatever will it be?
i can give you what you crave, just not for free

“I shall.” Asta says just as deflated, the joke falling between them like a heavy cloud, one that Astaroth feels helpless in trying to lighten the mood, not that he has any means to anyway. He simply just focuses on cleaning up the Maverick and depositing the rag on the side of the bucket.

He hears the sigh to his rebuttal and he frowns slightly, following after Danta like a lost dog toward the bed, suddenly feeling quite guilty for making the blonde have to put up with him, but it was too late now.

The wave of fire to clean him up the rest of the way and dry him off is left alone for Danta to finish with, trailing to slip under the blankets with him, unable to trust himself completely in keeping his teeth to himself after the nightmarish last few days, so he curls up with his back to Danta.

Astaroth

you know what's on the line

you were automatic and as hollow as the 'O' in god

Danta probably ought to have kept to his side of the bed, especially given the churning in his gut and the way the past couple of hours keep replaying in his mind, whipcracking the barbs and insults on repeat. But there's something to be said for familiarity, and gods, with Asta right there it feels much more uncomfortable to hold himself tense and apart from the other man, even if he's uncertain how he feels about all of this right now.

And so eventually the Maverick gives in, and it's with another long and heavy sigh - this one a mix of relief and resignation - that he rolls over to slip himself against the butcher's back. Arms snake around him and he noses into the other man's dark hair, eyes slipping shut so there's only the steady thrum of his pulse and the crackle of the fire to be heard. That paired with their combined breathing and the butcher's shared warmth, and Danta can't help but succumb to the pull of sleep, however empty the relaxation might feel.

Dantalion

so what, my friend, whatever will it be?
i can give you what you crave, just not for free

He doesn’t expect Danta to reach out, despite having quite literally asked for this. It was in a heated moment, one made up of guilt that hasn’t shifted or changed, and it makes for a restless sleep despite the other man’s arms around him that he keeps pressed tightly to him, to the face buried in his dark hair, the lips that thrum against his pulse.

He does sleep, a dreamless sleep, only to wake when he can hear the Dusklight begin to rise from its quiet moments from the early morning. Danta, still asleep, has Astaroth slowly peeling out of the other man’s arms and out from the blankets, silently and carefully snagging the bag that he’d left there, slipping out the clothes he’d arrived in Torchline wearing — rumpled and wrinkled, he slips away to the confines of his room. Giving Danta the space he needs, that he deserves, rather than putting up with him in the morning too.

Slinking into his room, he leaves it unlocked — not thinking about it as he changes out of the clothes he’d worn to simply get here ungawked at, into a nicely pressed scarlet shirt and a nice pair of pants, sinking into the chair at the table in the back with a letter and a package addressed to him, from Flora, which at the very least sparks some amount of relief for the butcher.

Astaroth

you know what's on the line

you were automatic and as hollow as the 'O' in god

Danta, despite all that he's said and the ways he's acted and his craving for solitude since his clash with Astaroth the night before, does not expect to wake up alone. His fingers close around nothing as he blinks his eyes open, and for a moment before he remembers all that occurred, he merely feels the yawning unknown of another day waiting for the butcher and pretending like he isn't doing just that.

Only as he sits up, his blonde hair the dictionary definition of bed head, he spots the scorch marks on his floor in the dim light, squinting at them in the seconds before memory floods back with a vengeance. And it still hurts - the look on Asta's face, the lashing of his tongue armed with barbs aimed to hurt Danta in all the worst ways, the blood and the fight - only the red mist of bloodlust is well and truly quelled by now.

It gives him space enough to understand his own craving for distance - and then to immediately resent it. With food and rest, the shock that's seized him has begun to melt away, and the Maverick is out of bed before he can stop himself. Hopping into a pair of dark sweatpants on the way to the door - barely remembering to dress at all, in fact - he shuffles downstairs looking bewildered and half asleep.

One of the helpful bartenders who had started the opening shift is kind enough to gesture vaguely towards Asta's room, and the butcher will very suddenly find his morning interrupted as a hand tries his door, and then the Maverick promptly stumbles right in, not having expected it to be open. "Hey--" he's beginning, only for the momentum to be snuffed right out at the sight of the other man. "Hey," he announces again, thowing his hands up like that will mean anything.

Dantalion