[SE] or christ, hold me like a knife

// with our one foot in the grave //

“Perhaps a suit of rubber would be better to explore the locations of those containers?” He suggests absentmindedly, utilizing it as a distraction, yes, but clinging so suddenly to the warmth the raging fire around them offers that he almost thinks he doesn’t feel the bruises lining up his back and sides. It’s with that warmth that allows him to give Danta a calculating once-over, satisfied with the answer enough to exhale a sigh of relief.

At least until there’s the edge of a question that’s so close to something he doesn’t fully want to get into just yet. “I did.” He offers, throat a bit sore and deeper for his trouble as he nods. “I took the cart part of the way back, but then chose to walk. I wanted to think.” He decides to offer what he can, an explanation of why he was in such a hollow feeling shell, even as the world seems like its on fire through the walls of the flames Danta keeps them surrounded with.

“I had a crisis and got into a fight. Now I am just tired and sore.” It’s the easiest TLDR he can offer until he's ready to talk about it further. But if Danta were so inclined to lift the wrinkled shirt and see the extent of purple bruising, well, that's his prerogative.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //