// with our one foot in the grave //
Whether or not it’s true is beside the point. He feels as though he is still running to Danta to fix a problem he should be – should have -- been able to solve on his own. The previous ones, sure, where Danta had spoken to Maea after their previous argument. This time, though, it felt different. And not only because his pride was wounded, but his body was too.
Truth be told, he’s too tired to argue this point right now, too, so he nods instead and heaves a soft sigh of acceptance even if each and every sore bone within him rages against the fact.
The eventual alright is heard and the agreement met – but an irrational part of the butcher doesn’t fully believe the fact that Danta isn’t going to just vanish and take out his rage somewhere despite the gentleness in which he embraces him and pulls him close, handing him the bottle of wine in lieu of the blonde’s body, and already a lump forms in his throat as his hand tightens around the glass of wine, dark eyes blinking wordlessly before he inclines his horned head. “Okay.” Comes the quiet and tired answer once he’s swallowed around the lump in his throat.
He does not stop Danta, and he does count down the minutes silently as he sips from the glass of wine. He counts down the three minutes he’d suggested, and after that? Well, the Butcher replaces the glass of wine with the bottle, downing a good portion of it before setting it back on the table beside the bed, stealing one piece of food from the tray to devour to quell the rumbling of his stomach.
And by the time Danta’s returned, the butcher is quite drunk, settled on the bench by the large window overlooking Levinsward, watching the lightning strikes (and silently waiting to see a gore crow fly off into the distance), that when the door opens his head whips over toward it, spotting the familiar Ancient and the diamond horns, and relief burns through his shoulders as he exhales a sigh of relief. “You swore it was going to take you… three minutes… It was eleven.” (The counting isn’t accurate because the drunker he got, the faster he counted the seconds).
He tries to peel himself from the bench to stand, each movement pulling hard on bruised muscles and shortened breaths.
Truth be told, he’s too tired to argue this point right now, too, so he nods instead and heaves a soft sigh of acceptance even if each and every sore bone within him rages against the fact.
The eventual alright is heard and the agreement met – but an irrational part of the butcher doesn’t fully believe the fact that Danta isn’t going to just vanish and take out his rage somewhere despite the gentleness in which he embraces him and pulls him close, handing him the bottle of wine in lieu of the blonde’s body, and already a lump forms in his throat as his hand tightens around the glass of wine, dark eyes blinking wordlessly before he inclines his horned head. “Okay.” Comes the quiet and tired answer once he’s swallowed around the lump in his throat.
He does not stop Danta, and he does count down the minutes silently as he sips from the glass of wine. He counts down the three minutes he’d suggested, and after that? Well, the Butcher replaces the glass of wine with the bottle, downing a good portion of it before setting it back on the table beside the bed, stealing one piece of food from the tray to devour to quell the rumbling of his stomach.
And by the time Danta’s returned, the butcher is quite drunk, settled on the bench by the large window overlooking Levinsward, watching the lightning strikes (and silently waiting to see a gore crow fly off into the distance), that when the door opens his head whips over toward it, spotting the familiar Ancient and the diamond horns, and relief burns through his shoulders as he exhales a sigh of relief. “You swore it was going to take you… three minutes… It was eleven.” (The counting isn’t accurate because the drunker he got, the faster he counted the seconds).
He tries to peel himself from the bench to stand, each movement pulling hard on bruised muscles and shortened breaths.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
