// with our one foot in the grave //
Danta makes a valiant point, one that the butcher had been trying to come up with excuses for – why? He doesn’t know. Probably part of it to make himself feel better for reacting how he had even if he was completely in his right to do so. Nothing about it was comfortable. In fact, the only comfort the taller Ancient had found was the second he’d spotted Danta against that burnt tree like a mirage in a desert.
It's enough that he blinks as the curses slip from the Maverick’s lips, exhaling a slow sigh, gaze dropping down from the blues of Danta’s eyes to stare at his chest, parsing through the alcohol and very little sleep and food in his battered body. He hadn’t thought that he was trying to defend her, but his subconscious said otherwise. Perhaps she was right when she’d said she was just as much of a monster as he was.
“You’re right.” Astaroth says on a sigh, reaching up from under the blanket as if he might rub away the tension headache forming, only for his hand to be cut off by the abrupt shift in Danta’s warm hands clasping his bearded cheeks, dark eyes immediately lifting to meet the blues of the Maverick’s as he’s looked over and Astaroth’s lips form in a tight line as his brows pinch.
Clearing his throat but making no move to move away from this position, the hand that had lifted, instead clasps around Danta’s forearm gently. “It is not your fault, Danta.” It’s the most cemented fact he’s offered so far. And he bites his tongue immediately to prevent himself from saying it’s mine.
It's enough that he blinks as the curses slip from the Maverick’s lips, exhaling a slow sigh, gaze dropping down from the blues of Danta’s eyes to stare at his chest, parsing through the alcohol and very little sleep and food in his battered body. He hadn’t thought that he was trying to defend her, but his subconscious said otherwise. Perhaps she was right when she’d said she was just as much of a monster as he was.
“You’re right.” Astaroth says on a sigh, reaching up from under the blanket as if he might rub away the tension headache forming, only for his hand to be cut off by the abrupt shift in Danta’s warm hands clasping his bearded cheeks, dark eyes immediately lifting to meet the blues of the Maverick’s as he’s looked over and Astaroth’s lips form in a tight line as his brows pinch.
Clearing his throat but making no move to move away from this position, the hand that had lifted, instead clasps around Danta’s forearm gently. “It is not your fault, Danta.” It’s the most cemented fact he’s offered so far. And he bites his tongue immediately to prevent himself from saying it’s mine.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
