[SE] or christ, hold me like a knife

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

"It isn't yours, either," Danta replies quickly, as if to head those thoughts off at the pass before they can get a good grip on Asta's subconscious. He doesn't respond to the other man's admission about his being right, of course - he knows he is. Instead, sitting for a brief moment as if things might simply make sense if they give them time and silence to do so, when Maea's reasoning doesn't immediately unfurl in Danta's mind, he gives up. For now, at least, he gives up.

"Food, drugs, bed," he decides, letting his hands drop to rest gently on Asta's blanketed shoulders, giving them a very gentle squeeze. "For you, anyway." The Maverick's tone brokers no room for argument, but rather than making the other man get to his feet just yet with his bruises and wine-soaked mind, Danta goes instead.

"We'll talk about it again in the morning," he decides, because however much of this Asta is likely to forget overnight, Danta certainly won't. And maybe then the butcher will know what, if anything, he wants to do about it. For now, though, Danta returns with the tray he'd brought, shifting to sit cross legged on the window seat so he can tear up a loaf of bread and grab a hunk of cheese to eat with it.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //