// with our one foot in the grave //
He hums and offers a short nod, because they do know Danta would have done the same, and if the roles had been reversed you bet your ass Asta’s hands would be nowhere near the Maverick’s face. “You would have.” Astaroth agrees before drawing silent, the butcher eating his fill of food – enough to not make him sick, thankfully, while the same goes for the water – before Danta’s chastise is heard when he peels himself away from the windowsill.
“Good.” Not that the butcher could stop him, but it does mean that if he did, the rest of the wine would be gone and he’d likely be in an even worse drunken state than he already is. As it stands, though, he releases Danta’s wrist to let him prep the bed, and the taller Ancient unwraps the blanket from around his shoulders, folding it in quarters to make a makeshift little body pillow to help his sides and stomach from hurting quite so much. The towel at this point is abandoned as well when he slips into the bed, sitting up to receive the medicine before he even starts to try and get comfortable.
Even if he knows nothing would beat earlier at the windowsill, watching the lightning storms rage outside, feeling the vibration of the thunder as it rolled through the barrel land.
Dutifully and without complaint, Astaroth reaches for the medicine, taking as much as he needs before handing it back and wrinkling his nose in clear distaste. “That tastes truly terrible.” He says, as if the scrunching of his face wasn’t evident. It’s that petulant face that remains scrunched up until the taste starts to disappear, settling into the bed with his back toward where Danta would lie, curled up with the folded up blanket against his side and stomach to offer some pain relief. “How long will it take to work?”
“Good.” Not that the butcher could stop him, but it does mean that if he did, the rest of the wine would be gone and he’d likely be in an even worse drunken state than he already is. As it stands, though, he releases Danta’s wrist to let him prep the bed, and the taller Ancient unwraps the blanket from around his shoulders, folding it in quarters to make a makeshift little body pillow to help his sides and stomach from hurting quite so much. The towel at this point is abandoned as well when he slips into the bed, sitting up to receive the medicine before he even starts to try and get comfortable.
Even if he knows nothing would beat earlier at the windowsill, watching the lightning storms rage outside, feeling the vibration of the thunder as it rolled through the barrel land.
Dutifully and without complaint, Astaroth reaches for the medicine, taking as much as he needs before handing it back and wrinkling his nose in clear distaste. “That tastes truly terrible.” He says, as if the scrunching of his face wasn’t evident. It’s that petulant face that remains scrunched up until the taste starts to disappear, settling into the bed with his back toward where Danta would lie, curled up with the folded up blanket against his side and stomach to offer some pain relief. “How long will it take to work?”
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
