// with our one foot in the grave //
He watches with bleary eyes as Danta sets the mug down, Astaroth fighting to stifle a yawn despite the fact he’d just woken up. “I didn’t even dream.” His hoarse voice rumbles, as if the medicine had literally blacked him out (or maybe that was in combination with all the wine?) Either way, he’s sore but he doesn’t feel as much pain as he was the night before.
That’s a lie though, as he’ll soon realize.
Dark eyes track to the cup and he offers a short nod and a “I will manage”, before he shifts to sit up. And here is where that lancing pain comes in the form of sparks shooting along his rib cage and stomach, a valiant effort that leaves the butcher slumped against Danta’s side, hissing out silent curses of stubbornness, hand lifting to steal the cup from the blonde to cradle with his other hand, clearly annoyed that he’s now slumped hard against the Maverick’s side, unable to sit up completely on his own until he stretched out or got used to the way his muscles moved in pain again.
“Perhaps I cannot.” He says dryly.
That’s a lie though, as he’ll soon realize.
Dark eyes track to the cup and he offers a short nod and a “I will manage”, before he shifts to sit up. And here is where that lancing pain comes in the form of sparks shooting along his rib cage and stomach, a valiant effort that leaves the butcher slumped against Danta’s side, hissing out silent curses of stubbornness, hand lifting to steal the cup from the blonde to cradle with his other hand, clearly annoyed that he’s now slumped hard against the Maverick’s side, unable to sit up completely on his own until he stretched out or got used to the way his muscles moved in pain again.
“Perhaps I cannot.” He says dryly.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
