// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //
The hey and even Moira’s squawks go on deaf ears, the butcher focusing on the burnt spot on the floor if for no other reason than to try and ground him (and what a shitty memory that was, too, of things he’d said in this very room to the man suddenly moving over toward him, reaching and brushing the dark hair out of his face. A gesture, while he’d otherwise take well, has him flinching, eyes shutting as if he isn’t sure whether or not being touched right now was a good idea.
Coaxed surprisingly easily toward the bed, the butcher sits on it heavily before shrugging out of the waistcoat, drawing one long gangly leg up underneath him to have a place to put the bottle of whiskey before he reaches up to rub at his face, shaking his head nonverbally to answer before he clears his throat. “Physically, 'm not hurt.” Mentally though was an entirely different ballgame. Dropping his hands to retrieve the bottle, the butcher uncorks it with a pop! and stares at the label as if debating whether or not he should take another sip. “Was a boggart.”
Coaxed surprisingly easily toward the bed, the butcher sits on it heavily before shrugging out of the waistcoat, drawing one long gangly leg up underneath him to have a place to put the bottle of whiskey before he reaches up to rub at his face, shaking his head nonverbally to answer before he clears his throat. “Physically, 'm not hurt.” Mentally though was an entirely different ballgame. Dropping his hands to retrieve the bottle, the butcher uncorks it with a pop! and stares at the label as if debating whether or not he should take another sip. “Was a boggart.”
Astaroth
// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //
