you tell me it feels a little colder

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

Smiling despite himself as he watches Asta linger nearby, Danta has already made himself comfortable in the window by the time the other man sinks back against him, his arms slipping around the butcher beneath the weight of the blanket he draws up and around his shoulders. The Maverick lets out a long breath he hasn't realised he's been holding, tilting his head to rest it gently against Asta's, careful of the shimmering oilspill of his horns.

"Not unless they look really hard," he says of the crowds beneath them, the words near enough murmured against the shell of his ear with their positioning. "Especially if I do this." So saying, the fire dies somewhat, as do the lamps on the walls, bathing them in the sort of twilight that might be eerie were they not the men they are. "I see that street performer a lot - the one with the firework fire? He's not half bad."

Danta watches as the man creates an arc of fire that 'explodes' into sparks that rain down on those walking through the street, much to the delight of those who have stopped to watch. "Maybe I should've done that instead," he remarks, smirking and letting his fingers stroke out idle patterns on the other man's bare chest underneath the blanket.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //