// with our one foot in the grave //
There’s the attempt at humor that fails so quickly it’s almost funnier, but the resolve in the tightness of his jaw prevents him from smiling at the jest, prevents him from doing much of anything aside from feeling the pain radiating from his side and the mental gymnastics he goes through to prepare himself for what’s to come. “You can look, just.. minuscule movements would be preferred.” Comes the quiet answer, before he’s promptly shutting himself up to hear Danta’s instructions.
He nods, as little as he can to prevent more pain, and meets those bright blue eyes full of sorrow and apologies already before the event has even begun, with haunted dark shadowed ones of his own. “I love you too.” He offers quietly, his good hand flexing a little as he forces himself to watch Danta’s shift take place, to remind himself the sorrowful ball of feathers in the snow is the man he loves.
To remind himself that the very crow he’s picking up is not the same that had flayed his skin from his body. “I will get us to the Infirmary.” He manages to say, though the words seem tough, the butcher reaching down to pick up Danta’s form, careful of his back and the feathers. He hesitates at the last second, fingers twitching before he grits his teeth and fights through it, snagging his lover’s form up into his arms and pressing the crow against the crook of his elbow.
Exhaling a sharp breath in a white cloud, the butcher clears his throat and looks to the path ahead. He has the benefit of being so bundled up that he can’t feel the feathers against his skin, and it’s a boon he relies on perhaps far too much as his anxieties and fears curdle into a ball at the back of his throat. “Okay. Let’s go,” he begins, though the sound forces its way through the lump in his throat, coming out gravelly and strained.
He nods, as little as he can to prevent more pain, and meets those bright blue eyes full of sorrow and apologies already before the event has even begun, with haunted dark shadowed ones of his own. “I love you too.” He offers quietly, his good hand flexing a little as he forces himself to watch Danta’s shift take place, to remind himself the sorrowful ball of feathers in the snow is the man he loves.
To remind himself that the very crow he’s picking up is not the same that had flayed his skin from his body. “I will get us to the Infirmary.” He manages to say, though the words seem tough, the butcher reaching down to pick up Danta’s form, careful of his back and the feathers. He hesitates at the last second, fingers twitching before he grits his teeth and fights through it, snagging his lover’s form up into his arms and pressing the crow against the crook of his elbow.
Exhaling a sharp breath in a white cloud, the butcher clears his throat and looks to the path ahead. He has the benefit of being so bundled up that he can’t feel the feathers against his skin, and it’s a boon he relies on perhaps far too much as his anxieties and fears curdle into a ball at the back of his throat. “Okay. Let’s go,” he begins, though the sound forces its way through the lump in his throat, coming out gravelly and strained.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
