so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats
He’s fairly certain he hasn’t slept in three days. Or has it been four? Nothing aside from the time he’d nodded off on accident while he’d been grabbing dinner one of those days from the kitchens – something he hasn’t mentioned to Danta, of course. Because he’s fine and he’s in control of everything, and if he doesn’t sleep then he doesn’t run the risk of biting the Maverick again. Or somehow.. Doing something worse.
In his sleep deprivation, he’s drummed up whole scenarios of nightmares that could become reality, and it’s kept him from even approaching the bed most nights – tottering about here and there, trying to ensure Danta slept, drinking way too much caffeinated tea, and whittling the hours away up on the mezzanine with frustration on how long it takes him to work or craft one handed.
He’s grateful for the gifts Flora have sent, if he’s being honest. But it takes everything in him not to nod off on their sofa he’s sitting on, bundled in the warm blankets and trying to take a sip of the tea for the umpteenth time only to find it empty each and every one of those times. “How is your back, darling?” The butcher asks for the third time in the last twenty minutes, having already forgotten he’d asked it earlier as he rises from the couch to get himself more tea, pouring some for Danta in case he’d already downed his, too.
It's while he’s there he finds the little package he’d nearly forgotten about – neatly wrapped (despite how the butcher knew Danta cared little for wrapping paper), and ready to be given. And perhaps, with the exhausted thoughts running through his head, now is likely as good a time as any to give the gift. At least it would be something nice in comparison to the bite he’d left behind.
In his sleep deprivation, he’s drummed up whole scenarios of nightmares that could become reality, and it’s kept him from even approaching the bed most nights – tottering about here and there, trying to ensure Danta slept, drinking way too much caffeinated tea, and whittling the hours away up on the mezzanine with frustration on how long it takes him to work or craft one handed.
He’s grateful for the gifts Flora have sent, if he’s being honest. But it takes everything in him not to nod off on their sofa he’s sitting on, bundled in the warm blankets and trying to take a sip of the tea for the umpteenth time only to find it empty each and every one of those times. “How is your back, darling?” The butcher asks for the third time in the last twenty minutes, having already forgotten he’d asked it earlier as he rises from the couch to get himself more tea, pouring some for Danta in case he’d already downed his, too.
It's while he’s there he finds the little package he’d nearly forgotten about – neatly wrapped (despite how the butcher knew Danta cared little for wrapping paper), and ready to be given. And perhaps, with the exhausted thoughts running through his head, now is likely as good a time as any to give the gift. At least it would be something nice in comparison to the bite he’d left behind.
Astaroth
so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine
