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
The seconds drag on, minutes becoming the equivalent of days, of months, until it feels like a horrid eternity between Danta’s departure and now. Though, honestly, what’s eternity to a man who spent centuries stuck in stone. Perhaps that’s happened again — less physically, but mentally. Perhaps his heart has slowed until it’s naught more than a rock stuck in the hollow cavern of his chest.
So distracted is he in his thoughts that he thinks for a few moments of what it might look like to have driven his Theocrat, his Maverick, his Danta from the very place he’d called home. Once upon a time he would have been overjoyed.
But the man that would have celebrated the conquest is dead.
The door swings open and the butcher feels his heart lurch in his chest, gaze flitting up to focus on his lover, looking pale as physically possible and haunted. The butcher’s face drains a touch of its own liveliness to see it. But he knows Danta — at least, the thinks he still does, and so he angles his attention down to the grain of wood in the top of his desk. “I am sorry.” He repeats without the dissonance of a nightmare, without the reminder of a different time and place. “Do you.. want me to sleep in my old room?” It’s very carefully said without judgement or preference for one over the other, once again ensuring that the Maverick’s hands — which had once been empty and taken advantage of — hold every single card possible.
So distracted is he in his thoughts that he thinks for a few moments of what it might look like to have driven his Theocrat, his Maverick, his Danta from the very place he’d called home. Once upon a time he would have been overjoyed.
But the man that would have celebrated the conquest is dead.
The door swings open and the butcher feels his heart lurch in his chest, gaze flitting up to focus on his lover, looking pale as physically possible and haunted. The butcher’s face drains a touch of its own liveliness to see it. But he knows Danta — at least, the thinks he still does, and so he angles his attention down to the grain of wood in the top of his desk. “I am sorry.” He repeats without the dissonance of a nightmare, without the reminder of a different time and place. “Do you.. want me to sleep in my old room?” It’s very carefully said without judgement or preference for one over the other, once again ensuring that the Maverick’s hands — which had once been empty and taken advantage of — hold every single card possible.
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
