I'm where the spiders go

// sun comin' up on a dream come around //

Brushing his thumb across Asta's cheek before finally letting his hand drop, Danta sighs and gazes down at himself as if remembering the blood as an afterthought. "Yeah," he mutters, wrinkling his nose, "good idea." He steps back at last, already missing the other man's warmth, and works on unfastening the lengths of chain and bone that drape across his shoulders, carefully setting them down on one of the tables they'd pushed into the corner of the room. To dance, he remembers, though it feels like it happened a lifetime ago.

Instinctively keeping an eye on Asta's location in the room, unable to help himself just yet, Danta does slip out of his shoes and pants, setting the knife in his boot, far, far away from their den, before he pads over to the bowl of water and the cloths the butcher has prepared. Wincing as his hand plunges into the warm water, several of his nails broken and bloody from trying to scrabble at the other man's office wall, it's with a long, tired sigh that he glances up at Asta.

"Let me," he offers, squeezing the water from the cloth and reaching up to clean his bloody face and neck, careful not to let any water drip down onto the dressing patching his chest. "You left your medicine downstairs," he remembers, distantly. "Do you want some of the other stuff we have up here?"

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //