tell me what you need

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

“You just—” Hissing out a breath of frustration, the butcher doesn’t complete the thought (which would have absolutely been a said you wouldn’t let her in the Dusklight) but the moment passes as he rises to his feet, suddenly squirrely and pissed. “There is a difference, Danta, between expectation and surprise.” To know the crow would be around would certainly put him on edge but it wouldn’t make him exactly like this.

But then Danta is standing after him and it feels more like a fight that’s reminiscent of their battles in the Climb and it has him bristling even more. “Do not presume to know how I would act if you had told me first.” He growls out, sucking in a breath to elongate the argument, hands clenching into fists as his posture becomes tense and ramrod straight. “Do you know what is the most traumatizing thing about it? The surprise.” Each and every time he’d gotten like this, it had been an unannounced corvid descending nearby enough to him to bring him back to that day.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Oh? Should I not presume to know you at all then? And here I thought we were starting to get along," Danta drawls, his fingers itching with the urge to shove the other man, but he resists (barely). "I didn't want this to be a surprise, you stubborn fuck," he adds, glowering and drawing himself up to his full height - though of course he still falls a few inches short of the mark when it comes to the other Ancient.

"And I hate to break it to you, but crows live everywhere, Astaroth. They're a pretty common addition to the sky around here. So if you can't live with surprises, maybe you should go and live under-fucking-ground." He's being harsh and he knows it, but with both of their tempers flaring, it's all too easy to fall back into old habits with the butcher - habits that will end in blood, if one or both of them doesn't make themselves scarce.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

It upsets him more how much this argument upsets him — not understanding the attachment that has bloomed between them or knowing what any of it means. All he knows is it burns against something brittle and dark within him, nose wrinkling at the implication again and barking a humorless laugh. “Then you could have said something.” It’s back to the initial point, though, and when Danta brings up the idea of living underground and draws up to his full height too, it is a mirror.

Gnashing his teeth, the butcher steps back toward the door. “I am very much aware. It’s just like the Climb with their crows.” In which he had lived there for years, still twitchy when they flew over but knew what to expect, where they resided, where they hung out to hunt — all places to minimize his appearance.

Turning swiftly with his tail lashing behind him like an upset feline, Asta makes to reach for the door. “I hope you enjoy her company better than mine, then.” He snaps, grumpily, turning the door handle to open the door.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"I was going to," Danta insists as they dance yet another circle around one another - which goes as predictably poorly as anyone might be able to imagine. Ultimately, Danta hasn't said anything, for whatever reasons he holds close to his chest, and this is the fallout. Not that he's at all willing to admit to such a thing at present. Baring his teeth in return, the Maverick holds his ground as Asta steps towards the door, such that the other man will have to shove past him.

"At least she'll be better conversation - and she won't care if I sprout feathers and go for a flight around the Grounds," he snaps, doing nothing as the other man stalks away to the door. In fact he's already seizing something from the mantelpiece to launch at Asta's back as he leaves - and wouldn't you know, it's a skeletal hand adorned with spare jewellery.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

He wants to snap back a when?, but that conversation was on pause, far past it with the urge for the butcher to simply get out. Where? He doesn’t know. His room doesn’t seem appealing. Outside was too cold. The office seems like the only logical step of getting the fuck out, and maybe rummaging through Danta’s office for something else strong to bury his sorrows and anger in.

He pushes past the Maverick with surprising ease, but Danta doesn’t stop him, enough for him to reach the door and snort an annoyed sound before he shakes his head. “Enjoy yourself, Danta.” He snaps darkly instead, opening the door to step out and over the mess still remaining, hissing at it before he hears the clattering of something on the door and a specific shape of finger bones snapped off a gift he’d given, looking back over his shoulder toward Danta briefly with absolute upset crossing his face. “Oh, I see.” He grits out, amongst other unheard curses, steps picking up as he leaves the door wide open and the mess, heading immediately down the stairs toward his office as if nothing could stop him, rage burrowing in his chest in a painful slot he hadn’t known existed.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

It doesn't feel as good as it usually does, to watch something break and splinter, to cause chaos and wanton destruction. And only as Danta realises what exactly he's thrown - even before he sees the look on Asta's face - his anger becomes a rapidly shrinking thing, dwarfed by an uncomfortable knot of guilt and shame. "Fuck," he snaps, by which time the butcher is already leaving.

"Fuck," Danta says again, more quietly as he's left alone with a pool of wine and glass and pieces of bone, and he bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper. "Asta," he calls almost belatedly, his feet carrying him nimbly over the debris as he hops across the doorway entirely, trying to hurry down the stairs after the other man. "Asta, wait--"

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

Anger rings in his ears as he continues his departure, warring at himself of whether or not he wishes to fall back into old habits. The stitches itch against his skin and with eyes only for his office he carves the ear path toward it, workers immediately making themselves scarce the second they see his shadow appear.

He thinks he can hear Danta’s voice, different than it had been, but it could just be his imagination making something up to explain these feelings he has so vividly. He doesn’t know. By the time Danta does catch up with him, he is in his office, standing in front of the fireplace with both hands on the mantle, leaning in close to the fire with his tail still lashing out behind him, and the quiet mutterings of “stupid fucking shit,” and any number of other quiet curses that seem to delve more self deprecating than anything else.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

At least there's enough time between Asta's departure and Danta's arrival for the butcher to look appropriately intimidating rather than directly on the heels of an argument. And thanks to a plethora of pawing hands, loud music, and people vying for his attention (including the whore who was meant to be supplying the (belated) cream), Danta doesn't seem entirely in pursuit of the other man, until he reaches the safety of the Backrooms.

"Asta," he calls again, padding down the corridor and peering into the other man's office, relieved to see him there at all, even if it is darkly silhouetted against a roaring fire.

Clicking the door softly shut behind him, Danta sags against it for a moment. "You were right," he says in a low voice, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "And I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner. I was just worried you'd pack up and leave and so I put it off and I... I fucked it all up." Raking both hands back through his fair hair, he straightens from the door, taking a few steps forward and around the desk to approach the butcher.

"I didn't mean all that upstairs," he adds. "That was cruel of me."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

It’s an echo of his name that he still can’t quite tell if it’s real or not — at least until the door opens and he can see it in his peripherals, his tail lashing again sharply at the thought of spurring this argument, already about to ask if the Maverick has returned to ruin more things he’s created, when the tone of Danta’s voice shifts.

The anger blurs away a fraction, the butcher drawing up as he looks to Danta in his peripherals, as if he doesn’t trust himself to fully look at the other man yet. That is, until the answer of why he hadn’t told him reaches his ears and it’s more confusion than anything else, drawing his back straight as he turns to Danta with confusion blending away the lines of anger from his face. “Why would I leave? Where else would I go?” He asks as if the reasoning didn’t make sense in the slightest. If he knew, they could make it work, this whole thing could have been avoided.

He sighs a little, nose wrinkling as he nods his head and his posture slumps. “It was cruel.” He agrees, voice softer and a touch weary, as if in the few moments his temper had calmed enough.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Wherever you wanted?" Danta says with a shrug of his shoulders, staring pointedly at the floor as if the other man won't be able to see or hear the worry he's trying to stifle.

"The Grounds is expanding, there's the bonfire to keep people warm. You could go live in the Temple like Charlie, or out in the Domiciles. Even back to The Climb once the portal was up, or as far as Torchline. Pretty sure they have more hels than crows." Huffing out a tired breath as if realising just how far down this rabbit hole he's walked himself, the Maverick finally glances back up to his friend.

Nodding guilty agreement, spaded tail flicking anxiously, Danta considers himself for a few moments before reaching out for the chair behind the butcher's desk. Dragging it out, he tries to nudge Asta back to sit down in it, if for no other reason than so the Maverick can move to stand between his knees, roughly drawing the other man against him. (So sue him - he can't actually look at Asta right now).

"I'm sorry you had to find out like that."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

Apparently Danta has put in a lot more thought than he has about where he could potentially live, more so than the Butcher has an idea to. Listing out all of the potential options distracts him, keeping him from bristling further and distracted enough to admit a quiet “I like it here.” As if that made all the difference that he couldn’t leave.

He was comfortable here. He made a place for himself here. He couldn’t just leave.

The Maverick succeeds in drawing him down into the chair, Asta’s shoulders slumping a little as he looks up to watch Danta settle between his knees, drawing him up into his chest, and his confusion flares enough for his arms to be belated as they wind around Danta’s lower back, exhaling a sigh into his chest. “I’m sorry too.” He murmurs softly, arms tightening slightly in a gentle squeeze.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Good," Danta mutters, one arm winding around Asta's shoulders and the other teasing through the back of his hair. "I like having you here. So do the rest of the staff." Because of course the Maverick can't just have it be himself. Regardless, as the other man embraces him in return and even apologises - not something Danta expects or is looking for - he feels himself relax a fraction.

"I know these still bother you sometimes," he mutters, running his fingers along the butcher's silk-clad shoulders where he knows deep and poorly healed scars sit against his skin. "And we both have our share of nightmares about The Climb. The idea of something showing up that could contribute to all of that..." He wrinkles his nose.

"It could have only been a worse joke if she'd been your companion."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

Unused to the feeling of his exhaustion and conflicting emotions being met with tender and gentle hands, Asta’s face buries in more against the Maverick’s neck. “I will make it work.” He amends, thinking for a moment to add onto it before he promptly bites his tongue against it at that second before he hears Danta continue, eyes shutting and a sigh exhaling out of his chest again like he’s trying to regulate a strange and erratic heartbeat.

“I would say given my luck it’s par for the course, but… I am glad, you know?” He pauses, shifting his head to try and look up at the other man with dark eyes, tired and weary. “Even though she is a crow, I’m glad you have a companion.” He pauses again to bury his face, the tongue of iron lingering on his tongue from where he’d bit his tongue. “I… I would like to meet her.” Comes the quiet admission.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Tell me what you need, and I'll help," Danta says, before words like thank the gods or I'm glad can make it past his lips. Glancing down at Asta as he feels the other man look up at him, there's still a great deal of guilt in the Maverick's expression that he's not accustomed to feeling. Swallowing hard, it's almost a relief when Asta buries his head again, though it does mean Danta believes he's misheard the other man's final comment, at first.

"You what?" He blinks, his fingers stilling in Asta's dark hair. "It's perfectly fine if you don't," he says, imagining this to be some hurried attempt to make amends after their fight. "She'll only be inside in my rooms anyway - otherwise she'll be out on the window sills, or the awning above the door."

And then, because there's a lot of she going around, Danta rolls his eyes. "Moira," he adds. "That's her name."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //