[SE] or christ, hold me like a knife

// with our one foot in the grave //

He hums and offers a short nod, because they do know Danta would have done the same, and if the roles had been reversed you bet your ass Asta’s hands would be nowhere near the Maverick’s face. “You would have.” Astaroth agrees before drawing silent, the butcher eating his fill of food – enough to not make him sick, thankfully, while the same goes for the water – before Danta’s chastise is heard when he peels himself away from the windowsill.

“Good.” Not that the butcher could stop him, but it does mean that if he did, the rest of the wine would be gone and he’d likely be in an even worse drunken state than he already is. As it stands, though, he releases Danta’s wrist to let him prep the bed, and the taller Ancient unwraps the blanket from around his shoulders, folding it in quarters to make a makeshift little body pillow to help his sides and stomach from hurting quite so much. The towel at this point is abandoned as well when he slips into the bed, sitting up to receive the medicine before he even starts to try and get comfortable.

Even if he knows nothing would beat earlier at the windowsill, watching the lightning storms rage outside, feeling the vibration of the thunder as it rolled through the barrel land.

Dutifully and without complaint, Astaroth reaches for the medicine, taking as much as he needs before handing it back and wrinkling his nose in clear distaste. “That tastes truly terrible.” He says, as if the scrunching of his face wasn’t evident. It’s that petulant face that remains scrunched up until the taste starts to disappear, settling into the bed with his back toward where Danta would lie, curled up with the folded up blanket against his side and stomach to offer some pain relief. “How long will it take to work?”

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

"Yeah? I'll pass your review on to the doctors who made it, shall I?" Danta quips, tilting his head at Asta and trying hard to bite back the smile on his lips; he has limited success. Instead, taking the medicine back and setting it down, the Maverick leaves the curtains open so they might continue to enjoy the light show outside, though he dims all the other sconces. As for the fire, it remains roaring to the point where it might prove stifling for any non-Ancient who enters the room after them, but for here and now, it's more than comfortable.

With all that done, Danta kicks off his shoes and draws his shirt over his head, before hiding a yawn and slipping into bed as well. "A few minutes, I imagine," he murmurs. "I'd hope you'd know when it does." But honestly, Asta will have to be the one to tell the Maverick, given that Danta's dosages are likely to hit instantly given their potency.

Either way, he waits for the butcher to get as comfortable as he can before drawing the blankets over them further. It's with uncharacteristic care that Danta curls around the other man, pressed against his back without applying too much pressure against the stark bruises that blotch his skin.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

“Please give it a negative five, would you?” Astaroth rumbles as he momentarily fights with the blanket to settle in comfortably while Danta gets the room ready. It’s a certain kindness that Astaroth is too drunk and sore to think about, when the Maverick leaves the window open to watch the lightning strikes now that the sun has set, and with the sconces darkened, the only light comes from the flickering and roaring flames and the cracks of lightning outside.

He doesn’t fall asleep immediately upon feeling the softness of the bed and getting comfortable – because it’s only a superficial comfort when he wants nothing more than to sit on that ledge with the Maverick and have him hold him just as before. It’s unrealistic, and he doesn’t even know why he’s craving it so much all of a sudden, but it is put to rest when he feels the weight of Danta joining him on the bed. He wants to respond to the comment of knowing when it would work, when nothing manages to pass by his lips except for a “mm, thank you darling,” that escapes his lips the second Danta’s wrapped around him.

And just like that, despite the careful attempts Danta makes with not applying too much pressure while he’s awake, the butcher promptly passes the fuck out. A fact that Danta would be able to feel so intensely with how much tension suddenly drops from the taller ancient’s body. He’s essentially deadweight, maneuvered however Danta chooses, passed out to the point that Danta does have the time if he has the will to fully inspect each and every bruise without a single sleepy complaint from the butcher, lulled into his reparative sleep by the fire, the lightning, and the warm arms that embrace him.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

It's almost a relief when Astaroth passes out, in truth. Danta lets out a heavy sigh and closes his eyes for a few minutes, leeching the heat from the body he's curled around and allowing his temper to flare and die as many times as it takes for him to remain in the room as instructed. And of course he uses the other man's unconscious state as an excuse to take a real look at the damage done, the Maverick tracking every bone deep bruise, every streak and blotch of blue and purple, mapping it across ribs and shoulders, chest and torso, right around to the Asta's hips where it blessedly starts to fade.

Only once he's burned the pattern of bruises into his mind does he finally relax back into the sheets, though to say he sleeps well would be a lie. In fact, the Maverick will be awake long before Asta in the morning; early enough that he's had coffee and breakfast arranged and brought, and has shifted to sit up in bed, resting back against the pillows. He's watching the endless storms over the rim of his coffee mug, sipping at it absently whilst his free hand plays through the sleeping Ancient's dark hair. Danta isn't the type of man to get lost in thought, but what can he say? There's little else to do right now.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

Blissfully unaware of the inspection that takes place, the Butcher sleeps so deep and so still it’s almost surprising (if it weren’t for the sedative in the medicine, of course). There’s also the subconscious level of his pain that prevents him from turning and twisting, having found the one spot that’s comfortable and never quite leaving it. At least until he starts to wake and stir, sluggishly turning to seek out the warm body beside him, Astaroth is not coherent at all by the time he’s bullied his way into resting his head on Danta’s lap as a pillow.

But don’t worry, Danta, it’s still in a perfect spot to keep running that hand through his hair.

Only after a few long moments of that and little stirring and unhidden winces, Astaroth’s eyes start to blink open, as if taking in his surroundings (like he’s forgotten or half expected yesterday to be a dream and that he’d wake on the solid cold ground again). As it so happens, though, he blinks up and focuses on the light filtering through the window, setting the blonde of Danta’s hair into a golden river, blocked only partially by the mug the other Ancient sips from.

Turning with a slight hiss that he does try to hide, the butcher presses his face into Danta’s stomach, eyes closing as he offers a muffled and sleep hoarse “good morning, darling.”

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

Is it? Danta almost wants to ask, though the sound of the other man's voice does have a smile curling at the corners of his lips, and it's with a final sip of coffee that he sets the mug down beside him, lending his full attention to the half-asleep Ancient in his lap. "We're getting more of that medicine to take back to the Dusklight," he decides, amusement audible in his voice. "Clearly, they gave you the good shit." If that isn't obvious by their current positioning and by the way the butcher has been able to sleep straight through the night.

With one hand still gently tangled in Asta's hair, the other reaches for a fresh cup of coffee that he's been keeping warm for his fellow Ancient, this one spiked with a very generous amount of honey. "I did request a straw, but they were out," he says dryly, raising the cup to Asta as if to ask if he wants to try and get himself upright to drink it.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

He watches with bleary eyes as Danta sets the mug down, Astaroth fighting to stifle a yawn despite the fact he’d just woken up. “I didn’t even dream.” His hoarse voice rumbles, as if the medicine had literally blacked him out (or maybe that was in combination with all the wine?) Either way, he’s sore but he doesn’t feel as much pain as he was the night before.

That’s a lie though, as he’ll soon realize.

Dark eyes track to the cup and he offers a short nod and a “I will manage”, before he shifts to sit up. And here is where that lancing pain comes in the form of sparks shooting along his rib cage and stomach, a valiant effort that leaves the butcher slumped against Danta’s side, hissing out silent curses of stubbornness, hand lifting to steal the cup from the blonde to cradle with his other hand, clearly annoyed that he’s now slumped hard against the Maverick’s side, unable to sit up completely on his own until he stretched out or got used to the way his muscles moved in pain again.

“Perhaps I cannot.” He says dryly.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

"Who am I to judge otherwise?" Danta drawls at the other man's insistence, and so he merely sits and holds the coffee so it doesn't spill while Asta tries - valiantly, it's true - and fails to get himself properly sitting up. Unable not to laugh despite the obvious pain on the butcher's face, Danta surrenders the mug of coffee and waits until he's taken enough of a sip of it not to throw it everywhere before shifting to assist.

"Having a great morning so far, mm?" he teases, eyes glimmering with mischief as he slips an arm around Asta to help him get more or less upright, though in the back of his mind he's already making a note to get a lot more drugs before they leave the inn and head for home. "Safe to say you aren't getting up for a little while longer." Which, actually, suits Danta just fine, and he retrieves his own coffee from the bedside table. "Don't expect me to feed you, though."

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

It doesn’t go as well as the butcher had hoped it would, and quite grumpily he’s resigned to holding his mug and sipping from it to soothe a still somewhat sore throat. He withdraws with a sigh and a roll of his eyes to the Maverick’s teasing, but is relieved as the other Ancient’s arm slips around his shoulders and shifts him upright and Astaroth is limp enough to put all of his focus into making sure the coffee doesn’t spill.

They get there though, and he takes another sip from the coffee once they’ve stopped moving and Danta’s retrieved his own. “I may be low, but I am not that low.” Comes the grumpiness as it sighs past his lips, but his horned head does tilt a fraction into Danta’s shoulder, careful to make sure his horns don’t smack into the side of the blonde’s head. “I simply need to stretch out first.” Or take a bath in the fireplace, provided he could even get there first.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

"You say that, but I was here last night if you recall." Danta raises his eyebrows playfully. No, he hadn't had to feed Asta, but the butcher had put away most of a bottle of wine in a period of ten minutes, and he hadn't exactly been firing on all cylinders. Still, the Maverick would be lying if he said he isn't relieved to hear the grumpiness back in the butcher's voice, because it means he's more himself than before. And so instead, Danta falls into content silence for a few minutes to finish his coffee, enjoying the heat rolling from the man pressed against his side.

"Mm, if you say so," he drawls. "We've got all day, so there's no rush." Well, that's not strictly true, he supposes. But the rush is Danta's problem, and it's less to do with the butcher's injuries and more to do with the woman who caused them. Unable to help it, he does glance down at Asta's bare chest now that he's sitting up, as if to see whether the bruises have somehow gotten worse overnight.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

“Mm, I do.” He says on an edge of a sigh, nose wrinkling despite it at the memory. “Barely, admittedly.” He remembers the comfort of curling up on the windowsill, the quiet admission earlier of the bare basics. The rest? He doesn’t remember the details he’s let slip, and perhaps that’s for the better.

Silence overcomes them and Astaroth settles slumped against Danta’s shoulder, draining the dregs of the coffee from the mug slowly until he feels like he’s more awake and human, noticing the look Danta gives to his scarred and bruised chest. Luckily, they haven’t darkened any and the edges have turned into a deep blue green as opposed to the stark blue of before.

“Do you have nothing to do?” He asks, letting his dark gaze lift to scan the other Ancient’s face. He doesn’t want to keep the Maverick from whatever regional running duties he may have.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

"That's probably for the best," Danta says with a scoff, and were Asta not so sore, he might have given him a nudge for good measure. Forcing his gaze away from the constellation of bruises that mark the other man's skin, the Maverick can only shrug lightly in response to the butcher's question. "Nothing as important as this," he says without thinking, before his knuckles grow white in the grip around his mug and he sets it down with much more force than intended.

"How... I mean, do you know if Maea is still in the Grounds?" he asks, perhaps a bit hurriedly, rubbing at the back of his neck and keeping his gaze on a particularly intense lightning storm that dances across the Levinsward outside. "I won't do anything you don't want me to, but I... fuck, I don't know, Asta. This is..." It's a lot. It's more than a little roughing up after an argument.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

There’s likely some other subconscious reasoning for the nothing as important as this comment that slips from the Maverick’s lips and it has Astaroth’s attention immediately zeroed in. His immediate, reasonable reaction, is assuming it has something to do with the Grounds as a whole, as opposed to the true fact that Asta was hurt. Badly.

He shakes his head, careful to not impale the other man before he heaves a sigh. “I do not know. She had mentioned before the argument that she would be leaving for a bit. But after.. I have no idea.” Whether it changed or didn’t for the pale Ancient. Whether she’d eventually gotten onto a skyship or not.

He adjusts slightly, shifting the mug to his other hand to let his free one slip around Danta’s middle, an attempt at making a small comforting gesture. “I don’t know what to do, Danta.” He admits, uncharacteristically. “She’s stronger than I am, obviously.” A hiss of a growl ends the sentence, clear how it burns. “I need to get stronger.” He murmurs, like it’s more of a personal disappointment than anything else.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

Narrowing his eyes a touch at that - he'd outright asked Maea to stay, and she'd agreed, only to be planning to fuck off for a bit after Longnight anyway? Not to mention the state she'd left Asta in, and that alone has Danta's jaw clenching hard enough that he thinks he can hear it creak. He jumps a little, in truth, as the gentle arm slips around him, and it's with an almost snarl of frustration that he turns to bury his nose into the butcher's dark crown of hair, the sharp tines of his horns be damned.

"It isn't..." Sighing deeply, he tries again. "It's not just about strength. This is..." This feels like how things were when I was in The Climb, he almost says, glaring petulantly at the lightning flashing outside. "I know what I want to do, I just... know it's not my decision, exactly." Regionally, sure. Banning Maea from the Dusklight, whatever. But on a personal level, no.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //