the way we work is masochistic

the evidence is on my body
but I never complain

It is a very good distraction for the butcher as he watches Danta shove the whole marshmallow into the flames directly, watching as it catches flame – enough that he’s stunned for a long enough moment that part of his own almost tries to burn completely too. Returning to it with the apology hanging in the air, he twists the stick before deeming it satisfactory, as if avoiding any answer to the sudden outburst and worry from the admission to the Maverick.

Luckily, it seems like it’s unnecessary, even if Asta feels a little better having said it. So it’s his turn to withdraw the marshmallow toward him, falling into old habits of letting it cool (even if they didn’t have marshmallows then to do it with, he recalls nearly burning himself on a pheasant he’d caught while scouting). It’s enough time for him to see Danta lean in and press the sweet kiss to his lips, one he presses back into like a lifeline, like he’s the holy grail.

He hums a note despite feeling relatively frozen in the face of Danta’s affections, before he nods. “You’re right.” He says with a soft sigh, plopping the now cold marshmallow into his mouth to chew on slowly as he replaces the one he’d just eaten with a new marshmallow. Placing it back near the flame, he notices the bottle offered and he takes it, too, swallowing down the sweet sugary bite of the marshmallow to drown it down with the liquor – thankful for the buzz to help numb his emotions before he hands the bottle back to his lover and leans in a little toward him as he twists the stick again.

“I would like that, yes.” He murmurs, nodding slowly before he puffs a sigh out. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I haven’t stayed a night open under the Climb’s skies since… well, then.” He feels like he’s babbling now, his accent growing thicker as he withdraws the now burnt marshmallow from the fire if only to hide the tremble in his hands, shoving it into his mouth immediately to stifle anything else from being said. At least for the moment.

Astaroth

i wear it as a lesson, a curse, and a blessing

// the kinda wrong that make you feel right //

"I am right, aren't I?" Danta purrs, sounding very pleased with himself and rummaging in the pack for a few strips of raw steak he'd brought as well, tossing them onto a flat bit of rock just at the edge of the fire where it can sizzle and sear. (And yes, you're correct, he will be adding some gooey marshmallow to it when he's done, because he's a gremlin).

Asta might be babbling, but Danta is more than happy to take the topic he's chosen and run with it, using his stick to flip his bit of steak over to char the other side. "Not even one?" he asks curiously. "I was the same before we were stone, to be honest. But that first year after I woke up and was here alone, more or less? I tried to sleep under the stars whenever I could. It felt much more open." Less like a prison.

"Weird how one person's paradise is another person's hell." Sighing and skewering his steak on the stick, after adding some of the marshmallow he's been letting toast, he shoves the whole thing in his mouth, humming a note of approval. By now they are left in the last vestiges of twilight, and by the time they finish eating, true darkness will have definitely fallen.

Dantalion

// the little death that make you feel alive //

the evidence is on my body
but I never complain

He is right, though the butcher still remains in that odd moment of babbling too much and yet not, silencing himself with the charred bite of marshmallow, smoky and sweet. He watches the meat sit on the rock, before he collects a small slab of his own, placing it beside Danta’s for sheer formality rather than outright need, glancing over at him with a little too much fragility.

It makes sense, that Danta’s would be an opening from his prison, while the open air was Astaroth’s own prison. And it is a strange mix, adding to the combination of complicated feelings coursing through his chest. “Not even one. I ensured I got out of the Climb before I slept when I scouted.” He says quietly, snagging the meat still half raw and half cooked, biting into the raw bit first.

“I think it’s why I prefer dens. Ours specifically.” He clarifies, leaving out the sappy because you’re there though it’s implied. He draws silent after that, taking each piece of meat and downing it, alternating between it and the marshmallows on occasion, drowning it with the liquor until he feels heavy and night has fully fallen and he’s been too distracted to be distraught at the mixture of marshmallow and meat that Danta had crafted.

The darkness makes him antsy, the tremor occurring back into his hands as he closes in on himself and watches the fire, the cooler air of Angel’s End bringing a brief breeze that has his tail flicking like an annoyed feline’s. “A quarter of the way there..” And the rocks have been blessedly silent, though he knows it won’t last. So he shifts on the bedroll, twisting slightly to put his back to the fire as he goes to lay down, on his side specifically.

Astaroth

i wear it as a lesson, a curse, and a blessing

// the kinda wrong that make you feel right //

"Understandable, I suppose," Danta says with a soft raise of his eyebrows. He hasn't spent much time thinking about how Asta's day-to-day would have been in their old life in The Climb - not back then and certainly not now - but out here under the cold blanket of stars and the ghoulish light of the fire, it's all too easy to imagine it. "Sorry that you had to spend all that time alone," he murmurs, reaching out to rest a casual hand on the butcher's knee as he continues to enjoy his bizarre concoction of food and dessert.

"Three quarters of the way until we can get back to our den," Danta agrees once they're finished and he has to blink away from the glare of the firelight against the solid blackness around them. Waiting for Asta to get as comfortable as he's able before moving, Danta ensures his bedroll is tugged up beside the butcher's and then curls himself against his back, sneaking an arm around his waist to try and find his trembling fingers to hold onto.

"Just one night. And not even that long now," he whispers against the back of his neck, fumbling for only a moment to drag the fur over them as well. "I've got you, Asta."

Dantalion

// the little death that make you feel alive //

the evidence is on my body
but I never complain

“It’s okay.” He says perhaps too quickly. He was used to it then, content and comfortable not letting anyone close, only letting Zac and Rayla have the free reign to touch him without his own initiation. It had been easy.

But he doesn’t flinch as Danta’s hand rests against his knee, and he uses the warmth as a boon to inject into his cold bones despite the area around them being quite warm. The chill remains as he curls up, humming a note of confirmation to hear the optimistic side of it, even if it feels longer.

He does, unfortunately, flinch when he feels the warm press of Danta’s body against his scarred back, his lungs tightening with the breath that sticks there. “Just one night.” He confirms, closing his eyes tightly and stubbornly, clinging to Danta’s hand as the fur comes and covers them part way. His jaw is tight and he seems impossibly small with the way he’s curled up, but his tail snakes out to wind around Danta’s leg, another point of contact, and he waits.

He counts the seconds and the minutes until the liquor in his system drags him underneath. The silence of the area around broken only by the crackling of the fire and their breaths, and it becomes a lullaby of sorts. His body gives up the fight, and if Danta’s still awake he’ll see the exact moment he does fall asleep. It’s as if the tension drains from him, sinking into the bedroll and the stone as if molded by it.

Hours go by before there’s the soft scrabble of talons on the stone, four gore crows invading the both of them — two at Danta’s back to poke and prod by the dying fire, and two who start to pluck at strands of the fur blanket that’s wound around them both, but closer to the butcher’s face. Inquisitive, more than outright vicious hunger.

Astaroth

i wear it as a lesson, a curse, and a blessing

// the kinda wrong that make you feel right //

Danta does remain awake for quite some time after the butcher succumbs to sleep. Far more sober and without any of the added trauma of the area, he's content to warm the other man's back and shoulders until he drifts off and then some, his thumb grazing the back of his hand, his soft breath tickling against the back of Asta's neck and into his dark hair. It's a relief to feel him sink bonelessly against him and into the bedroll and the rock beneath, the Maverick letting loose a soft sigh and clasping him a touch closer, content to feed the fire until he falls into a doze himself.

And it's never anything more than a doze, Danta stirring frequently as if hyperaware of any movement. As such, when the crows do creep into their space, he's instantly on alert. Levering an elbow beneath himself, his other arm slips from around Asta to sweep in a quick, firm arc at the grows pecking at the fur to send them scattering, a growl rising in his throat. At the same time he draws up a ring of fire close around the two of them, hot enough to singe feathers if the corvids don't move swiftly out of the way.

Dantalion

// the little death that make you feel alive //

the evidence is on my body
but I never complain

Blissfully unaware, it takes less than a second for Danta to move and the crows to grow bold for Asta to break through the alcoholic slumber to wake up. And of course, by this time, the circle of fire has warded off a few of the corvids. All but one, which remains in the circle, directly by the butcher’s face, squawking a very loud and grotesque caw at the time Asta opens his eyes.

He recoils hard enough that he presses back into Danta sharply, his gasp of surprise sucking into his chest and locking there. The crow’s wings flare as the fire burns its tail feathers, another screech of a sound before it launches up and out of the circle, and as Asta presses back further into the warmth of Danta despite not realizing it, his hands lift, out of the fur blanket and wreathed in fire.

The crow rises from the center of the fire into the black of the night, but the fire begins to rotate glimpses of what look like moving stars, circling like a vortex above them, dozens of more crows suddenly cawing and croaking into the dark of night.

Without realizing it until after the tang of blood is in the air, the butcher grunts with the sound of pain, trembling hard, a knife from his hand clatters to the volcanic surface of Angel’s End and blood bubbles from his palm, the singular crow begins to drop suddenly, barreling down toward them.

Astaroth

i wear it as a lesson, a curse, and a blessing

// the kinda wrong that make you feel right //

It's alright - those are the words that form and die in his throat as he feels Asta press back against him, Danta's arm instinctively curling back around the butcher. With his teeth bared to the crows he'd normally find more than enough in common with to frolic and make dumb decisions, the Maverick doesn't wait to see what Asta is going to do. Already he's drawing the circle of fire higher, until it curves over them in a bright and scorching dome to keep out any corvids that want to try their luck.

Including the one attempting to dive bomb at them.

Still able to hear the chaos of the murder all around them, even if they can't really see it through the flames, Danta shifts to try and sit up properly, guiding the butcher back against his chest - which is about when the scent of blood hits the air. "Gods, are you--" Cutting himself off as he hears the knife clatter to the stone, the Maverick doesn't try to stem the bleeding - not if Asta wants to use his bloodbane on the flock overhead.

"They'll be cinders before they ever get through that," he tells him gently.

Dantalion

// the little death that make you feel alive //

the evidence is on my body
but I never complain

It’s pain, trauma filled memories that flit through the butcher’s mind at first. So much that the way Danta’s arm tightens around him doesn’t register as any kind of restraint. His hands are free, his legs are free, he had not been tied down at the middle. The gore crows had done a good enough job with that to keep him from getting up in the centuries before. At this present moment, there’s the sharp tang of iron that’s all too familiar to Astaroth, but the fire isn’t. The way it grows higher and taller to craft a dome.

The way that the corvid’s feathers hiss where they meet the flame shield as the crow he’d bloodbaned plummets. He’s limply drawn back against Danta’s chest, finally gasping in a breath as he trembles and presses against the wound with his other hand, so shakily that the red smears across his palms and fingers. “Sorry.” He says again, because he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that it wasn’t fair for Danta to witness this, to have to fight with creatures he was more than likely able to be content wandering around with and doing stupid things (as he’d seen with Moira on those rare and few drunken nights).

He doesn’t bloodbane another crow, though, not with the protection of the dome of fire. If anything, he curves both into and away from Danta, his back pressing harder against him as he tucks his horned head until his bearded chin presses against the fabric of his shirt, blood coated hands pressing against his forehead and his eyes as he forces himself to take measured breaths, as if he can hide the streams of tears that carve through the blood.

Astaroth

i wear it as a lesson, a curse, and a blessing

// the kinda wrong that make you feel right //

Hushing Asta automatically as his apologies hit the air and he curls into himself to make himself small, Danta keeps his eyes on the dome overhead for now, ensuring he's able to feed enough of his magic into it to keep any gaps from appearing. Not that he would expect any respectable corvid to fly through fire unless absolutely necessary, but it's more for the man in his arms than the murder outside. "We both know you'd fight off a pack of fyrhunds for me if I needed you to," he murmurs, shifting against him enough that the words are almost whispered into his dark hair.

Matching his breath to the other man by instinct rather than conscious effort, he sits in silence for a few minutes more, his warmth flooding against Asta's back, their cage of flames flickering all around. And when he does move, it's only a fraction; enough to grab up the fur and draw it over Asta again. "Do you mind if I take a look at your hand?" Danta asks softly, choosing to focus on everything he can control for now.

Dantalion

// the little death that make you feel alive //

the evidence is on my body
but I never complain

The dome is enough of a deterrent that the vortex of crows avoid from getting singed, spiraling around it for a few moments longer before fleeing back to the crevices and recesses of the rock, blinking with beady eyes from the cover of their typical nests. Astaroth on the other hand, curls in, knees drawn up, side pressed heavily into the bedroll when Danta’s voice reaches him. He continues to try and measure his breaths, eyes shut tight as he stubbornly presses his bloody hands into his eyes to staunch any of the tears, hiding away from the Maverick to the best he can.

He would fight off a pack of fyrhunds for him. He realizes he’d do anything for him. He’s going through this mostly for him, too.

He doesn’t feel the blanket draw up around him, doesn’t feel the way Danta floods his warmth into him. But he does hear the question, pressing his palms into his face enough for him to be able to sniff and seem like a semblance of who he is, before he twists a little to reveal the hand in question to the Maverick. The fire glints against the ruby red, watery in some places where tears have streaked through it, and amongst the middle of his palm sits a deep cut. Red and puffy and not doing a great job at clotting, the butcher’s attention flickers briefly from Danta to the dome of flame for distraction, choosing to say nothing than let his voice betray him.

Astaroth

i wear it as a lesson, a curse, and a blessing

// the kinda wrong that make you feel right //

Pointedly keeping his attention on the butcher's hand as he offers it up, Danta furrows his brow and reaches out to take a closer look. "If we were home I'd probably say for you to get stitches," he murmurs, shifting a bit to reach and tear a bit of fabric from the edge of his bedroll. "For now, though, this will have to do..." It's a little awkward to manoeuvre around Asta to bandage his hand without peeling himself away from the other man, but Danta manages it eventually, letting out a soft sigh when he's done.

"We're over halfway I think," he tells his lover, leaning in to kiss the blood and tears from his cheeks without remarking on them. "Do you want me to shift into a lyvern? It's not much of a size difference, but I can cover you with my wings?" Nuzzling at Asta's temple, he doesn't expect the other man to answer verbally. A nod or a shake of the head is enough for him.

Dantalion

// the little death that make you feel alive //

the evidence is on my body
but I never complain

Danta’s words are both there and not - like a haze he has to wade through in order to focus on them. His jaw works as he hears the mention of stitches, though he hadn’t expected anything less. He knows it was deep. He knows it had been a gut instinct and had taken a decent amount out of him, and it was also likely that the blood despite the intention of the bloodbane (and success with the lump of feathers in the short distance between them and the rockery) that the corvids are still interested.

He's limp and malleable, at least, for Danta to wrap the cloth around his palm, and despite the tight set to his jaw he does close his eyes finally from the flame, still measuring his breaths if only so he doesn’t hyperventilate. Over halfway was great news, even if it still sank the stone in his gut to know they still had to be out here longer. “No.” He says slowly, carefully, testing his hoarse voice. His head shakes momentarily after, and he resists the urge to chew on the inside of his cheek.

Twisting slightly, the butcher still remains as small as his tall frame will allow him, tugging up the blanket above his shoulders to hide his back away underneath it as he faces Danta, still pointedly avoiding him, throwing up his glamour if only so he can force himself to bury his face and front against the Maverick, refraining from having to look out at the expanse. Maybe here he can pretend they’re back in their den and this was all just a terrible nightmare.

Astaroth

i wear it as a lesson, a curse, and a blessing

// the kinda wrong that make you feel right //

"Okay." With a weak smile, Danta nods and shifts enough to let Asta adjust himself, welcoming him into his arms and ensuring the fur is gathered properly against his back to act as a barrier between the butcher and the world beyond. With the appearance of his glamour, too, the Maverick is able to nose properly into Asta's hair, allowing him to bury his face away and imagine they are elsewhere.

"Try to sleep," he suggests, threading his fingers gently through his dark locks to drift down and across the back of his neck, never straying lower but offering as much comfort as he's able. "I'll be right here if you need me." Evidently Danta isn't planning to drift off again tonight, his focus on maintaining the shield of fire overhead to keep the crows at bay.

It might not keep the sound of them out, though, and so Danta fills the silence with the gentle murmur of his voice; from describing the plan for the morning to being able to get back home and be in familiar surroundings, if nothing else, at least it might provide a distraction to the man in his arms.

Dantalion

// the little death that make you feel alive //