I'm where the spiders go

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

Oh he can scent the iron as soon as Danta’s clamped down on his cheek. But he still doesn’t move, doesn’t use it to draw him closer, doesn’t use it as a boon to try and get Danta to relax. He knows he won’t. It’s all he can do to stay where he is, unhurried, unpressed, disinterested in Danta that might prove to him that he isn’t there to hurt him, harm him, or maim him.

But it’s the whisper that has the butcher immediately dropping the haunt, as fiery wendigo becomes human once more, sat on the floor beside his desk, equally as small, horns and shadows perfectly properly in place. “Danta?” He asks quietly, his voice normal, softer, gentler, like trying to regain the trust of a wild animal. His dark gaze lifts to him, one hand braced against the dressing on his side only because of how he’s curled up here to sit on the floor.

He still doesn’t move, putting the cards entirely in his lover’s hands.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

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

It's gone as if it had never existed to begin with - and that's always the worst part, because what lingers behind his eyes is always far more terrible than what had actually been present. But the light returns to its usual soft ambience, and the butcher of old is replaced by the man he'd spoken to mere minutes before. Only - and gods, Danta is sorry for it - he can't even look at Asta, left shaking and bleeding and staring hard at the ground, tears leaving tracks though the blood that still flecks across his face.

His mouth opens as if to speak - and then promptly closes again, and he positively scrambles to straighten up. "I - fuck, sorry--" he manages, before all but fleeing the office. Not to get away from Asta, though it might look that way, but if the butcher listens close he'll hear the rarely used back doors to the Dusklight opening.

Spilling out into the night air and clutching at one of the walls, it's among a few stacked crates and broken pallets that Danta promptly throws up, mind still reeling, body physically rejecting the past few moments. It feels as though it lasts much longer than it does, the Maverick panting softly for breath, forcing himself to slow down and to close his eyes while he grounds himself.

319.

I love you.

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

“Don’t—” Comes Astaroth’s quiet hum as Danta scrambles to stand, but by the time he finishes the statement, “—be.” The Maverick is already gone. The door left slightly ajar in the rush to leave, the familiar creak of hinges unused in a portion of the backrooms that were probably as dusty as his old room was now. And still, Asta stays behind, letting him do whatever he can because he’s fairly certain if there’s a presence that Danta doesn’t need right now…

Well, it’s him.

So instead, he takes the few moments (and at least three tries) to pull himself up from the floor using the edge of his desk until he can sit in the chair of his office, stealing some of the brandy and the glass Danta had brought down originally, downing a healthy amount of it before curling over to press his face into his hands. Regret burns brightly in him despite how he tries to swallow it down, waiting and hoping that Danta comes back to him at some point or wondering if he should be keeping his distance even more.

He's always prided himself on being monstrous and terrifying, and while usually the thrill was enough of a high to keep him in high spirits, he should have known this time would come. That he would have to face it with the very man he wants to spend all of his time with -- with a distinct understanding that it could be very possible that it grows a rift between him and the Maverick.

He was the monster, the Butcher of Whitebrim with fire and daggers for hands, but.. he realizes he's harboring far too much of the shame of his previous self to even feel an inclination of relief from finally unleashing his whole haunt out in the open after so long of it being buried within.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

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

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Danta to trust himself on his own two feet again. He feels hollow and lightheaded in a way that threatens to throw him to his knees at any moment, and it's only after he's certain there's nothing left in him to retch out onto the ground that he totters back inside, clicking the back doors shut and slouching against them for a few seconds.

Wiping at his face and regretting, for the first time since their outing, that he'd not bothered with a shirt beyond chains and bone charms, it's with a shuddering breath that he approaches Asta's doorway. The adrenaline spikes through his blood in shuddering waves now, leaving him spiralling between knowing the present and fearing the past, and though he remains more or less pressed against the opposite wall of the corridor, he does push the office door enough for it to swing open.

A breath of something like relief caves through his chest as he spots the butcher, blessedly ordinary and sitting at his desk, Danta clearing his throat and swallowing hard before he tries to speak. "I - I might have been a bit overconfident," he mumbles, his voice hoarse. "But I'm okay. I'll be okay."

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
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.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

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

"No, I'm sorry," Danta says with the smallest shake of his head, as if worried that any further movements might send him swinging back into nausea. "I thought... We know what I thought." Rip off the bandage in one. Show him the worst so that anything else would be better than that. And that might still be the case, as long as this hasn't been the thing to break them. Gods, he hopes it hasn't been.

Keeping his gaze pinned on Asta as if to ensure he doesn't flicker forward or move too quickly when he's not looking, at the other man's question he has to really, really consider it before responding. "N... No, I don't think so." He shakes his head. "I won't... I need you," he admits in a soft voice.

And that's the saddest truth of them all, that the person Danta seeks out now when things are rough wears the same face as the monster who had caused it all in their shared past. "Will you take me to bed?" he asks, nearly whispering the request. "I can shift, I just... I can't go out there like this."

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

They could argue back and forth until there was no air left that one of them was sorrier than the other. But it would get them nowhere. He concedes it for Danta, one little thing he could do to try and make it feel a little easier. But it doesn’t. Gods, it doesn’t at all. He doesn’t even know if the short nod of his head he wants to do is too much to set Danta off. So he stays, still as a statue, staring and counting the grain lines of wood that make his desk, the fingerprints left behind on the glass that’s empty of brandy. “Yes.” He says unhelpfully.

It was bad from all accounts. But here they are. He can feel Danta’s gaze on him, hesitant and cautious, and Asta remains as still as physically possible. He only steals a glance when he hears the whisper of need, and the most he does is let his dark gaze focus on his lover — wondering if they could fix this or if it was beyond stitching back together — offering another soft “of course. I can take you to bed.” A promise, a gentle vow, hesitation in the twitch of his fingers before he pushes himself up to stand, braced by his arms on the table and silhouetted by the oil lamp and low flame in the fireplace. “May I come close to you?” He asks as he straightens up, sucking in a deep breath that burns from the wound and the tightness of the bandage, but not letting it flicker across his face.

He knows the other Ancient had asked him to, but he had also asked him to show him all of his haunt. And here they were. Asta won’t take one step toward him until he hears Danta’s approval. And he’ll stop the second he tells him to, if he tells him to.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

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

Danta meets Asta's gaze as if expecting it to reflect something entirely different - some flinty, cold expression from a time much older than the two of them are now. But it's just the soft, wounded darkness of the man he's learned to love over these long seasons, and the Maverick feels his next breath shiver out of him and his eyes sting with unshed tears. It's just Asta underneath it all, and though he can't stop the shaking of his hands or the way every part of him feels too cold, he grasps at that naked truth like a lifeline.

"Yeah, you can," he says with a nod that sends those tears spilling over, Danta swiping at them with the back of his hand. "You can come close, and you can touch me," he confirms, waiting until the other man is on his feet and he's managed to track him to the doorway before he shifts.

As a gore crow Danta's feathers are miserably ruffled, and he settles himself on a nearby shelf so that the butcher doesn't have to crouch or bend to pick him up, wings tucked in tight, beady gaze fixed and unblinking on the other man.

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

It’s the tears that glint as they follow the already there tracks that hurt more than anything else has. It doesn’t even compare to the blade Danta had sunk in between his ribs. It’s a different kind of hurt. Physical he was used to. Half the time he hardly felt it anyway with the rope like scars on his chest.

Emotionally? It has been a very long dance of Asta pushing away everything just so he can be precisely the man that doesn’t feel this pain. So when it happens, it’s sharp. It’s blindsiding. It’s agonizing. But he’s standing, meeting Danta’s gaze with the quiet promise of keeping his haunt buried down so far that it’s almost like it’s completely gone. Like he can pretend it’s days ago when it hadn’t even registered on his radar as being something off. “Okay, love.” He says quietly, aiming for the gentlest, most personal term of endearment between them, even if he can’t quite help the way his voice seems equally as quiet.

Leaving everything behind in the office, the butcher steps forward, crossing the distance carefully as Danta becomes corvid, and he thanks Dygra again and again for the crow charm on his wrist when he reaches up to carefully grasp the Maverick, cradled into his arms that are laden with tension from wanting to smooth the ruffled feathers but unsure if it’s okay to do so.

Instead, he makes the quiet and silent trek to the stairs that lead to their bedroom, taking each step one at a time, the only indicator of pain being the brief flares of his nostrils and the near silent hitches of breath until they reach the top and he can carefully shoulder their door open to get them inside and to close it again with his tail, not even looking back as he heads for the den of their bed, sparking fire within the fireplace to bring light and warmth to their equally frozen limbs.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

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

Danta shifts awkwardly in the butcher's grasp at first, unsure how to hold himself or whether it would be easier to perch on his shoulder. But then they're heading out into the noise and glare of the Dusklight main floor, and it's all the Maverick can do to try to bury his feathered head into the crook of Asta's arm, to quell the rising wave of nausea at the people and the music and the stink of booze and sex in the air.

He wants to apologise as he feels Asta begin to attempt the stairs - wants nothing more than to shift back onto two feet and to offer himself to lean against as they make their way up - but he feels frozen like this, able to do little more than tremble and shuffle his wings, until at last the bedroom is upon them. Feeling himself relax instinctively at the sight of their familiar belongings, the noise from downstairs muted and the fireplace lending a cheerful glow to the walls, Danta finally turns to peep over the butcher's arm as their den comes into view.

Hopping out of his grip to flutter to the ground, crow becomes man before his feet ever hit the hardwood floor, the Maverick straightening and letting out a long and trembling sigh as he turns towards Asta. The distance away from the office and the sight of the butcher in a setting he's used to are a balm on his shredded nerves, and as he offers him a tentative smile, exhaustion seems to drag at every part of him.

"Thanks," he mumbles. For getting him up here. For doing as he'd asked despite the consequences. For being here even now.

It's with a soft hitch of breath that he steps forward to cautiously close the distance between them, looping an arm around Asta's middle away from the dressing still fixed to his side. Danta's grip is light, fragile almost, as if to test whether things are the same as they've always been up here in the sanctity of their room.

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

He’s silent, eerily so, no quips or playful banter or humming a tune long since forgotten. Just silent, awkward, unsure. Once they reach the den, he can feel Danta move a little and he releases him as soon as he gets any inclination that the Maverick wants out. Asta stills the second Danta’s shifting, dark eyes taking him in as the familiar warmth of their room tries to sink into the frigid stone of his bones.

“You’re welcome.” He murmurs softly, straightening up as much as he can without the pain of the wound in his chest blooming further.

His own breath hitches when Danta steps forward, unsure what to brace for when his Theocrat embraces him, immediately tense before it starts to bleed away and his arms wind around Danta in return, sinking and curling in to bury his face into Danta’s still bloodstained neck, holding him as close and tight as Danta allows. “Thank you.” Comes the soft whisper, voice light and careful.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

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

It's like permission he doesn't know he's been waiting for, feeling Asta's arms close around him with heartbreaking familiarity. Shuddering out a sigh, Danta leans into the embrace, however tightly the butcher needs to hold him, nosing into his bloody hair and breathing in copper and smoke and honey like it's an anchor to keep him steady. He doesn't dare clutch at the other man the way he suddenly wants to, wary of his still healing wound, but he does the best he can.

"Me?" he echoes, his voice a muffled whisper, his eyes closed as if to try and stop the silent, relieved tears that he can't seem to get under control. "What are you thanking me for?" If he thought he could manage a laugh he might have tried it. But it's about all he can do to stand here with Asta and just breathe, his fingers tracing the roadmap of scar tissue on the other man's back and shoulders, his body slowly thawing out in the butcher's arms.

"It'll be okay," he adds in a rough whisper.

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

He melts inch by inch into Danta’s embrace, as he feels it slowly become okay for the monster to hold his lover. His face remains buried in against his neck, eyes shutting with the brush of lashes against his skin, his breaths slow and gentle. Carefully drawn in to not jostle his wound or bandages even as he presses in harder to Danta’s hug.

“For not pushing me away.” He murmurs softly, a warm whisper in the small amount of air between them. He relaxes further under the press and weight of his lover’s fingers as they trail along his scar tissue, as they hold each other until it feels like the pieces are back into place, pushed far enough in from the ledge that they won’t immediately fall off.

Nodding into his shoulder, he slowly starts to withdraw, his dark gaze focusing on Danta’s face while keeping his arms around him. “It will.” It has to be.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

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

In some rom-com, Danta might have feverishly uttered never and swooned into Asta's arms, but the reality is much different, much more brittle. He hadn't known if he'd be able to stand here in the butcher's company until the moment had called for it, and they both know things don't simply come down to whether or not the Maverick might push him away. The tie that binds them is woven with threads of blood and trauma and what had merely started as strange affection, and now it lays knotted around Danta's heart, impossible to unpick.

"Gods, I love you," he whispers as he feels Asta start to draw back, reaching up to cradle his hand against the other man's jaw, brushing his thumb across his cheek. "I was just... it was a shock." And that's the understatement of the year from the Maverick. "You did everything right. Maybe we just... we give it a couple of days before trying anything again?"

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //