you tell me it feels a little colder

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

It might come as a surprise to some that Danta does, in fact, do his job sometimes. Such that it hasn't (just) been laziness that has him asking Astaroth to be the one to go and figure out the boggart situation in the Labyrinth, but a prior appointment as well. Once he's finished at the Temple doing what Theocrats do best, he's taken an hour or so to sate his bloodlust before returning to the Dusklight to clean up.

By this point, of course, it's long fallen dark, not that the Maverick is particularly worried not to have heard from his head of security just yet. It isn't as though the Labyrinth is a hop, skip and a jump away, after all. So he's taken a long, hot bath and settled down for an evening doing little more than lazing up in his rooms. A bottle of wine is open and half empty, the fire is positively raging, and Danta (in some oversized sweater and a pair of striped pyjama pants) is working on some ridiculously complex origami pattern from the middle of the bed.

A real party animal, one might say.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

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

It had been a hellish day. And that’s saying something for the myriad of hellscapes the butcher had been in as of late. This one, while it might not have taken the cake of worst days, had certainly been up there, and the further and further he gets to the Dusklight, the more and more restless and uncomfortable he becomes. At least there’s no blood drenching his body, no new cuts from utilizing his bloodbane, nothing but a missing shirt and a wide open waistcoat and hair that’s completely loosened from sitting back behind his horns in a mess of dishevelment that even the butcher would have to be too far gone to be okay with.

Which, he is, as it turns out.

The Dusklight views him as a warning even without the fancy outfit Danta had made him, and without the mask to hide his somehow neutral expression, the butcher paves a warpath through the brothel toward the rooms. Flora had accompanied him back most of the way, and for it he hadn’t completely lost his mind, so for that he’s silently and eternally thankful. But it does not stop him from passing by Danta’s office, where a particularly rough bottle of Helovian whiskey sits that he snags and steals a large sip from, before haggardly making it toward Danta’s door, knocking first with too sharp of a knock before entering after a few seconds to give the Maverick enough time to shoo Moira away (he’s had enough crows today, thank you very much). As he snicks the door shut behind him with the bottle in hand, shirt missing, waistcoat open and an entirely uncomfortable air around him, the butcher presses back against the wood of the door with a heavy sigh. “It’s done.”

Astaroth

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

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

The sharp knock does have Danta cramming Moira out of the window (Asta will hear a bright squawk of annoyance before silence to inform him that it's safe for him to walk inside), and as such the Maverick is on his feet by the time the other man properly appears. "Hey," he begins, though the smile on his face is already fading as he turns to face the butcher, already sagging back against his bedroom door.

One look is all it takes - the missing shirt and open waistcoat, the dishevelled appearance, the Halovian whiskey - and Danta can put two and two together without needing to ask any questions. "Oh, no," he says quietly, padding across the room to the other man, reaching out to brush a lock of dark hair out of his face. "Come on," he urges, trying to coax him away further into the room where Danta can sit him down and figure this all out.

"You're not hurt?" It's an assumption, but he can't see any injuries.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

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

The hey and even Moira’s squawks go on deaf ears, the butcher focusing on the burnt spot on the floor if for no other reason than to try and ground him (and what a shitty memory that was, too, of things he’d said in this very room to the man suddenly moving over toward him, reaching and brushing the dark hair out of his face. A gesture, while he’d otherwise take well, has him flinching, eyes shutting as if he isn’t sure whether or not being touched right now was a good idea.

Coaxed surprisingly easily toward the bed, the butcher sits on it heavily before shrugging out of the waistcoat, drawing one long gangly leg up underneath him to have a place to put the bottle of whiskey before he reaches up to rub at his face, shaking his head nonverbally to answer before he clears his throat. “Physically, 'm not hurt.” Mentally though was an entirely different ballgame. Dropping his hands to retrieve the bottle, the butcher uncorks it with a pop! and stares at the label as if debating whether or not he should take another sip. “Was a boggart.”

Astaroth

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

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

"Sorry." The apology comes instantly after the butcher flinches, Danta dropping his hand so he can lead him into the room instead. As Asta gets as comfortable as he's likely to be in the moment, the Maverick moves to the other side of the bed, rummaging around beneath it for something. "Fuck. It... I guess it's as bad as they say it is?" Scowling, already a dark mix of guilt and regret swarm for dominance in his gut, and he sits briefly back on his heels.

"I shouldn't have sent you. I didn't think it would be as bad, not with more than one person." Yes, selfishly he'd hoped that the rough captain who had come to speak with him would have been the main target for the boggart. "Something is going to touch your back - it's just me," he adds, clambering back onto the bed. That something is a heavy, weighted blanket dredged out from a box Danta has been keeping, the Maverick drawing it around Asta's shoulders as if to act as a barrier between any imagined talons and his bare skin.

"It might help," he says of the whiskey in Asta's hands. "...Or it might not. I've got some of that medicine from the Levinsward if you'd rather not risk it."

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

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

He simply shrugs away the apology – because it isn’t Danta’s fault, nor is it his own. It just is. And as he gets comfortable and Danta rummages around, he’s stuck staring at the bottle in a strange mix of trying to decide whether or not to drink it more or see if there was any other way to get this stupid feeling to go away. “Lots ‘n lots of gore crows.” He says on another rough and gritty tone.

Only when Danta’s personal chastising occurs does the butcher glance away from the bottle, trying to look over his shoulder at the instruction. “Flora was there, too, actually.” He answers instead, because it wasn’t just him and this unknown Jack, it was him and Jack and Flora.

The weight of the blanket settles over his shoulders and already between the warmth of it and the softness, the butcher’s posture immediately crumples into nothing but a slouch, pulling it a bit closer as if it might keep his hands from twitching and trembling. “I’ve already started.” He says, lifting the bottle from under the blanket around his shoulders and now partially pooling into his lap to waggle the bottle in the air for emphasis. “Trying to drown it out.” He explains, even as the answer makes no sense to the question Danta had posed.

Astaroth

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

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

Jaw feathering at the confirmation - not just regular crows, of course not - Danta's lips part to offer yet another useless apology when Asta drops another bombshell, and the Maverick's eyes widen. "Flora was... shit, are you alright? Is she?" Jack is clearly forgotten, and Danta is torn suddenly between wondering where the Doubletake is in that moment and wanting to crawl into Asta's lap and shield him from the rest of the world.

"Well the last time you drowned it out with an entire bottle of whiskey, you had a terrible night," he reminds him gently; he'd been pinned under the butcher and his snapping teeth for part of it, if he remembers correctly. And so, if Asta allows it anyway, Danta will lean in to gently ease the bottle from his hands to set it down on the bedside table.

"...Asta, come here," he almost whispers, reaching for the butcher's trembling hands as if to guide him to turn enough for Danta to slip his arms around him. "You're safe. It's over, it's just us."

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

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

“Yeah.” The butcher confirms, shrugging a shoulder beneath the heavy blanket as if it wasn’t even a thought that crossed his mind. “The… Jack, guy, he took all the damage, pretty much.” He shakes his head, another lock of dark hair falling forward into his face as he watches the firelight flicker against the glass of the Halovian whiskey bottle, the cork that still sits within the entrance after being replaced from the sip he’d taken.

As he hears Danta’s reasoning, his nose wrinkles and he’s half tempted to snap at Danta’s hands for daring to take it away from him. But he doesn’t, because he knows that he’s right deep down and it’s just another little failure to add to the list of horrors. The bottle is given up, the butcher’s hands lay limp in his lap aside from the tremors and twitching, until Danta’s soft voice breaks him out of the rabbit hole of his thoughts and he watches the blonde’s hands clasp his own – almost so warm that for a second he thinks he’s still human. Still Accepted. Like Danta’s warmth might burn him.

It's a hitch of his breath that has him suddenly squeezing the other man’s hands, turning as requested while the muscles feather in his bearded jaw, until those warm hands and arms are suddenly enveloping him beneath the heavy blanket. He tries to not cave in immediately, but it’s a failing attempt not more than two seconds later before his head presses in hard against the Maverick’s shoulder and he exhales a shaky sound, his arms slowly winding around his middle. “I hate this, Danta.” He whispers back, knowing he’d agreed to get that crow charm eventually. But in the meantime? This sucked. This hurt. Each time the gore crow’s caw pops back into his mind, it feels like another lancing stripe of pain down the scar tissue on his body.

Astaroth

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

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

"Good." Danta isn't even guilty about saying it, because between Asta, Flora, and a man he's met only a handful of times if that, he'll hand every bit of hurt to Jack each and every time. Meanwhile, having successfully snuck the bottle out of the butcher's hands and coaxed him into turning around, it's almost a relief to feel him slouch into his arms, as if he stands a chance at finding Asta somewhere beneath the panic and tension rippling throughout his body.

"I know you do," he whispers, pressing kiss after kiss against his dark hair, holding him tightly as though he can protect against whatever imagined threat still haunts the other man's mind. "I'm so sorry." With a long, hard sigh he shifts only enough to sit back against the headboard, drawing Asta along with him and reaching up to brush gentle fingers against his bearded cheek. "I'll sit up with you. We'll get through tonight, and you'll feel better in the morning." He has no idea if it's even true, but the words slip out regardless.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

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

Asta certainly isn’t feeling guilty at agreeing to it too, that Jack could take all the pain and suffering if it meant that Flora and himself were fine in the aftermath – even if fine was a relatively loose sense of the phrase. He’s physically fine, at the very least. No crazy mindless bloodbane usage to deter the feeling of failure. He hadn’t failed this time, not when it counted. And it’s largely thanks to Flora’s quick thinking and help that he’d even managed to get that far.

Either way, he sinks into Danta the second he gets over the momentary fear of burning, realizing just how cold he feels despite never once having been hit by the ice magic that Jack and Boggart!Jack had wielded. Perhaps it was simply just the panic and the way it had gripped his heart that kept it from keeping his extremities warm enough.

He doesn’t know what to say to Danta’s apology – because he’s not okay, nor is he capable of calming down entirely to pretend to be aloof and confident like his usual choice of personality was. Instead, he feels like a shutter frame, trapped between Ferox and the Butcher, unsure which to step toward to keep him from feeling like this. But he’s practically limp as Danta moves him, settling in against his shoulder and draped in the heavy blanket, he twists his head to bury his face in against the Maverick’s shoulder and oversized, soft sweater. “I should-- need to wear the muzzle, tonight.” He decides quietly, twisting his head to let drained, lifeless eyes focus up at the Maverick, even if he feels like sleep is three million years away.

Astaroth

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

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

Fussing automatically over the butcher and the blanket around his shoulders if for no other reason than because they are both helpless when it comes to the other man's mental state right now, eventually Danta forces himself to relax, strumming his fingers against Asta's side and brushing a soft thumb across his cheek. "I thought you would," he agrees softly, glancing down at him with a wan smile. "Not just yet, though."

Leaning in, he presses gentle lips to his forehead and cheeks, eventually leaving a chaste kiss against Asta's mouth to remind him that they are still more than what they once were, that Danta isn't just able to offer his help - he's willing and happy to do it, too. "It'll be okay," he whispers. "It always is. I know it's not the Levinsward, but we can sit at the window if you want."

He still recalls their time out at the Sparkbird's Nest, and although the butcher had been panicked and half-drunk at the time, he'd seemed content enough to watch the lightning outside.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

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

Even if his bloodlust is currently sated enough, the butcher doesn’t trust the nightmares from preventing him from pinning the Maverick down the second it became too real in his dreamscape. And such, he tries his best to let Danta’s lips and hands soothe the thrumming tension in his body, even if it wasn’t battered and painful like it had been that day back in Levinsward. At least he isn’t as drunk, either, and so the butcher focuses instead on tilting his head up and into the kisses that do remind him that however fucked up he is or has gotten, that Danta was there. Not as someone who understood what it was like, but because…

Because he loves him.

It’s a thought that strikes him just as sharply as seeing the blotted black nightmares of gore crows had, but in the opposite direction. As if the exhaled sigh that passes from his lips is one made of relief from the tension that has kept his hands shaking and his mind closed off in a ping pong battle of which horrors could beat the others out. He sags a fraction more, pressing back into the chaste kiss as much as he can while his mind wraps around the realizations, the attempts to feel better about the situation, and the understanding that while he was here, there would be no crows to haunt him. They had made a promise about it.

Shifting slightly as his arms wind a fraction tighter around the Maverick, he’s slow to nod as he tries to steady his breathing again from the flood of other emotions that have erupted within him. “I do want that.” He says on the air of a quiet whisper, withdrawing his hands to tuck the blanket around him tight and to give Danta an opening to stand and guide him to the windowsill. There isn’t a storm occurring outside, but it should be comforting all the same to be in the one place he knew he would be safe.

Astaroth

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

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

"Okay." It's an easy thing for Danta to offer and accept, his smile almost relieved as well as the other man tentatively withdraws to draw the blanket more tightly about his shoulders. Rising to his feet as well, the Maverick spends a brief moment opening the drawer of the bedside table to withdraw the sedative they'd obtained, ready for if and when Asta feels as though even watching the world outside is too much. Within the same drawer he's got the steel muzzle waiting, very much assuming they're going to need it should the other man eventually drop off to sleep.

In the meantime, though, he guides them to the bay window overlooking the Last Whisper, having to duck around his dressmaker's mannequin (AKA coat rack) and a few other bits and pieces before he can drop to sit down, ushering Asta to sit with him. At Longheat there's very little cold rippling out from the glass, so it's a comfortable enough place to be as they watch the lights from other businesses, the streams of people walking the streets, even a few street entertainers doing magic.

"How's this?"

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

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

With Danta getting things ready, Astaroth has a few moments of focusing on peeling himself out of the bed, of the promise of curling up with the Maverick on the windowsill to look at whatever might interest them at the moment. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the view out of the window from up here – not with how Danta had covered most of the space from the typical vantage points he was used to being at within this room, that when the full bay window comes into view after ducking around a few bits and pieces – the butcher is captivated.

Letting Danta settle in first against the windowsill, the butcher peels the blanket off of his shoulders temporarily so that he might be able to slip out of the still open waistcoat, letting it fall and crumple to the ground before he’s slipping into the space provided by the Maverick. “It’s good.” He hums quietly, situating himself and utilizing the distraction of getting the weighted blanket just right around his shoulders but with his bare back pressed against the plush warmth of the oversized sweater Danta wears. He settles in and presses his head into the crook of Danta’s shoulder, letting his dark gaze take in the sights below, lingering on a particular magic user that’s making fire look like little fireworks.

“Can they see us?” He asks suddenly and quietly, though the weight of his body and how he’s essentially collapsed into Danta’s arms seems to suggest he doesn’t care – that it’s mere curiosity at this point, choosing the comfort of Danta’s embrace and the safety of it over whether or not they’re witnessed.

Like it really matters in the long run, anyway.

Astaroth

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