Chapter Text
Stolas woke the morning after, and for one groggy, blissful moment, he forgot.
And then he felt the crick in his back from lying on a too-small sofa all night, heard the sound of an unfamiliar tap running, smelled the slightly stale odor of Blitzø’s apartment—and it came rushing back, every excruciating detail.
A weight settled on his chest, hot and heavy. Everything he had was gone. The wealth and status he could live without, those weren’t his main concerns. But...his daughter. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her, to explain. To say goodbye. And now...
He squeezed his eyes tight, willing back the tears. Tears wouldn’t help him now.
The tap cut, and the bathroom door opened. Quiet footsteps approached the sofa—familiar footsteps.
Blitzø.
Stolas certainly wasn’t ready to deal with that whole mess, so he feigned sleep as Blitzø passed by him and settled into the bean bag beside the window. There was a huff of the cushion shifting and a deep sigh from the imp, and then it was quiet once more.
He didn’t dare open his eyes. He was afraid to face his new reality, to face his...
What was Blitzø to him now? There hadn’t been time to think, what with the executioner’s axe only moments from striking true. He’d barely been able to concoct his harebrained musical number, let alone question why he was sacrificing himself for someone who’d made it painfully clear how little their arrangement had meant. The only thought he could muster at the time was please let me not be too late, please let him live.
And he had. And then Stolas had, too.
He couldn’t stop the next tear from leaking down his cheek.
“I can hear you thinking yourself in circles over there.”
Stolas cracked his eyelids. Blitzø was looking at him from across the room—the far-too-small room with far too little space between them—sharply curved horns and spines haloed by the burgeoning daylight (horns and spines that had nearly been separated from his body only yesterday, had Stolas been only a moment too late, Satan forbid). There was a softness to Blitzø’s gaze, an affection he wasn’t accustomed to seeing. Only a handful of months ago, this would’ve been a fantasy—waking to Blitzø’s smiling face, some flavor of gentle emotion reflected there. Today, it stoked nothing but heartache.
“I would ask if you’re okay, but I think I know.”
Words eluded him; all he could do was blink owlishly back.
“You want coffee?”
The silence stretched.
“Okay, I’m making coffee. You look like you need it.”
The bean bag huffed again as Blitzø rose. Stolas stared blankly on. His insides felt hollow, scoured out. What reason was there to get up, to face the day? He was a dead man walking—scratch that, being dead would be easier than this.
Perhaps he dozed, because between one moment and the next there was a steaming mug of coffee being shoved under his nose. Blitzø’s hand—that beautiful, wide hand, a hand that had almost ceased to exist yesterday, oh Lucifer, oh Lucifer—curled tightly around the mug’s handle, a little too tight. Like he was working hard to steady his fingers.
“C’mon Birdbrain, take the fucking mug.”
Numbly, he shoved himself upright, brushing back the disorderly feathers at his crown. His fingers brushed Blitzø’s as he took the proffered mug, the heat of the ceramic seeping into his skin, though the sensation was much weaker than usual. The coffee tasted like ash on his tongue.
“There we go,” Blitzø grinned his crooked grin, like this was a normal day, like this sort of exchange happened all the time.
Stolas hazily recalled being led home last night, dripping with sludge of some kind, being undressed and scrubbed down, Blitzø speaking to him in what was meant to be a soothing voice (though none of his actual words breached Stolas’s cloud of self-loathing). It was a surprisingly domestic thing for Blitzø to do. Certainly, his strong hands—hands that had almost been thrown to the flames, oh Lucifer—had run over his body many a time, in many a manner. Rough, stinging scratches, or painful little squeezes. But not...tender. Not like a lover’s would be.
Blitzø was speaking again; Stolas had no idea what he’d been saying.
“—Well?” Those luminous eyes pinned him where he sat, pupils blown wide and wanting. “What do you think?”
“About what?” His voice was a croak—a wheeze. He sounded as though he’d just smoked an entire pack of Blitzø’s cheap cigarettes.
He braced for irritation or anger, but the look he got was worse. It was pity wrapped up in an unfamiliar fondness that left Stolas wanting to scream. Who was this imp? This was not the Blitzø that had screamed at him in his yard, refusing to apologize for his many sins. This was not the Blitzø that left him to wallow alone in the hospital after failing to save him from a known assassin. This man was a stranger.
“Too early for it, I get it. We’ll ease into the day.”
It? What was ‘it’? If he had the wherewithal to follow the thread, he’d ask a million follow-up questions. As it was, he sipped his coffee again and tried to remember what living was supposed to feel like.
Why have I given up my freedom for this idiot?
Why didn’t they just kill me?
“Fuck,” Blitzø swore, pulling his buzzing phone from his pocket. “Sorry, it’s Fizz. Give me a second.”
There wasn’t anywhere in this tiny, cramped apartment to really go, so Blitzø retreated as far as he could, to the bathroom. The door clicked quietly closed behind him, and Stolas was alone once more.
Blitzø didn’t have a bedroom.
The thought sliced right through him. There were only two doors in this apartment, one of which was the bathroom, the other of which was clearly Loona’s bedroom judging by the caution tape and ‘keep out!’ signs. Blitzø must sleep on this very couch every night. Where had he slept last night? The bean bag? A lump lodged in his throat, the weight on his chest growing heavier.
Why had Stolas never known this before? Granted, they’d always rendezvoused at the palace, since his mattress was plenty big enough for them both, and Via’s room was in a different wing, allowing them privacy. But perhaps their consistent meetings in Stolas’s marital bed had other motivations too, motivations he’d never bothered to learn.
A wave of exhaustion hit him. This was too much all at once, perhaps too much for a lifetime, which...well, he supposed he had at his disposal, now.
One hundred years—a lifetime, by human standards. Before he could staunch the flow, the dam broke and he was sobbing, shoving a hand over his beak to quiet his hooting cries. A lifetime without his precious Starfire, living amongst the citizens of Hell, who hated him. Homeless. Magic-less. Friendless. Stuck stealing the couch/bed of his maybe-sort-of-friend-slash-fuck-buddy. A disgrace.
Pull yourself together, he scolded himself, drawing on years of masking his true feelings for the sake of polite company. Don’t let Blitzø see you cry. He took a deep, shuddering breath, dabbing at the delicate feathers around his eyes. By the time Blitzø emerged from the bathroom, the mask was back in place, a thick shield of neutrality that threatened to crumble when Blitzø smiled that Satan-damned smile at him again. That roguish grin, the one that tugged adorably at his lips and lit up his face, the one that had almost ceased to exist yesterday, oh my Lucifer—
“Fizz says hi,” Blitzø sighed, flopping into the bean bag ungracefully. “He also says that Asmodeus is willing to help you with whatever you need. So, that’s good, I guess. Right?”
“If he couldn’t help yesterday, I don’t see what he could possibly do now,” Stolas bit out.
“...right.”
Stolas went to take another sip of coffee, only to find his mug empty. That was just fitting, wasn’t it? He had nothing to his name now, not even caffeine to keep him awake.
“Here.” Blitzø handed over his own mug, the one with horses galloping through grassy fields decorating its sides. The coffee inside appeared untouched.
Stolas stared at it, at the slight swirl of oil on the surface, at the rich brown color that lightened round the edges. This kindness—this pity—was suddenly unbearable. He brushed the offering aside. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know.”
Blitzø quirked his brow. “Try so hard? I’m just offering you coffee, not proposing. Take the damn cup.”
“You know what I mean!” Stolas cried, words ringing far too loud in the tiny space.
Blitzø looked taken aback, eyes wide and guileless. “Uh...I don’t, though?”
Stolas dropped his head into his hands, hating that the sweater he wore and the sofa below him and even his own feathers smelled heavily of Blitzø. “You don’t have to assuage your guilt by overcompensating! I chose to take the blame, and I’ll handle the consequences. You don’t need to, to baby me, or feign kindness, or pretend I mean anything to you! That was the whole Lucifer-damned point of me giving you the fucking crystal, Blitzø! And you made your feelings perfectly clear, so I don’t need you tripping over yourself to even the scales, or whatever bullshit you’ve convinced yourself is necessary. I saved you because I care for you, Blitzø, not because I expected some reward, or because I wanted to win you back. As aggravating and abrasive as you are, I don’t want you dead, and I don’t want you accused of something you didn’t do. I lent you the grimoire, I proposed that blessed deal, and I stood up for what I felt was right yesterday.”
Stolas sucked in a gasping breath, too afraid to lift his head and see whatever unpleasant emotion was splattered across Blitzø’s face. Would it be anger? Annoyance? Or worse...disinterest?
“Just give me a few hours to make arrangements, and I’ll be out of your hair. I appreciate you taking me in last night, but you owe me nothing more.”
His talons were wet with tears, but that was to be expected. He’d made an awful, terrible wreck of his life. He’d ruined all his relationships, lost his powers, and now he was as pathetic as he always deserved to be. A sad, pathetic disgrace of a prince, an idiot in love, an absent father and a sniveling wretch. He shook with the weight of it all.
“Are you done?” Blitzø asked.
Stolas’s heart clenched. This is it. He nodded, unable to speak aloud.
“My turn then. I’m sorry, Stolas. I’m sorry for everything.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Will you shut up for a minute? I’m not done.”
Stolas squeezed his eyes closed, but stayed silent.
“I’m sorry for the things I said to you, both on the full moon and...after. I just wasn’t—I didn’t know how to—you just sprung a lot on me all at once, and I didn’t know how to deal. And by the time I figured my bullshit out, you were mad at me and telling everyone I was a motherfucker and kissing some Lust-ring slut, and I was too late. I never got to tell you how...how you make me feel.”
Stolas lifted his head at that, hope wriggling in his heart like a worm on a hook. Blitzø was turned away from him, eyes fixed out the window, surveying the skyline of Imp City. Was it Stolas’s imagination, or was there a faint flush to his cheeks? He hated that he could still hope for such things.
“There were so many things I wanted to...it doesn’t matter,” Blitzø sighed. “Point is, I thought I’d lost you for good, that you never wanted to see me again. I thought you canceled our arrangement because you were sick of me.”
“What?” Stolas squawked. “You thought I was—”
“Pretty stupid, huh?” Blitzø chuckled, interrupting him. “Anyways, we’re good now, so it’s fine.”
Were they good? Stolas felt as though he had more questions than he’d started with. Perhaps Blitzø wasn’t propelled to kindness by his guilt, but then why was he taking such care with him—housing him, washing him, clothing him?
“Loona will be up in a few minutes. I’m going to make breakfast,” Blitzø said. “How’s pancakes sound?”
As he retreated into the kitchen, head held high, Stolas felt his love for him pulse like a living thing in his chest, a starving monster clinging to any scraps of affection Blitzø was willing to dole out, subsisting on stunted apologies and the barest of smiles, still alive despite both their efforts to smother it once and for all.
True to his word, Loona oozed out of bed only minutes later, fur sticking up at odd angles, murder in her eyes. “Morning, sweetie!” Blitzø called. He received a grunt in response before she retreated to the bathroom.
“Hey, Stols, can you grab the plates? We gotta expedite feeding her or she’ll get hangry. Trust me, none of us wants that.”
Might as well earn his keep. He reached into the cabinet Blitzø pointed to—a tall one by imp standards, but still only at chest height for him.
Blitzø brushed against his back as he took the plates, a warm hand curling against his hip for a fleeting moment. Stolas’s skin burned from the contact. It’s just a small kitchen, it doesn’t mean anything. You’re just too big for this space.
Loona’s arrival at the table coincided with Blitzø plating the first of the oddly-shaped, slightly off-color pancakes. Either she was accustomed to such things or simply hungry, because Loona tucked in with a gusto Stolas would never understand.
“Want any?” Blitzø asked, smiling up at him. His neck was cranked all the way back at this angle, their height difference stark in the limited space.
Stolas couldn’t imagine putting anything in his stomach at the moment. It would probably come up within the hour. “No, thank you.”
Blitzø nudged that horse mug across the counter, in Stolas’s direction, offering again the undrunk cup of coffee he’d rejected earlier. With a sigh, he relented. He could use the energy, after all.
It was going to be a long day.
***
“Your highness? Er—”
Stolas looked up, blankly trying to remember the white-haired imp’s name. Did it start with an M? It was something ridiculous, that was all he could remember.
“Should I still...what should I call you now?”
It was an appropriate question. Whereas Blitzø had always foregone formalities with him, the others in his employ had stuck to the traditional methods of address. Which was, of course, moot now that he’d been stripped of his title. “Just call me Stolas, I suppose.”
“Right. Stolas.” The imp seemed to sweat a bit at the informality of it all. “I wanted to ask if you needed coffee or tea, or something? I know this must be pretty boring for you.”
This involved sitting on I.M.P.’s couch while the four assassins puttered around, fielding the many new inquiries they’d received after their televised not-execution—which suited him about as well as anything else. He was more than satisfied with staring at the wall and overanalyzing his many, varied mistakes. “I’m alright, but thank you,” he sighed, attempting a smile.
“Well, let one of us know if you do. We, uh. We’re grateful that you, y’know. Saved Blitzø and everything. I don’t know what we would do if he—” He choked on the words, the sentence left hanging.
“Of course,” Stolas responded. I would do it again, if I had to. I’d do it as many times as was needed.
The imp shuffled on his feet a bit, scratching his neck. “Blitzø is grateful too. Sometimes he’s bad at expressing it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. He was a wreck after your break-up. We know how much it meant for you to step in like you did.”
Stolas cleared his throat. “Thank you, uh...I apologize, I can’t recall your name.”
“Moxxie,” the man smiled, cheeks dimpling. “Well, I better go make sure Blitzø isn’t draining our pensions to buy novelty plates again. But seriously, ask me or Millie if you need anything.”
The imp—Moxxie—wandered away, retreating further into their dingy office. It was truly impressive how the space managed to be both damp and moldy, and dry and crusty. He’d been here before, of course, but only in short bursts. That was another one of those unspoken rules between them—Stolas wasn’t to intrude into Blitzø’s personal life without invitation. Just like how they never met in Blitzø’s apartment, he’d never been formally invited to the office.
His ear ruff twitched as he caught whispers from Blitzø’s private office. Was it uncouth of him to use his superior hearing to eavesdrop? Perhaps. But he did it anyway.
“I couldn’t just leave him at home! I don’t know, Mils, he’s clearly not okay, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Did you two talk? You need to actually articulate your thoughts and feelings, B.”
“I mean, we did. But like, what else is there to say? Sorry I fucked up your life so spectacularly that you lost everything you ever cared about? Sorry you were almost executed because I decided to steal your book and you decided to be nice about it instead?”
Stolas’s heart sank. So he was right. Blitzø did harbor guilt about the events of yesterday. He felt altogether foolish for hoping there could ever be something more than obligation between them, something more than evening the score; he slumped further into the couch cushions, misery descending yet again.
“You’d do the same for him, wouldn’t you?”
“In a fucking heartbeat.”
Stolas’s hope flared, maybe he’d been wrong, maybe—
“ —I’d do it for any of you, you know that.”
—and deflated like a popped balloon.
“Just talk to him, idiot. In the meantime, help me pick out our next job. I’m thinking San Diego...”
“Hey.”
Someone else was speaking to him now. Didn’t these people know all he wanted to do was rot away in peace?
But it was Loona, Blitzø’s daughter. She appeared to be I.M.P.’s secretary, although that job description apparently included playing online poker and scrolling Sinstagram. She and Via got along well, however, which was all the endorsement he needed. He cocked his head at her in a silent question.
“I thought I should tell you. Via texted me. She said she’s okay. I tried telling her you’re alright, that you’re staying with us, but the message is unread. I think maybe she doesn’t have her phone on her. But she’s okay.”
Relief warred with despair; no doubt Stella and Andrealphus would purge Via’s contacts, ensuring none of them could message or call her again. This might be the last, final update he’d ever hear from her. His precious little Starfire—the chick he’d held in his two talons, so small and fragile, so beautiful—all grown up into a vibrant young woman—lost to him for at least the next hundred years, plus however long it would take to reestablish contact after, to mend the damage wrought by this whole ugly affair. How much older and wiser she’d be in a century—she’d live five times longer than he’d known her before they’d ever meet again.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you. I’m glad to hear she’s alright.”
The hound failed to acknowledge him, burying her nose in her phone once more. He ached for what he’d lost, slumping impossibly further into the couch cushions, hoping that at some point they’d absorb him fully.
Of course, just as he was growing comfortable in his misery, Blitzø and Mildred emerged, twin grins splitting their faces. “Who’s up for a fucking murder?!” Blitzø crowed, holding a manila folder over his head. He sidled up to the couch, leaning an elbow on Stolas’s shoulder; he startled at the contact.
“So soon?” Moxxie cried, dropping his stack of inquiries. “We were all nearly killed yesterday! Can’t we get a day to process our collective trauma, at least?”
“Ain’t no better way to process than by killing people, Mox,” Blitzø laughed, tossing the case file to him. “Besides, we have too many new clients to sit around twiddling our thumbs. I’ll even let you dip into our new inventory, pick out one of those real fancy guns you like.”
Moxxie brightened considerably, pouring over the file with renewed vigor. Blitzø looked down at Stolas, who fidgeted under his unexpectedly warm gaze. “I’ll take you home, first. Set you up with one of those soap operas you like. It’ll be better than sitting around here.”
It was awkward untangling his limbs from where he’d been attempting to become one with the upholstery, but once freed he allowed himself to be led back to Blitzø’s half-rusted, dented-to-heaven van, where he struggled to bend his limbs enough to fit.
“We may have to invest in a vehicle that accommodates you, Long Legs,” Blitzø chuckled, pulling out of the parking lot with a squeal of rubber against asphalt.
He wondered why Blitzø would do such a thing, since he wasn’t likely to stick around, wasn’t even wanted. He just had to find somewhere else to go, first, and then he’d...then he’d...
Well, he’d think of something.
“Here we are,” Blitzø pulled up to the curb and tossed Stolas the apartment keys. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge. And, uh, y’know.” He seemed to debate within himself for a moment, before leaning over and brushing his lips feather-light across Stolas’s cheek.
Stolas stood on the curb for ten full minutes after Blitzø drove away, talons ghosting over his cheek, wondering what the fuck was going on.
***
Blitzø came home covered in blood, and for a moment Stolas’s heart stopped.
But it was red and iron-rich, unlike the black ichor of the Hell-born. Human, then. His pulse resumed its unsteady rhythm.
Blitzø grinned at him. “I fucking love my job!” He stomped around the kitchen, shoving chips between his fangs and grabbing two beer bottles from the fridge. “What a fucking rush.”
Loona followed him in slowly, eyes still glued to her phone. There was no blood coloring her fur, which was a relief. Blitzø lobbed a beer in her direction, which she caught without looking. “He’s always like this after mass murder,” she mumbled, sighing heavily. “Be grateful he let you go home before they crossed over. He was worse at the office, and he made us listen to thrash metal in the car.”
“I take it the job was a success, then?” Stolas asked.
Loona shrugged.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when Blitzø flopped on the couch beside him. There was so little space, their arms were pressed together from shoulder to elbow. It was too much and not enough. “Anything exciting on TV?”
Stolas snorted, stretching his legs across the carpet. “No public executions today, I’m afraid.”
Blitzø snorted beer up his nose. “Oof, isn’t it too soon to be joking about that?”
Stolas hummed noncommittally.
They watched Hell-a-Novella quietly for an episode, Blitzø alternating between crunching chips and sipping beer. Loona had already disappeared into her room, which he was assured was normal. What wasn’t normal was the way Blitzø kept casually brushing against him—be it an elbow, a knee, his tail. It was feverishly distracting, a constant reminder of the intimacy he would never be allowed again, of the long nights of skin-against-skin and breathless moans, of the love that still paced in his chest like a caged tiger, antsy and starving.
The next episode began, and Stolas started to nod off. Sue him, he’d had his magic ripped out of his body only yesterday, and he hadn’t really eaten anything since. He was allowed to be tired. So I guess I’m staying here another night, then, he thought. So much for getting out of Blitzø’s hair.
“Hey, Stols.” He was shaken awake a while later by Blitzø’s elbow in his ribs, gently nudging him to consciousness. The light outside had faded away, leaving them both alit by nothing but the television’s blue-green glow. “You gotta go to sleep, c’mon.”
“Mhm,” he grumbled, allowing himself to be canted sideways across the cushions. His legs hung awkwardly over the arm, too long, too big, not meant for this space. Not welcome in this space. He had to remember that this was temporary, only temporary.
“Yeah, just rest up. I’ve got you.” Blitzø draped a blanket over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He must’ve dreamt the kiss on his forehead, because there was no ring, planet, or galaxy in which Blitzø kissing him goodnight made any sense.