Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m giving you this because I care very deeply for you.”

Stolas replays the memory, every detail as vivid as if it had happened mere seconds ago. The cold crystal was hard against his skin, and Blitz’s hand had felt warm and solid in his. Yet the crystal had fit into his glove, slipping into the groove at the top like a perfectly designed puzzle.

This is how it is, and this is how it should be. Blitz is loud, brash, and unafraid to speak his mind. If he wants something, he’ll do anything in order to take it.  Forcing Blitz into the Full Moon agreement is like forcing an eagle into a cage. It violates the fundamental laws of nature, and what makes Blitz Blitz.

The day they met at the circus, they sat on the dirt beneath the tree, sharing stories and dreams. Running wildly through the halls, wrecking his father’s stuff— Both of them had been equally swept up in a game of make believe. 

Blitz had been the only one to treat Stolas as a person, and Stolas couldn’t even return the favor. Stolas wants to kick his past self. The day Blitz had come into his bedroom, he had been after the grimoire. Blitz hadn’t been after Stolas, and never will be. Yet some shameful part of Stolas had wanted to hope, and that is what had kept the engagement going for so long. 

Stolas can see clearly now. He needs to let go.

“This transactional thing we have it’s not right anymore we haven’t—”

Stolas slams a fist against the dining room table, forcing himself back to reality. Disembodied voices swirl through his mind— their past few Full Moons, their time at Ozzie’s, a visit to Loo Loo Land, defeating a few assassins— all snippets of him and Blitz.

He clings to them, holds them tight, but they fade within seconds like morning dew.

He is slumped against the table, the wood cold and hard against his cheek. Three half-empty bottles of absinthe sit in front of him, and he wonders if he’s had a bit too much to drink. 

More voices swirl through his head.

“I want you to stay with me because you want to.” 

“This is an interesting roleplay.”

“You pompous, rich, asshole!”

“I think so highly of you. I didn’t realize you thought so lowly of me.”

Stolas throws down a shot of absinthe. Blitz is probably back at IMP by now. It takes all of Stolas’s willpower to keep himself from showing up and begging Blitz to take him back.

He doesn’t regret letting Blitz go. He regrets keeping Blitz caged for so long. He drinks another shot. He can’t do something stupid if he’s too drunk to move.

A layer of dust coats the windows. Stella, ever concerned with appearances, had always been the one to clean the house. She had been a manipulative bitch, but even a manipulative bitch is better than the silence of cold, empty halls. And, being married to Stella had meant Oktavia was around.

Stolas sighs. Is there a single relationship that he hasn’t screwed up?

He reaches for another bottle.

—-

Stolas wakes to the scent of blood. 

He doesn’t remember when he had fallen asleep, but he remembers shooting straight upright. His head pounds, and the world spins. A sharp, metallic scent assaults his nose, but he can’t seem to focus on it. He can’t seem to focus on anything, because his eyelids are drooping again.

A flash of pain tears his chest, and a wave of black washes him away.

The next time he wakes, it is morning. For a single blissful moment, he wonders why he is asleep at the dining table and not his room.

Then he remembers. Sunlight streams through the windows, a tiny bit too bright. Though he is still a bit groggy, his Goetia magic has cleared most of the alcohol.

There are a few drops of absinthe left in one of the bottles, and Stolas is about to reach for it when he notices the blood beneath his cheek.

Stolas leaps upright with a squawk. Right where his head had lain is a puddle of blood, most of it old but some of it fresh. 

In the center is a sunset hellrose, its dusky purple petals tipped with orange. It is the same flower he had plucked from his greenhouse the day before, twirling its stem as he worried over Blitz.

And now, their relationship is over, and the rose is entirely covered in blood.

Stolas touches his beak. His fingers come away red.

He coughs. Orange-tipped petals spill from his mouth, and pain tears open the inside of his chest. Every beat of his heart sends liquid fire through his body, and he gasps, heaving more petals up until they carpet the silk tablecloth.

The fit subsides within seconds, leaving Stolas hunched over the table, panting with a mess of bloodied flowers in front of him.

There are only two explanations: Someone has put a curse on him, or he has Hanahaki disease. 

Nobody understands how Hanahaki disease came to be or where it’s from, but everybody understands how it works. It occurs only in cases of love where the diseased has not received an answer to his confession of feelings.

“Well, I’m not letting you, bitch! Let’s go!” Blitz’s shout echoes in Stolas’s ears.

Stolas chuckles. If the attack had come even a single day prior, he would have said it was Hanahaki. Right now, he would bet his life that it is a curse.

But Stolas doesn’t feel cursed. There are very few entities powerful enough to curse a Goetia, and the bloodied flowers are been accompanied by a pain in the chest. It perfectly aligns with the symptoms of Hanahaki.

Stolas shakes his head. It can’t be Hanahaki, because Stolas has already received an answer to his confession.

Or has he?

Chapter Text

Stolas knows there is something he is missing, a subtle detail that holds the key to knowing what afflicts him. But in order to confirm, Stolas will have to revisit the memories of last night, and he would rather pluck out his feathers.

He grabs his grimoire and begins searching for possible curses. The only one it could possibly be is a variation for the rose-vine curse, which summons thorns to follow the afflicted person wherever they go. Its cure is easy; a simple incantation.

Stolas begins murmuring. The book rises in front of him, and a soft glow quickly envelops the room. It lingers for a few moments after he stops, indicating that the curse nullification had worked. 

It takes all of half a second for a bloodstained petal to fall from his lips. 

Stolas buries his head in his hands. The memories from last night come rushing in. Blitz unsure, Blitz thinking Stolas was roleplaying, Blitz shouting, Blitz calling him a pompous asshole, and finally, Stolas sending him away.

The cause of the bloodied petals is at the edge of his mind. Stolas feels as if he is inches away from discovering the key to a new spell. But doesn’t know if he wants to take the leap, and find out how badly he has screwed everything up. 

What would Blitz do?

Blitz wouldn’t hesitate. He is braver than Stolas, saying what he is thinking without fear of offending someone.

Blitz says what he is thinking without fear of offending someone.

Stolas sucks in a sharp breath as he realizes: He has never heard any variation of the words “I don’t love you” from Blitz’s lips. 

Stolas’s grip on the grimoire slackens, and it falls to the floor. He slumps into the nearest chair. A thousand emotions course through him, an exhilarating rush of hope, fear, regret, and guilt. 

He is a coward. He had sent Blitz away too early, because he had been afraid of Blitz’s answer. Yet hope flickers in his heart, because that means Stolas has a chance. 

He recalls all the happily married couples that he knows, searching for proof that somebody can scream at the person they love. Stolas’s heart sinks as he realizes all of the marriages he knows of are arranged out of convenience. The bride and groom fight, but they certainly don’t love each other. Paimon hadn’t even bothered to get to know his mother before giving her a child.

Stolas has no idea what two people in love looks like. The last of his hope quickly dies as he remembers he had seen cases of Hanahaki disease where it had been obvious the love wasn’t reciprocated. Stolas could be forced to confess and get his heart broken again.

Stolas suspects dying might be preferable to that.

Another flower sprouts from his beak, the iron tang of blood filling his nose. He lets it linger, instead reaching for the last dregs of absinthe.

He is about to down them when a soft glimmer at the edge of the room catches his eye.

It is Oktavia’s telescope, its shining blue lenses pointed towards a drawn, dark purple curtain. According to Paimon, frivolous toys like telescopes should never be in the dining halls of a Goetia’s palace. But Stolas had allowed Oktavia to keep hers here anyways, because the floor-to-ceiling windows have the best view.

If he dies, will Stella let Oktavia keep her telescopes somewhere close to the sky? 

Stolas snaps his fingers. The curtain opens, revealing a brilliant, hellish red. It is day, and the stars are long gone. Yet the full moon lingers, slightly faded but still there.

He can’t let himself die, but the prospect of showing up at Blitzo's house and talking to him makes him want to crawl into a hole even more than offering the crystal did. 

Even so, Stolas drags himself to his feet.

—

Blitzo paces his apartment, arms crossed and his eyes rimmed with red. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, having spent the last night trying to break back into Stolas’s house. 

He remembers the moment vividly, his hand outstretched as Stolas began crying. Then Blitzo had been in the yard, trying to kick down Stolas’s front door. It had taken an hour before the wood gave, and even then, the shattered pieces had merely risen in the air, joining back together with a wisp of magic.

Panting, Blitzo stared up at Stolas’s house. Silhouetted against the full moon, its spires were an ominous red-black, as if it were the lair of a supervillain. Yet Blitzo had thousands of nice memories of the place, from playing treasure hunt in the chandelier room to talking with Stolas about his dreams. Dim lights flicker in the dining hall below, and a shadowy, owl-like figure sat slumped on a chair.

The Asmodean Crystal hung off Blitzo’s arm, feeling heavier than it had any right to be. He threw it to the floor and tried entering again, breaking walls and windows for them to magically fix themselves, and climbing in through chimneys and ventilation shafts only to get teleported back to Stolas’s front garden.

Finally, dawn broke, and Blitzo realized Stolas was probably sleeping. Like a zombie, he returned to IMP, the weight of everything having not fully hit him. 

Only now, without the distraction of trying to break into Stolas’s house, does Blitzo realize how badly he has screwed up.

He had made Stolas cry, goddamnit. 

And if Blitzo could make Stolas cry, then Stolas cared. Blitzo had been wrong, and

Stolas had truly loved him when he had given him the crystal. 

The real question is whether Stolas loved him now. It wouldn’t be the first time Blitzo’s yelling had scared off someone he loved. 

Blitzo paces faster, as if he can outrun what had happened last night. 

“You’re tearing a hole through the carpet.” Loona emerges from her room, already on her phone. “I don’t think you want to get a new one.”

“So what if I am?!” He throws his arms into the air. 

“Shit.” Loona finishes her text before putting her phone away. “What happened”

“Stuff.” Blitzo mutters. “Stuff happened.”

“Fine, don’t tell.” She takes her phone out again. “Or do tell, if you want to.”

Blitzo throws himself onto the couch. He curls into himself, burying his head in his arms. After a long pause, he asks “Y’know how people only give you ways to get out of something ‘cause they don’t want you there?”

“Yes?” Loona doesn’t look up. “Why?”

“Stolas gave me this.” Blitzo rips the crystal from his sleeve. Loona examines it for a few seconds before her eyes widen.

“An Asmodean Crystal?” She whistles. “Damn. What happened to the Grimoire?”

“He asked for it back.” Blitzo mutters. “But he wanted me there. I think.”

“Ohh-kay?” Loona gives him a curious glance. “How do you know?”

“Because he said so!” Blitzo shouts into the couch. “Apparently the crystal was his way of setting me free.” 

“Free as in he doesn’t want you or free as in he wants the best for you?” Loona begins texting again. In a calm tone, as if Blitzo and Stolas hadn't just broken up, she adds “And I used the last of your cream cheese last night.”

“Free as in he wanted me to choose.” Blitzo mutters. 

He leaps to his feet. His entire body is hot and cold, and the room swims before his eyes. He grabs the nearest thing—a pillow– and slams it into the floor. “And I THREW that in his FACE!”

Loona growls, leaping away. “So what’re you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.” Blitz throws the other pillow at the wall. “It’s over.”

Loona gives him a glance before shrugging. “It’s your relationship. What do you want to do? Heck, Why are you telling me this?”

Blitzo freezes. He’s telling her because it makes him feel a little bit better, but he doesn’t deserve to feel better. Or at least, not until Stolas does.

Except he has no idea how to fix this, no idea how to contact Stolas and tell him that he didn’t mean a word he said last night. He has no idea how to rewind the clock, kick his past self and make this right.

“Is now a good time to tell you that someone’s been pacing outside the door for the past five minutes?” Loona’s ears twitch. “Oh.They just stopped.”

Blitzo throws the door open. The street outside is empty, but the air smells faintly of blood, absinthe, and Stolas’s shampoo.

Chapter Text

Stolas ducks into the nearest alleyway as soon as he hears the handle click. He is panting, his breath hot and sour with the scent of dried blood. 

Iron fills his nose as flowers send their stabbing roots deeper into his chest. Blitz pokes his head out, his skin a flash of red against the gray buildings. Stolas knows he should go back. Talk to him. Running away won’t fix anything.

That doesn’t make it any easier to force his body to obey. 

He is saved when Loona pokes her head out behind Blitz.

“Over there.” She points in Stolas’s general direction. Her eyes narrow. “Be careful. I smell bl–”

“Hi!” Stolas jumps out from the alleyway, still wiping the last traces of blood from his mouth. “I was just passing by the area.”

There is a moment of silence, both Blitz and Loona too stunned to speak. A car backfires in the distance, the sound loud as a gunshot in the streets of hell.

Then, Blitz shouts “What. The. Fuck?”

“Yeesh. Seems like you guys have some stuff to work through.”Loona sticks her earbuds in her ears before heading back inside to give them privacy. “Call me if you need.”

Stolas winces as he watches her go. He is painfully aware that the street is deserted, and that he is alone with Blitz for the first time since he had confessed.

Slowly, tentatively, he starts. “So about last night…” 

“Right.” Equally awkward, Blitz rubs the back of his neck. “D’you.. D’you want to forget it happened?” A dirty grin creeps across his face. Stolas’s heart skips a beat as Blitz drawls, “Go back to our once-a-month fuck sessions?”

“Ye–” Stolas bites his tongue. Although Blitz is free, he has to be sure it is Blitz, and not Stolas’s spells, talking. “You do know that you have the crystal now?”

“Right. Of course! An alternate route to earth.” Blitz laughs, too harsh and too loud. “ So you don’t have to give up your grimoire to get your feathered ass pounded into a mattress.”

“That’s.. Not what I gave you the crystal for.” Stolas mutters. His hand twitches, the purple light of a teleportation spell involuntarily springing to life between his fingers. 

Yet the flowers press against the inside of his chest, ready to tear him open the moment he gives up. Stolas closes his fist. 

“I gave the crystal to you with no strings attached. I gave it because I wanted you to be free to tell me what you thought—” His voice breaks. “About me.”

“I want to apologize.” Stolas closes his eyes, unable to keep watching Blitz’s expression. Each word is an admission of guilt, another reason why Blitz wouldn’t want to be with him. But he at least owes him this.  “Not for giving you the crystal, but for the arrangement. I made you feel used.”

“Stolas, you know I— Being used was the whole point.” Blitz scoffs, a thin veneer to hide the primal fear inside. “We— What he had was transactional. A quick fuck, no strings attached. No emotions.” Blitz shudders. “Nope. None of that.”

“Right?” Blitz whispers, slightly choked. His eyes are wide, terrified of both Stolas loving him and Stolas not. He turns away, unable to meet Stolas’s eyes. “What we had was working fine. So let’s just go back to what we had.”

Stolas feels them slipping, falling backwards into whatever their relationship had been before last night. Pain sears his chest, and the words burst out of Stolas. 

“Do you love me back?!”

—

“Do I...” Blitzo repeats, the weight of the words not fully sinking in. “love you… back?”

Then he panics, because he has just said the L-word. The word he has promised himself never to say, because nobody can ever love him back and he should end it before he gets hurt.

Sex for fun, sex for money, sex for a magical book that can take him to the human realm, that he can do.

Sex for love? Blitzo has no idea how to do that.

The world contorts, spinning and shrinking like a bad shroom trip. His lungs heave, taking in breath after breath of foul, sulfur-scented air. Yet it still feels like he can’t breathe, and he claws at his neck, his nails drawing blood as he tries to take in air.

Stolas is still here, and Blitzo is painfully aware that he is freaking him out. Blitzo is hurting him, just like he hurts everybody who falls in love with him.

—

“Blitz, I—” Stolas trails off. Blitz thrashes as if he were strangling him, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. Blitz’s nails scratch his own neck, each bloody gash pricking him as if Blitz were clawing at Stolas, “I–”

Stolas realizes he has no idea what to say. He has no idea what is the magic sequence of words that will save Blitz, stop him from folding into himself like a caged animal. But he has to say something because blood is already bubbling from his lips, and he can feel the soft petals of a rose in his mouth.

He forces it back down. “Blitz. Tell me what’s wrong.”

When Blitz doesn’t respond, he tries louder. “Blitz, please.”

“Nothing!” Blitz gasps, like a half-drowned sailor whose head has just broken the surface of the sea. This is Blitz’s chance to fix what had happened last night.

But Blitz can’t bring himself to say the words.

A stone sinks in Stolas’s stomach, heavy and slimy and cold as he realizes: He will never get a straight answer out of Blitz. Not without torturing him, and he has done that enough. 

At least not right now. 

Perhaps he will try again later, after Blitz has had more time to think. He will put off pushing Blitz until he is on the brink of death. The flowers inside his chest twist at the thought. It will hurt, but it isn’t anything Stolas can’t handle. 

It is the least he owes Blitz after putting him through hell. And if he dies by accident, then… he supposes he will just die.

Stolas turns away. “No. Give me your answer when you’re ready.” 

A portal to the foyer opens beside him. The moment he steps through, vines expand in his chest, encircling his organs, squeezing his insides until blood bursts from his lips.

“Wait!” Blitzo’s shout echoes as a bright orange rose bursts from Stolas’s lips. 

–

“No! Wait!” Slowly, Blitzo unfreezes, a hand outstretched towards Stolas’s retreating tail feathers. It is just like last night, the world tilting and space warping as a teleportation spell brought Stolas further away.

Except this time he is faster, leaping through the portal seconds before it closes.

“Ow, ow, fuck!” Blitzo lands on hard, gilded marble. The room is dim, the shades drawn, and Stolas is nowhere to be seen.

Slowly, Blitzo rises to his feet. It appears to be some sort of foyer, and 

A draft comes in from an open window. Shivering, Blitzo calls “Stolas?”

There is no answer. Not even the customary alarm, or teleportation spell to get rid of intruders. When Blitzo sniffs the air, he smells blood.

A chill runs down Blitzo’s spine as he recalls how Stolas had stumbled while stepping through the portal. Maybe it was just a freak accident, and Stolas was fine. Or he could be sick, or hurt, and that is why the security isn’t working.

“Stolas!” He calls, louder, before breaking into a run. “Stolas!”

Blitzo bursts into the next room, a dining hall. Everything is made for Goetias, from the chairs twice as tall as he is to the button to call a butler imp. The table, too, looms over Blitzo, draped in white cloth like a shroud. 

A gold telescope sits by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and Blitzo wonders whether it is for Oktavia. 

There is a dark puddle of something underneath the seat closest to the telescope, and the scent of blood is thick in the air. Cautiously, Blitzo creeps closer, until he is certain the tablecloth is stained red.

He scrambles onto the nearest chair. Even standing, he is only the height that Stolas would be sitting.

Is this what Goetias see when they sit down for one of their dinner parties? Shining silverware, crystal cups, and one placemat marred by a pool of dark red blood and bright orange petals?

He remembers how many times Stolas had coughed that morning, how haggard he had looked, and the speck of  bright red at the corner of his lip that Stolas had quickly wiped away. A distant memory pricks Blitzo’s mind. There is an urban legend about a disease that makes the afflicted cough up flowers. He can’t recall the specifics, but he knows it is about love.

Blitzo tells himself it’s a myth. A stupid bedtime story that isn’t true. Even so, he takes off running. He has to find Stolas.

–

Stolas staggers into his room, blood dripping from his mouth and leaving ugly red splotches on the gold-and-purple rug. Stolas sighs.

Shame. He really had loved that rug.

Another wave of pain washes over him, but he grits his teeth. What’s done is done; he has run away twice, and he has to face the consequences.

A cough overtakes him, wracking his chest with pain. Something flies out of his mouth, landing in a bloody puddle on the floor.

It is an entire rose, complete with sepals and a stem. The second to last stage of hanahaki.

Stolas curses. The world spins, and his vision blurs. He blinks, and he is lying on the floor, the soft pillows and warm mattress of his bed like a mountain above him.

He tries to pull himself up, and falls back down. It feels like someone has set his insides on fire, and blood is leaking from his lips in a steady trickle. 

Instead of getting up, conjuring a note for Blitz or magically summoning his phone, Stolas just closes his eyes.

—

Panting, Blitzo pauses before Stolas’s door. He has already checked the library, the gardens, the observatory, and the reading-room. Of the places Stolas is likely to be in, only his bedroom is left.

Blitzo shouldn’t go snooping in people’s bedrooms, which is why he has put it off till last. But everywhere else has turned up nothing, and he needs to find Stolas.

“Stolas!” Without hesitation, he pushes it open. “Are you in there?”

There is a slightly strangled squawk from the other side. Blitzo takes that as a yes. The door swings open to reveal Stolas lying in a pool of blood and petals.

“Stolas!” Blitzo lets out a choked shout. “What happened?!”

“Nothing.” With a herculean effort, Stolas sits up. He snaps his fingers. The mess of blood vanishes in a blur of purple sparkles. “I’m fine, Blitzo.” 

Moments later, he coughs up more blood. 

“Stolas!” Blitzo runs to him. “Shit, I– Shit.”

Blitzo doesn’t have to kneel to check on Stolas. They are the same height, Stolas lying on the floor and Blitzo standing. His eyes glow a dull red, the bright white pupil visible from pain.

“Stolas?” Blitzo calls. “Stolas! What’s going on?!”

Stolas coughs. Bursting from his lips are a single, bright orange petal.

“No.” Blitzo backs away. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. “No, no, no no no.” 

Hanahaki disease only occurs when the afflicted truly loves someone. But growing up under Cash Buckzo, years of stealing and getting yelled at on the street, the debacle with Fizz, everything— has taught Blitzo that nobody can love Blitzo. 

“Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m sorry.” Blitzo mutters. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Beside him, Stolas groans. More flowers spill from his throat, including a chunk of what looks like flesh. Hanahaki disease is usually caused by a person’s refusal to confess. But Stolas has already confessed, which leaves the only possible culprit Blitzo.

The bloody mess of petals and thorns gleam on the floor. A wind ripples the surface of the pool of blood. Blitzo’s reflection stares up at him, and he truly looks like a demon.

“Do you love me, too?” Blitzo repeats Stolas’s question. The only way to save Stolas is to give him a real answer, the one desperate to burst out of his chest.

Yet his lips refuse to form the words, his throat choosing to make a choking sound instead. His heart races, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins as the world becomes too small. He doesn’t want to love Stolas, because loving someone means losing them.

But if he doesn’t say anything, then he will lose Stolas for sure. Closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the blood, the flowers, or Stolas lying on the floor, Blitzo shouts “I love you!”