Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

It’s Sinsmas.

Blitzø knows as much, cause he spent all of yesterday decorating with Stolas and his Loonie. It had been slow progress, because unlike last year, Stolas had been in a headspace to help, which resulted in a kitchen on fire because someone (they were still arguing about whose fault it was) had failed to turn the stove off. The smell of smoke had refused to leave.

So when Blitzø awakes and smells an entirely unfamiliar scent, along with no sign of feathers or fur sticking to his sides, he thinks he’s still dreaming. He’s convinced of this fact even more when he tries to turn and, for the first time, takes stock of his own body.

The fact that he’s only half his normal size should have probably been the first thing one should notice; instead, he notes the lack of scarred tissue.

Where his face is smushed into a pillow, he feels the coarseness evenly on both sides. The hand curled into the sheet underneath him feels the creases in a way he’s forgotten long ago.

He blinks his eyes open, and he knows he’s dreaming.

There is Sinsmas decoration alright, but instead of the horse-shaped paper garland he had made with his bird (well, Stolas had done more watching than cutting, but only because Blitzø liked his horses in specific shapes), the one they had hung above the balcony, he’s met with the sight of cheap lights crudely stuck to crooked tent poles.

It hits him, suddenly, that the scent is familiar after all.

The realization makes him inhale deeply, because he’d forgotten, had almost failed to recognize the scent of chalk and heavy make-up and hay and home, the way only his mother’s cookies would smell on this specific day every year, and it’s so confusing, because he’s never smelled anything in his dreams—

“You finally awake, idiot?”

The voice is much younger than it should be, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Blitzø’s head snaps around, facing his twin sister, who’s standing at the entrance of their family’s tent, already dressed in her best fit for what they could afford at the time.

“Barb?”, his voice croaks, and he’s already scrambling out of the blanket and up from the worn mat he used to sleep on. But he trips and curses up a storm, because only now does his brain catch up to the fact that he’s in the body of a child – him, as a child – but it’s not enough to distract him from the fact that his sister is standing right there, already turning to leave the tent and Blitzø’s sight like she always does, because she doesn’t want anything to do with him, doesn’t need him, doesn’t—

“Wait please!”

And it feels like nothing short of a Sinsmas miracle when she does, crossing her arms and tapping her hooves, but waiting for him nonetheless.

❄︎

He dresses himself in clothing that feels both familiar and at the same time not, and follows Barb out of the tent.

The dream doesn’t end there.

And — probably more surprising — it doesn’t turn awry either. No hateful ignorance from his sister, no faceless or burning circus workers as they pass tents upon tents, and most importantly: No fire anywhere.

Blitzø knows which tent they’re walking towards. And he knows, remembers suddenly, memories that he’d long since pushed away. Of how he and Barb would wake up every Sinsmas day together, for once the last ones in the tent as everyone was preparing for a special performance, and they’d not be allowed to disturb Dad or Fizz, so they’d go have a late breakfast with—

Barb notices him dragging his feet the closer they approach the communal tent, and starts dragging her brother along. His sister is pressed to his side, arms looped together as she’s complaining about his strange behavior, and it’s almost enough to distract him from where they’re going. If not for his rapid heartbeat and the sweat pooling on his skin everywhere, he could almost pretend.

“Mom! Blitzo is being weird!”, Barb shouts, and they walk through the flaps.

There, next to a smaller table with mismatched chairs, stands Tilla.

She’s younger than Blitzø usually remembers her; there is only a single gray streak in her hair, and for just a second, Blitzø is reminded of Stolas.

“Weird, hm? Well, let me take a look then.”

And then she’s in front of him, one hand already cradling his face as the other comes up to check his forehead. Her brow is creased, but the corner of her mouth is slightly pulled up, like she’s just humoring them. But her eyes, her eyes are kind as always.

“Momma—!” Blitzø knows his own eyes are watering, so he screws them shut tightly and presses himself into the body in front of him, selfishly clinging to one last embrace before everything comes crumbling down like he knows it always does.

“Blitzo? Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

And like always, he is a fool, opening his eyes against his better judgment for one last look that he’ll know will haunt him for the rest of his day. Why today, of all days? Why Sinsmas, when he was supposed to be there for his daughter and his– his maybe-boyfriend, and the family that he is trying so hard for? The nightmares had gotten better, so why—

But when he looks at his momma, there is no fire. No ash clinging to her hair, no skin melting off of unmistakable bones. It is only his Momma, now looking down at him with genuine concern, and he can feel Barb tucking on his sleeve with her own worry.

“I just missed you”, he chokes out, and uses Barb’s hold on him to pull her in as well, embracing his family; refusing to let go.

❄︎

For whatever reason, the dream still doesn’t end when the hug does. Not that Blitzø is complaining. The whole day, he just sticks next to his mom’s side, refusing to let go of her hand. She keeps asking if he’s alright, and he doesn’t think he can stomach lying to her, so he just says he can’t join the performance today.

Predictably, Cash is furious and tries to guilt him into changing his mind; but he is an assassin in his thirties who by now has faced worse people than Cash Buckzo, and despite his size and a voice that isn’t even close to breaking yet, he stands his ground.

At some point, Barbie seems to feel reassured enough that her brother isn’t dying or whatever, and she leaves to join Fizz in training. It’s tempting, to join her, because she refuses to stick around for longer, but he can’t exactly tell her that she ought to appreciate every moment they still have with their mom, and he can’t bring himself to leave Tilla’s sight either.

So he chats with his mother all day, helping her with chores and asking her any question that comes to mind. If they’re things that he should know from “recent” years, or if they’re things he’s too young to know to ask, Tilla doesn’t comment. Her replies are patient and considerate, and whenever Blitzø feels the tears spilling once more, she only holds him and soothingly caresses the spines on his back.

The performances of the day come and go, and for once, Blitzø doesn’t give a fuck. He’s not a circus performer anymore and doesn’t want to be. That’s always been Fizz’s thing. Barb’s, too, once upon a time. He only did it because he had to, and because he wanted to live up to the expectations his dad and the audience had of him.

He knows now, whose expectations and opinions matter to him. The rest can go fuck themselves.

When everyone is done and cleaned and hungry, they all meet in the communal tent. In the circus, no one had usually cared much for what ring you came from or what your birth sin was; only on Sinsmas did little groups form around the different tables. It was still mixed and matched, like most celebrated in the cities, but you could see which tables primarily held the imps who were born into Sloth (sitting half-asleep or full-asleep in mostly silence), or into Wrath (some of ‘em could give Millie and Moxxie a run for their money), and not to mention those who came from Gluttony.

All-in-all, it’s loud and rowdy and festive, and Blitzø is left wondering if he misses it.

He looks around his table, where he’s sitting next to Tilla and Barbie, having his ear chatted off by a much younger Fizz, while his dickass of a dad is off getting drunk with others; they’re surrounded by people whose names he can’t quite recall, names broken into half-names and syllables in a part of his memory covered in ash, and he imagines bringing his family here.

Loonie, Stolas, M&M. He thinks back to last week, when they had all explained to a disgruntled Octavia what Sinsmas was, and has to snort at the thought of bringing her here too.

It’s a strange thought.

With a glance at his mom, he wonders if she and Barb would’ve liked to join their Sinsmas this year.

“Are you sure you’re alright, sweetie?”

Tilla is looking at him again, with an expression that Blitzø has come to recognize from himself whenever he catches himself in the mirror while talking to Loonie about hard things, or on Stolas, when Via comes to visit them, visibly stressed out about whichever shitshow her fuckass mom and that cunty uncle of hers had pulled again.

So he gifts his momma his most reassuring smile, and he finds that he means it. Yes, sure, whatever this… dream, or whatever, was; it hurt, in a similar way to how his scars hurt some days. An old pain that’ll never leave. Something that will always sting, that will leave his vision blurry at the edges, but… What had Stolas said, the last time he’d had a panic attack in front of him?

Blitzø, darling, breathe with me, alright? I’m here. You’re here. You’re– You will be—

“I’ll be okay.”

And he believes it.

❄︎

Whatever his current age, Blitzø knows his momma doesn’t tuck them into bed anymore at this point. He thinks about asking her anyway, but turns out, he doesn’t need to. His mom had always been the best, and so, when the first imps had started to file out of the tent, she had scooped him and Barb and Fizz up, and despite his complaints that they’re too heavy now, he hangs onto them all until Tilla drops Fizz off at his tent, and then Barb and himself directly onto their mats.

Barbie had already fallen asleep on their short walk, and now Blitzø looks at her with fondness and pride. She had worked hard today, and even though Blitzø would’ve loved to spend more time with her, he doesn’t mind seeing her rest. Not when she’s smiling while doing so.

He’s distracted by the feeling of claws gently caressing his horns, and his focus shifts back to his momma, who’s sitting next to his mat, smiling tiredly.

This way, they’re almost the same height.

“You should go to bed too”, Blitzø says, and he feels a bit silly, standing there smaller than he’s ever felt and lecturing his own mother.

Tilla seems to agree, as she laughs quietly and continues scratching his horns in a soothing rhythm.

“Is my son saying he’s too old to have his momma tuck him in?”

Blitzø shakes his head quickly, accidentally knocking her hands away, and she only laughs louder. Barbie keeps snoring quietly from her own mat.

“No”, Blitzø replies, and then gets interrupted by his own body betraying him with a yawn. He thinks he would have started crying again by now, but it feels as if his little body is drained of all tears today. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

This time, when Tilla laughs, Barbie does stir, so they both stay still until she stops and continues snoring.

“Blitzo, sweetie. I could never be uncomfortable as long as I’m with the two of you.”

It’s like a stone lodges in his throat. He averts his gaze.

“You don’t know that”, he murmurs.

But gentle hands firmly turn his head, and suddenly, Blitzø is hit with the fact that he has his mother’s eyes.

Huh. He had never realized.

“Believe me, my boy: If there is one thing I know for sure, it’s that you and your sister are the most precious things in the world to me, and nothing brings me more joy.”

“Even when I fuck up?”

“Even when you fuck up.”

“Even if I hurt you?”

Tilla only looks surprised for a moment before she leans forward to press a gentle kiss next to the circus insignia on his forehead.

“Especially then.”

And fuck it, seems like he still has some tears left after all. Not for the first time, hands long forgotten wipe them away, before he’s cradled against his mom’s chest. And now that he’s crying again, it’s like he’ll never stop again, and he hopes his hiccups and sobs don’t wake Barb up or that his momma won’t worry too much or that all of this could just be real—

“Why?”, he chokes out, because he truly doesn’t understand. Who in their right mind would love someone more when they hurt you? If he had a clearer mind, he maybe would’ve thought of how hurt he used to be by Stolas' remarks and off-hand behavior, and how that hadn’t stopped him from falling in love. Or how Stolas still came to sacrifice his life, even after the shitshow that was the stupid Anti-Blitzo-Party or their last Full Moon.

Instead, he can only cling to his mother’s dress, skull pendant pressing into one of his cheeks, his daily reminder of what he had done to her, of how he hurt her so much that she could never return, and wonder if she’d still say the same thing if she knew.

“Because I know you, and I know that you’re my good little boy. If you hurt me, I’ll forgive you, because I know you won’t have meant it. Sometimes we lash out if we’re hurting or confused or overwhelmed. Sometimes, we act recklessly. We all hurt the people we love from time to time. It’s part of being alive.”

His sobs grow louder as her words hit where it hurts most, but she only squeezes him tighter to where he can hear her heartbeat, loud and steady. There’s shuffling, and he can feel Barbie’s little body pressing into his right side.

“There will be times when I scold you, or when I’m upset with you, but no matter what: For as long as you are alive, I will always love you, no matter where I am.”

He wants to believe her so badly.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been a full day, or that he recognizes scents and flavors and people he couldn’t remember yesterday, or because he knows the nights he dreams of his mother are never kind to him; whatever the case, it is clear that this is more than just a dream.

So he tries. Clings to the words, to the hope, that his momma is right, that she doesn’t hate him and that she knows he hadn’t meant it.

And as his momma starts rocking both her children in her arms, the only sounds filling the tent a quietly hummed melody and a mix of three different purrs, Blitzø only curses that he’ll remember this moment forever.

He tries to stay awake as long as possible, but eventually, the world goes dark.

II.

The first thing he thinks upon waking is: Thank Satan, I still remember.

The second is: What the actual fuck was that?!

And the third, but no less important: Shit. Shit shit fuckity fuck shit.

He bolts upright, all previous thoughts pushed aside in favor of the last one. There’s a sting of pain as his claws pierce both the blanket and his own flesh. When nothing changes, he throws the blanket aside, staring at the drop of blood where he had pinched himself.

The sudden urge to scream takes over, and Blitzø only stops himself because he notices shuffling in the corner of his vision: Internally cursing up a storm, he turns to stare at Barbie, curled up on a different mat than before, grunting in her sleep.

So Blitzø does the only thing he can think of: He gets up, and quietly slips out of the tent.

He’s not quite sure where he’s going, or what his plan is. His body feels awkward, in a way only a teenager’s can, and he keeps getting distracted by the feeling of braces against his teeth.

The lack of scars still feels fucking weird.

Someone calls out to him, asking why he’s still in shorts and his sleep shirt. He flips them off.

He does the same when Cash finds him, clearly having been informed and being pissed. It feels powerful for a moment. Satisfying as fuck, for sure. This is the fuckface that had kept him and Fizz apart, who had made him so fucking angry on Fizz’s birthday that day, who had guilted him into stealing from some rich fucks who he knows from personal experience wouldn’t care about chopping an imp’s head off (even though this one instance had admittedly turned for the better, but still, fuck you Cash).

But then Cash takes a step closer, and some shitty instinct or whatever takes over — even though he’s already taller than his dad, and with his knowledge from the future, much more dangerous too — and so he flees.

Without much thought, his hooves carry him where he always used to hide from Cash, back in the day. As soon as he’s met with the smell of hay and horseshit, he already feels himself relaxing.

They’re not earth horses, but he’s still missed them, kinda, even though looking at them and recognizing some of them from that day kinda fucks with his head.

Still, he makes his way to the back, where the youngest ones are kept, and hides in one of the stables where he’s out of sight. The horsie — Shadow, he thinks, and what a stupid fucking name for a horse — nuzzles his shoulder a bit, but soon becomes uninterested once more, so he just draws up his knees and hugs them tightly to his body, head dropping down.

There are voices outside, and he can hear Cash looking for him.

His breath hitches when he recognizes Tilla’s voice. She’s clearly trying to calm Cash down, inquiring about what happened, and of course Cash starts spewing shit about Blitzo, blaming Tilla for raising him like shit, and Blitzø is torn between jumping out there and fucking him up for talking to his mom like that, and curling into an even smaller ball because he’s probably right about Blitzø.

Before he can make a choice, someone taps his shoulder, and he almost jumps out of his skin.

“Fucking shit, Fizz! Has no one taught you not to sneak up on a guy with a—”, a guy with a gun, he means to say, but then he remembers whatever shit he’s gotten himself into, and the fact that he actually doesn’t have a gun on him, and shuts his mouth in favor of glaring half-heartedly at the jester staring down at him.

Fizz crosses his arms, and Blitzø has to do a double-take because, well, fuck. Arms.

Sure, the younger Fizz had ‘em too, but Blitzø had for one been pretty out of it yesterday (?), and also, it’s different to see a young Fizz like he used to look like, and a version of Fizz that had the same height as the one from the present, and the same face and all, only younger and, well. Not scarred to shit.

“An existential crisis?”, Fizz challenges, clearly not aware of all the complicated feelings inside Blitzø’s head at the moment, and then he glances towards where Cash was still throwing his tantrum.

“What the hell did you do to get him that angry? On Sinsmas of all days?”

With a furrowed brow, Blitzø peeks over the edge of the stable, only now taking note of the decorations everywhere. Sinsmas again?

Blitzø shrugs, and then curls back into his previous position on the ground.

There’s the sound of hay shuffling around, and the quiet creaking of wood as Fizz seems to climb over the railing, and then he’s sitting next to him, their arms pressed against each other.

Whenever they did this in their present, Blitzø would always flinch at the sudden coldness.

This Fizz is warm.

It still makes him flinch.

“That bad?”

And Blitzø already knows it doesn’t feel the same as it used to, but it’s still a comfort when his head hits the other’s shoulder. He must seem pathetic as shit, since Fizz doesn’t even complain about his horns hitting him in the process.

“You could say that”, he finally allows, and closes his eyes as he just takes a deep breath. There’s still the overpowering scent of the stables, but now it’s mixed in with something that catches Blitzø off guard.

It smells like Fizz.

And it’s not like Blitzø doesn’t know what his best friend smells like, ‘cause they’re still (again?) best friends, and Fizz and his hot chicken boyfriend were even invited this year (although those fuckers had to decline cause of their stupid club, so they’d settled on a double maybe-date next week instead), but this Fizz smells different.

The Fizzarolli cozying it up in that fancy-ass lust tower doesn’t smell as much of make-up and other artificial shit since he finally quit that gig with Mammon, but there are still undertones of it. His face makeup is still part of it, and he probably joins his boyfriend in Ozzie’s factories a lot, so it makes sense. There are also undertones of metal and oil, and it’s not hard to guess where that comes from. All of that aside, it was a testament to the many years they hadn’t seen each other anymore, that Blitzø hadn’t realized until much later that Fizz’s natural scent had fucking… mixed, or something, with that blue chicken’s.

Good for him, or whatever.

(Had he started smelling like Stolas too? Or would Stolas smell like him and Loonie, having moved into their place? Or was it also a mix?)

Point is, this Fizzarolli is all… the circus, and cheap detergent, and home.

And oh fuck oh shit someone cut his dick off with a chainsaw cause that scent is doing things to Blitzø and what the fucking hell, body?! You’ve got a sorta-maybe-boyfriend, don’t be getting ideas, satan, dammit!

He jumps up, probably red in the face (and wow, isn’t that a thought, considering he actually is), willing the unwanted thoughts down.

“I need to get the fuck out of here.”

Fizz only looks confused as fuck, curse his soul, and looks around them. “On Sinsmas?”

It’s enough to put a pin on his freak-out, because he’s kinda right. They’d always spent Sinsmas with the circus, and his mom and Barbie are still here, and what kind of fucked up son would he be if he just left now?

One that would kill her and everyone else.

He snorts, and he knows it’s not one that sounds amused, and he can practically feel Fizz’s concerned look burn into him (and isn’t that fucking ironic), but sue him. Because it’s kinda funny, isn’t it? To think he’d be a shitty son if he left, when in reality, he’d do everyone a fucking favor if he did?

Tilla doesn’t shout; she never does. Cash doesn’t shout much, because he prefers sleazy tricks and making you feel like the shittiest person ever if you don’t do as he says, but when he shouts, it’s ugly.

He’s shouting at Tilla right now.

And it’s Blitzø’s fucking fault.

So he leaves.

❄︎

Fizz doesn’t follow him, and he’s kinda relieved about it, because as soon as he’s off the circus grounds, it finally leaves him with the opportunity to shout till he’s hoarse and kick some street signs and just fuck things up. Not like he’s not good at that anyway.

Suddenly, he misses Millie.

She would’ve loved fucking things up with him. Probably would’ve already gotten him a gun from fuck-knows-where, and they’d kill some assholes for funsies.

It’s the thought of her that makes him take a deep breath.

And then another.

And another.

He thinks of that shitty hotel, and the way his family minus Stolas had clung to him after the trial, and he feels the regret seep in. The guilt of having run away again. Of having left his family.

Finally, he stops.

Whatever the fuck’s happening, it’s not… real, right? Sure, having spent a whole day as a child again, all the details, and now today, it’s weird, but it’s not like he won’t get back. Probably.

Fuck. What if he doesn’t?

Or what if he did something to trigger this, and now he needs to do something else to go back? Forward? Whatever?

Bile rises in his throat because if this is real, then he could change things. He could save his momma’s life, and Fizz from blowing up, and Barbie from hating him. Beyond that, he can adopt Loonie before she has to go through so much shit, and then he can make sure Stolas doesn’t lose his daughter and his powers and his home—

Fuck, Stolas.

He should have his powers now. And the grimoire. He would know what the fuck is happening. Probably. He could help him, could send him back—

Does he want to go back?

And what the fuck would he tell Stolas? Or—shit, what if Stolas developed feelings for him again, and he’d just ruin his life again and again!?

“Blitzo, f-fucking— w-wait, idiot!”

The imp snaps around, teeth bared. “The ‘o’ is fucking silent now, bit—”, but he halts, because it isn’t yet, might never be, and Fizz is staring at him with wide eyes as he tries to catch his breath after crossing the last distance in a jog.

“Sorry. Thought you were someone else”, Blitzø murmurs, staring at Fizz, confused.

He’s holding a pair of pants and a top bundled in one arm.

Once Fizz seems to have got his bearings back, he shoves the bundle into Blitzø’s chest.

“Here. If I had known how fast you’d leave, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

Blitzø takes the clothing, not understanding, until Fizz pokes him in his chest.

Oh, right. He’s still in his PJs.

“Thanks”, he utters, and starts stripping. He can’t be bothered to put on a show, even if he would have for his present Fizz without a doubt. Even if just to tease him.

He bunches up his PJs once he’s done, and throws ‘em into some random alley. The two imps stand in silence, both avoiding each other’s gazes. Then, after Blitzø does the stupid counting-down and breathing exercises that they’d all tried out in the office recently, he manages not to blow up and lash out. Old habits die hard and shit.

“I flipped him off.”

He says it casually, like it’s no big deal, but Fizz chokes on nothing.

“Blitzo! What the hell!”

Once more, a shrug.

Fizz sputters a bit more, but in the end, he just sighs and then loops their arms together. This time, Blitzø doesn’t flinch, but he’s sure as fuck confused.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

And in typical Fizz-fashion, the other replies with a mischievous grin as he drags them further down the road.

“Well, you said you wanted to get the fuck outta there, didn’t you? So that’s what we’re doing!”

Dumbfounded, Blitzø just tags along, staring at his former-not-former best friend. He blames it on the emotional whiplash that he only considers it now: “What about your performance?”

There is the expected anxiety, the telltale glancing away, and the too-hard biting of his lower lip, and Blitzø already half-expects him to turn around and run tail; instead, he gets surprised once more.

“Fuck it. Right? If you need to get away, then what kind of best friend would I be if I just let you go all on your lonesome?”, he laughs, and it’s clearly nervous, because Fizz is a fucking perfectionist and lives for Cash’s approval, but he’s also still pulling him further into town.

Right. This Fizz still hadn’t been messed with by Mammon.

“Oh shit!”, Blitzø suddenly curses and disentangles their arms so he can put his hands on Fizz’s shoulders, expression serious. “Have we been to that pageant yet?”

Fizz stares at him, bewildered, and Blitzø is this fucking close to honest-to-Satan shaking him, when the jester finally answers: “Are you talking about Mammon’s pageant? Like, The Mammon?” He suddenly moves closer with his face, and Blitzø even manages to mostly ignore the minimizing distance, as Fizz squints at him. “Are you drunk or something?”

Relief floods him, although he needs to be sure. “Have we, or not? Just answer the question, dipshit.”

“Well, unless you’ve stashed away a shitton of money for us to go—” His eyes widen suddenly, and Blitzø already knows what he’s gonna say before he does. “Holy shit, Cash promised a bonus if I do well at the New Year’s show, you think if we put our savings together–?”

“No!”, Blitzø shouts, and doesn’t even care that apparently Fizz had gotten bonuses. Fucking Cash Buckzo.

“What do you mean, ‘No’? You know that he’s my role model. My hero, even. Come on, Blitzo, I would literally die for the opportu–”

This time, Blitzø does shake him, hard.

“Listen, I hate to say it, believe me, I actually really fucking do, but Mammon? He’s scum. I’m being serious: Whatever you do, do not get involved with that money-shitting fucksack. Whatever you think he can help you with? Fuck that. You don’t need him. You’re ten times the clown that he could dream of being, and he’d still not be anywhere near as good as you. Fizz, I swear you’re gonna make it big, and people will love you and spend a shitton of money on you, and you don’t need to be anyone’s shitstain or puppet or whatever to get there.”

He’s breathing, hard, which stands in contrast to Fizz, who seems not to be breathing at all.

Something is happening behind those huge and surprised eyes, and Blitzø doesn’t think he’s ever seen Fizz look at him with so much awe, so much… something, but it doesn’t matter, because this is important.

“But–”

“Promise me, Fizz. If you care for me at all, if you consider my opinion worth shit, then promise me this one thing.”

Fizz is searching his gaze, and he opens his mouth, and Blitzø swears to fucking Satan that he’s about to make a witty remark like Seriously Blitzooo, what’s gotten into you today? Did your favorite My Little Hellpony character die?, and holy shit, he can’t get distracted by the fact that he knows how at this point in time he knows how future episodes will go, but thankfully Fizz shuts his mouth.

He must see something in Blitzø’s gaze. Desperation maybe. Or maybe the pain of seeing your childhood best friend be treated like shit and feeling powerless to do anything about it.

In the end, he nods, slowly. As if testing out the water on whether this is something he should or can agree to.

“I promise, Blitzo. I’ll stay away from Mammon.”

For the first time today, it feels like something good has come out of this fuckery. It’s like a string has been cut, finally letting Blitzø crumple, and he doesn’t care that he does so in his best friend’s arms. He just collapses, and Fizz’s arms catch him, clumsily, because Fizz can do a shitton of stuff really well, but with other stuff, he’s fucking useless.

“Thanks”, he murmurs into the hug, and then, “Forreal. You’re great the way you are.”

❄︎

They end up lounging on the rooftop of IMP’s office building, waiting for the fireworks to start.

There’s a pang in Blitzø’s chest when he sees the office building, because there is no IMP yet, and as of now, there is no M&M in Blitzø’s life either. He thinks about them. Wishes they were here.

They’d also be teenagers, and isn’t that a hilarious fucking thought. He half-considers showing up on Millie’s parents’ farm, but he’s pretty sure Mills would think he’s some sort of stalker and kick his ass.

Although he does have more fighting experience right now… it’d be fun to show off. Maybe warn her parents of Striker?

Moxxie… would be more difficult to get a hold of.

“What are you thinking about?”

“My friends”, Blitzø replies distractedly, staring into the sky.

“Didn’t know you had those, outside of Barb and me.”

Fizz is dangling his feet off the edge while Blitzø has one leg drawn up, the other lounging to the side. The reply stings, because it’s been a long time since Blitzø could consider his sister a friend, and the friendship with Fizz was a rollercoaster and a half; but mostly he’s just annoyed with (read: fond of) Fizz’s attitude, so he shoves him semi-lightly, careful not to push him down.

“Fuck off. I’ve got friends.”

There’s a high-pitched, drawn-out fsshh’ing in the distance, and then bangs. A firework went off. It’s an early shooter.

Fizz shoves him back, although it’s a pussy-shove, but then he scoots over and lies down, his head pillowed on Blitzø’s thigh.

“You know, this isn’t too bad. I can kinda see the appeal of living in the city.”

Blitzø snorts at that, watching Fizz as he closes his eyes. “What, our traveling imp circus not enough for you anymore?”

He doesn’t mean it, and they both know it. Blitzø, at this point, had tried his best, especially when it came to the twin act, but everyone at this point, aside from himself maybe, knew that he’d not make it in the industry. It used to upset him. Now he’s made peace with it.

Being an assassin is fun. Working with M&M and his daughter and Stolas is fun. And he’s fucking good at what he does.

Still, because Fizz is Fizz, and Blitzø is Blitzø, the future star tips his head back and pokes Blitzø with the tips of his horns.

Blitzø slaps him lightly across the arm in return.

“I don’t know”, Fizz says, and it takes Blitzø a moment to remember what they were talking about, “I love performing. I love being a clown. Maybe I really will become famous one day, just like you said, and I’ll make us become bigshots.”

Blitzø used to think the three of them – him, Barb, and Fizz – they’d stay together at the circus, forever. After it all went to shit, when he first heard of Fizz winning the pageant and getting famous, hell, even when they reunited again; he just hadn’t been able to see Fizz still work in the circus.

“Is that what you want? I mean, putting aside that an all imp circus is never gonna make it to the big leagues; would you stay here?”

There’s a second firework going off. Fizz still has his eyes closed.

“You and Barb will be there, right? So of course I’ll stay too.” He seems to ponder his next words. “Maybe if I’m a rich celebrity, I can buy the circus off your dad and make you the boss. Big office, horses that you get to name, the whole shebang. That’s always been your dream, right?”

For just a moment, he considers a future like that. Him, Barb and Fizz, running the circus together. His momma living a comfortable lifestyle with them, and Cash kicked to the street. They’d probably never be as rich as Fizz was with his sugar daddy, but it’d be more than most imps would ever have.

And all the horses. Sugar biscuit and stapler and Paperclip and 32 and Grape Fiesta.

His traitorous mind wanders, and he thinks of a future where Fizz and he would never leave the circus, and eventually grow into more than just friends.

He waits for a blush, or for his heart to speed up, but nothing happens. He looks down at Fizz, still resting against his thigh, and sure, there are complicated feelings buried into Blitzø’s history and present. Of fucking course he finds Fizz hot, like he does Moxxie, or like, eighty percent of the one-night stands he’s had.

And maybe there’d always be a small part of him that would wonder What If?

If he wanted to, he could probably find out right now; ask Fizz if he likes him, if he could imagine them being boyfriends, or just get rejected for the sake of closure. Just to know.

It’s almost surprising, how little he is tempted.

He might always have a What If? in the back of his mind, a little question mark when Fizz flirts with him in the way they sometimes do, but he finds that he doesn’t need to know.

Doesn’t want to know.

If anything, he just misses Stolas a shitton amount of times more.

❄︎

The fireworks have been going for ages now, and they had both sprawled themselves onto the cement of the rooftop, sides pressed against each other.

Cash had messaged him a bazillion threatening messages, so he’d ‘accidentally’ dropped his phone off the roof. Fizz had also received a couple of messages, but they’re milder.

Guiltily, he uses Fizz’s phone to text his mom that they’re alright and just watching the fireworks in the city. He still won’t lie to her.

“She’s not mad at you, y’know that.”

Blitzø groans. The fireworks are starting to go off in less frequent intervals.

“I dunno what Cash did to make you that pissed at him, but she knows you didn’t start shit.”

It’s not what Blitzø feels guilty about, but he appreciates the words anyway.

“You know”, he starts, and he suddenly feels incredibly old. Older than a teenager, and older than he actually is. “Cash is a shitty dad.”

Fizz doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then: “I mean, yeah, he’s not the greatest.”

He sounds uncomfortable, and suddenly, Blitzø wants to say more. Wants to clear this up, to have Fizz understand, to take the power of separating them for one and a half decades from his own fucking dad.

“No, seriously. Yeah, whatever, he’s an alcoholic and a shitty boss. Believe me, I get it, and we’re in hell for fuck’s sake, I’m not expecting him to get a dad of the year award or any of that shit. I don’t care that he shouts a lot, but I hate it when he shouts at Mom or at Barb and me. We’re not only his employees, we’re also his family.”

The snort that follows feels like a cruel inside joke.

“Hell, he sold me for a playdate, and I bet he didn’t even try to haggle, just took whatever they offered, and be it just a used condom. And you know he made me steal their shit? From royals? Fucking Goetia? Could’ve killed me on the spot if I got caught. But did dad care? Fuck no, he just blackmailed me into doing it because otherwise I’d apparently be a shitty son who doesn’t care about his Mom. And where did the money from all that shit go anyway? I can tell you I stole enough for our whole family to never have to work again, but here we fucking are!”

He’s ranting, he knows, but he doesn’t fucking care.

He’s opened up about his shitstain of a father a bit in the last year. It was his sweet Loonie’s idea, when Stolas had off-handedly mentioned something about his absent-as-fuck dad and then doubted himself as a dad because he had nothing to go off in terms of experience. Loonie had suggested Blitzø share some stories. From the other people in the circus, from his own dad, and it had felt… nice. Stolas had tried to shit on Cash, but that softie knows five insults and can only phrase them in a way that sounds too posh for Cash; but Loonie had done amazingly.

And then, for the first time, she had talked about her own parents. About her time in the orphanage. What she’d heard from others, before they either left or started casting her out.

It’s a testament to how far he’s come that he hadn’t immediately tracked every motherfucker down who had ever dared hurt his Loonie-Tooney, since he was trying to be “less overbearing”.

(Also, it’s how they found out that Stolas could, in fact, still turn into his creepy, sexy eldritch form. Another testament to how far Blitzø has come, because he didn’t cum (at least not until later) nor jump his bird’s hollow bones.)

(Holy shit, he can’t believe it’s been over a year since they last fucked or did any sexy shit (unless one counts the incident in Envy) (which he doesn’t) (because if he thinks about it for too long, he thinks he might have to genuinely cut his dick off for the sake of being a nice and respectful roommate slash sorta-maybe–but-probably-yes-because-friends-don’t-do-the-shit-they-did-in-Envy-boyfriend who respects the depressed bird’s boundaries and waits for the other to set the pace).)

Anyway, obviously, he tracked the assholes down later and smashed some heads in. He even brought Stolas along, who got to shoot a motherfucker. Which, hot.

The point being though: When he talked about Cash to Loonie or Stolas or M&M, it felt… not shit, but they had never known Cash. He knows, now, that his family would always have his back, always believe him with things like these, but he’d spent so long being convinced that everything was his fault, so if he could talk about his fuckass dad to someone who knows Cash…

“I mean, yeah, that was pretty fucked. But it didn’t happen again, right? And it worked out in the end…”

Fizz, in the present, knows Cash was the thrice-over-fucked hole of the asses, but they’ve both lost contact with him ages ago, and Fizz had only really gotten properly annoyed at him when they reconciled. When they’d realized it was him who tried and succeeded to drive a wedge between them.

But this Fizz is a Fizz who would still smile at a birthday card that says Wish You Were My Son, and suddenly Blitzø needs him to understand.

“You know that Goetia can turn you to stone by just fucking looking at you? I’m lucky that Stolas’ dad didn’t give a shit about the whole thing and that Stolas himself is naive and way too fucking trusting and lonely to not only give me no shit about it, but to even realize he was helping me rob his own fucking castle.”

He’s not mad that it happened, anymore. He met Stolas. He had a reason to return 25 years later, and Stolas had a reason not to turn him to stone as soon as they were alone.

But it doesn’t make Cash less of an asshole.

“And who the fuck gets kids just for free labour? He sees Barb and me as less than employees, just cause he fucking can. And now that I’m shit at being a performer, he thinks I’m fucking trash. Hell, if that’s the only requirement for him to treat his kid like his fucking kid, then he didn’t need to stick his dick anywhere and could’ve just adopted you the moment you made a perfect somersault at age five.”

“Blitzo! That’s not—!”

He turns and nuzzles his face into Fizz’s side, who’s trying to shove him away. Probably to tell him that he’s wrong, or whatever.

His voice is muffled, but he knows Fizz can hear: “It’s true. I’m not mad about it.” A pause. “Not anymore, at least.”

When he sits up, Fizz is staring at him, expression conflicted. Pained, too.

“I need you to know that is not jealousy talking, okay? I’m not jealous. Or, maybe I used to be, sometimes.” He thinks, wonders: If he is changing the future, will the rest of the years till the next presumably Sinsmas be spent without his memories of the future? “Maybe I’ll sometimes seem like I still am. But more than anything, I’m fucking proud of you, okay? Whatever happens, you’re my best friend, and the coolest fucking clown in all the seven rings, and nothing, nothing, could ever make me think differently, okay? No matter what Cash or anyone might say.”

Fizz sits up too, then. He’s not scared, exactly, but it’s not just worry either. A secret third option.

“Why are you telling me this?”

It obviously shouldn’t, but the question catches him off-guard. However, it feels easy to answer. To be honest, to be vulnerable, to trust. For so long, he’d thought he lost all those abilities, that they’d only fuck him over in the long run.

I don’t want to be this way forever.

Fuck, Verosika would be smug as shit if she could see him like this. Or pissed. Or maybe both.

“I don’t think I’ll stay in the circus forever”, he blurts, and Fizz inclines his head but listens, and: “You said that, earlier. That the three of us will always be together in the circus. I– I don’t think I want that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still gonna get my office, and my business, and I’ll have my super capable and vanilla as fuck employees, but it’s not gonna be in the circus. I think… No, I will adopt a babygirl, even if she’s not a baby anymore, even if she’s almost of age and constantly annoyed because she keeps saying I’m not her real dad, and maybe she will call me dad anyway some day, if I go a good enough job, and maybe I’ll—”, and he knows he’s blushing now, but this is a virgin Fizz who’s probably never even gotten a blowjob, so fuck it, “I’ll get a boyfriend, after I woo his fancy fucking ass like in those romance books, and I want to share an apartment with them, like a family, but a proper apartment, not a fucking one-bedroomer, and he’ll also bring his daughter who loves him and won’t think I’m a homewrecker or an asshole, and who the fuck knows, maybe I’ll even fuck another egg into him somehow or he’ll fuck a magic baby into me and we’ll—”

A hand on his mouth stops him.

“Blitzo. What the fuck.”

And there are tears in his eyes, which makes Blitzø realize that he’s got tears in his own eyes too, and they’re fucking crybabies, but at least Fizz is crying too, and it’s so ridiculous that Blitzø just— he starts laughing.

Fizz scowls, but then he joins in, and they’re wetly laughing until they’re out of breath and once more leaning against each other.

“You’re crazy, you know that?”, Fizz asks after a while, and Blitzø hums.

“Fuck yeah I am.”

Then, after another moment, Fizz curls into his side.

“You really wanna leave, huh? Fuck, Barb’s gonna kick your ass when you tell her.”

It stings, but only a little. Like there are three layers of cotton in-between.

“I’d like for her to visit sometimes. Or every day if she wants. To get to know her nieces and to play stupid pranks with me or on me. And you should visit too. And also mom.”

He feels himself choking up again. For once, he doesn’t mind.

“We will.”

Only a few fireworks are still popping up from time to time.

“I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m not leaving yet, idiot”, Blitzø tries, but he sounds unsure.

Mirroring his earlier actions, Fizz nuzzles into Blitzø’s side. “Still. It won’t be the same without you. And who’s gonna be the new boss? Cause I’m gonna need Cash fired.” A pause. “And until then, I’ll make sure he stops being such an ass to you.”

It’s a promise a teenager can’t make. But Blitzø knows Fizz will try his best anyway. He shakes his head, even though he’s pretty fucking sure Fizz can’t even see.

“If you want to continue, and you like being a clown, you will do just fine. But just so you know, I think you’d be a great fucking entertainer outside of the circus too.”

A grin spreads over his face.

“You know, I heard Ozzie’s has the sin of Lust himself performing every now and then. Maybe he’s looking for a business partner.”

Fizz snorts, and pokes him in the side. “Asmodeus? What, I’m not allowed to get involved with one sin, but the other ones are fine?”

“Not the other ones! Just– him in particular. Heard he’s, uh, nice or something.” With his shoulder, he manages to awkwardly nudge the other, and upon getting his attention, wiggles his eyebrows. “You know, I heard he’s got the biggest cock. You know, like, massive! I mean, like, imagine, just the biggest– a giant, huge– like a kaiju—!”

Fizz shoves at him, with both claws and hooves, and pretends to wretch. “Ew, stop it! Stop it, I don’t wanna hear! What the fuck, Blitzo! That’s a literal sin you’re talking about—!”

“Yeah, the one of fucking Lust, I bet he’s amaaaazing in bed!”

“Stooop!” They’re kinda tackling each other now, and Fizz is honest-to-Satan crying from laughter. “A-and! Didn’t you j-just c-complain about a-all those–those rich assholes and royals?!”

He lets up finally, and he knows his smile turns sappy. Fucking hell, this must be payback for what he told Stolas back then.

Although he doesn’t feel like this is such a bad punishment after all.

“Well, there are always exceptions. Like Mammon and Satan might be shit, but I suppose Ozzie isn’t the worst out there. Or like most royals are privileged pieces of shit, but I bet that kid I played with back then turned out pretty okay.” More than.

“You’re genuinely so weird today. I hope you know that.”

There’s silence. Then, after what must have been minutes since the last time, one last firework. It’s green.

“Hey, Fizz. Can you promise me one more thing?”

Fizz glances at him, and his smile doesn’t drop, but it changes into something momentous.

“Is this like the Mammon thing?”

Blitzø swallows. Shakes his head. “This one’s even more important.”

At last, both their smiles vanish, but Fizz scoots over again, and takes Blitzø’s unscarred hand between his own unscarred ones. “Sure.”

The night is silent now, and some of the lightbulbs start turning dark, as imps and hellhounds and other hellborns alike end their Sinsmas day. Suddenly feeling so, so tired, Blitzø lies back, staring at the sky of Pride.

“Please make sure to never have candles on your birthday cake again.”

The night is quiet.

“Okay. I promise.”

III.

It’s a fucked sense of irony, because when he wakes, the first thing he feels is relief.

The bed underneath is not the circus mat, and his scars are aching, and the air smells burned.

But then he starts crying, which, what the fuck?, but then he finally registers why he’s crying.

His scars.

They’re neither numb in that strange way they get when he’s cold, and they’re not pulling at his skin or itchy like they are when he’s having a bad day.

No, instead, they’re in excruciating pain.

When he throws the blanket he barely remembers aside, he half-expects his body to be on fire. It isn’t, though. He kinda wishes it was.

A lot of the places are still bandaged, and he can see blood seeping through. It’s a detached sort of recollecting, being faced with the facts: This room, he remembers it. It’s the first place he managed to get in exchange for killing some no-names in hell. It was a nice deal, especially ‘cause at the time, killing felt good, in the way that doing a good day’s work of labour feels, and because it was all he was good for.

(Too good, maybe. At times, he hated it. Hated how, no matter how injured, no matter how drunk or drugged to shit, he ended every fucking day still kicking it. It’s not like he can just let them shoot his brains out; he’s from Pride, fucking dammit. And maybe, just maybe, Barbie would need him after all. If he just– if they could just talk, he could help her, or be there for her, when she didn’t hate him anymore. What kind of shitty fuck of a brother would he be if he let some weakling take Barb’s brother from her? Who would she go to, if she needed someone? She just– he needs to make it clear, that he’s always her brother. Even if she hates him. Even if she hopes he trips during a kill and falls down the stairs and cracks his head open a thousand times until his brain is a scrambled egg, because that’s what people like him deserve, but he can’t even do that right—)

It’s kinda funny, if Blitzø could laugh; how he couldn’t pinpoint the exact year the last two times, but he knows exactly when he is now.

Not even half a year after the fire.

The first Sinsmas spent alone.

Some patches of skin have already healed. They all should be. But during work, he kept accidentally pulling the wounds open.

And if not at work, then oftentimes during the night. Or sometimes, during the day. When the memories got too vivid.

Right now, his mind is blank.

The ceiling is too, technically. Technically, because it’s supposed to be, but instead, it’s full of yellow and brown spots and tears and peeling wallpaper. One corner has blood, probably, unless someone spilled their wine in the weirdest fucking way ever. The other corner has mold.

But it’s supposed to be blank.

It’s supposed to be…

Supposed to…

It isn’t supposed to be like this.

❄︎

He doesn’t know how long he lies there.

A part of him wishes it to have been a full day already. That he could just close his eyes and wait for whatever the fuck comes next. Whenever. Just not here.

Please.

Some car alarm starts blaring close by, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, Blitzø focuses back into the room, into his fucked up body and life, and glances at the window.

It’s probably only been a couple of hours.

But now he’s aware of himself again, and maybe that’s worse, because his skin itches and his eyes and mouth are dry as fuck and it’s the dumbest shit ever, but he suddenly remembers that in a couple of days – once he kills the last of the targets the woman living here had asked for, to let him stay for a bit – she’ll kick him out and he’ll have to fight for a roof over his head and food again. And he remembers the desperation, and the hopelessness, and the loneliness, and it shouldn’t fucking bother him because he’ll not be around for that anymore, he’ll probably be back in their shitty-but-new two-bedroom apartment, with Loonie and Stolas who he’s sharing a bed with and whom he’s cuddling to sleep each day even though they hadn’t even kissed since last year’s Sinsmas, but right now, it feels like the worst fucking shit ever to happen.

He doesn’t want to cry, he thinks.

He knows he didn’t last time, because why would he? This was all his fault, after all. What fucking right does he have to cry over something that he caused? None. Fucking none, because fuck-ups like him didn’t deserve to.

At some point, he gets confused.

Because he knows he’s a monster, he knows he will always lose everyone, and that he deserves the worst that hell has to offer, because he killed his momma, because his sister hates him like she damn right should, and his best friend doesn’t want to see him, and because his dad was right about him all along.

That’s right. It should be right. This isn’t the confusing part.

No, what confuses him is the feeling that it isn’t quite right.

There are faces, vague shapes in front of him. Not in the room, he doesn’t think. Red, red, but then there’s flashes of white, and gray, and his momma smiling at him saying, For as long as you are alive, I will always love you, no matter where I am.

It’s confusing, and then suddenly it isn’t anymore.

He remembers. The lovey dovey saps, M&M; his precious daughter, his Loonie Toonie; Stolas, who used to spend most of his days lying on the couch just likes this, and now, it’s only every now and then that he does; Fizz, who physically tackled him and then took his fourth-favorite horse figurine hostage to make sure Blitzø didn’t get himself almost-killed again.

Right.

This isn’t real. Or at least, it’s not Blitzø’s real.

So he thinks of Stolas on his couch, lying there motionlessly and blankly staring at nothing, who needs to be forced to eat and drink and then later take his meds.

Blitzø takes a deep breath.

It might take him half an hour or so, but eventually, he sits up.

Ten minutes? Twenty? Whatever the case, he manages to get his phone from the side table, and the screen blinds him, his scars hurt like a bitch, and he wants nothing more than to drop back into bed and let the day pass over him, but now that he knows that this isn’t… isn’t real, not anymore, he wants answers.

Voogle gives them to him, sorta.

The circus still burned down the same day. Fizz was in the hospital, but has already been discharged, and he recently announced that Mammon had secured a deal with Asmodeus for the making of life-size dolls of him.

He finds his chat with Barbie, and although he’s blocked, it doesn’t take him long to realize she’s going down the same path as before.

Nothing changed.

Why? Why the fuck?! He had been sure Fizz had taken his warnings seriously, but now he’s back with Mammon, and he exploded, and he’s getting those fucking humiliating sextoys made of him again, and his– his momma—

Her contact had still been on his phone.

The preview of his last message to her was enough to make him spiral once more.

He thinks about reaching out to Stolas. But he doesn’t remember the number, because of course, Stolas had to be right about this type of shit.

Fizz has blocked him.

But he works for Mammon. He’s a celebrity.

So Blitzø — who has never given up before, who will not start now, no matter how much it fucking hurts, who desperately needs answers — starts calling around.

❄︎

As much as it pains to admit, Blitzø is glad he settled on calling. Because a dozen or so calls later, he feels exhausted in a way he had almost forgotten he could feel. If he had decided to make his way towards Stolas’ castle, or to track Fizz down in person, he’d probably have collapsed somewhere. Which is never a good plan of action, but especially not on the one day in the year where every single hellborn lives their birth sin out to the fullest.

Finally, finally, he hears his voice. It’s raspy again, raspier than Blitzø had ever heard it, but it’s so unmistakably Fizz that he feels like crying. He doesn’t, though. He can’t. He doesn’t— doesn’t deserve—

“Hey asshole, couldn’t this have waited till after fucking Sinsmas? Not saying I’m not juuumping at the opportunity to perform at fucking Ozzie’s, but like, seriously? And what’s that shit about having lost my private number?” He can imagine the suspicious scrunching of Fizz’s face on the other side, because he never stopped that particular habit. “Uh, I could, uh, give Asmodeus my number? If he wants? Uh, just to make this whole business calling bullshit easier, duh! Hah, yeah, cause sure, I am no sin, but I am kinda a pretty big deal right now, and I’m sure your boss knows aaaaall about big~!”

“Please don’t hang up, Fizz.”

There’s silence on the other side, but the line doesn’t immediately go dead, so that’s something at least.

Then: “Blitzo, are you crying?!”

He wants to tell him the ‘o’ is silent now, but he doesn’t actually remember right now whether it is. Fucking stupid, to remember when he’d get kicked out of this room, but not remember when he changed his fucking name.

And fuck it, he is crying.

“Did something happen to Barb?”

Aside from her spiral into drugs? Or the fact that she lost her mom and her dad just left her when she became too much?, he doesn’t ask, so he shakes his head, and realizes Fizz can’t see.

“No. She’s—”

He doesn’t know what to say.

“Okay, well, fuck me then. I guess you wouldn’t call even if someone was dying anyway, right?”

It stings.

Fuck that, it hurts.

“Do– do you remember when we— when we ran away on Sinsmas, and watched the fireworks together?”

Another bout of silence, and he worries for a second that Fizz will just hang up, but eventually, the other imp replies.

“What the hell are you talking about? We’ve never spent a Sinsmas outside of the circus.” His tone is more confused and worried than pissed, and it’s such a change from how they’d spoken at Ozzie’s, or after. Maybe it’s because Blitzø is crying like someone killed his— well, or because less time has passed since it happened. It doesn’t really matter. He clings to it anyway.

Then, his voice turns harsher again: “Are you on drugs or some shit? Cause I swear to fucking Satan—”

“I’m so sorry, Fizz.”

The silence this time is the longest. And Fizz doesn’t answer, but he takes a shaky breath, and then another, so Blitzø continues:

“I’m sorry you thought I didn’t come to visit you in the hospital. I was there, but Cash told me you didn’t want to see me. I should have tried harder. Or to reach out to you after. Fuck, I should’ve tried anything if it meant telling you that it was an accident. I swear, I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t jealous, and it is a regret I will never, never live without.”

Maybe Fizz has hung up after all. Maybe he hadn’t heard the call end. He doesn’t know if he has enough energy to check the screen.

“That’s… a lot.”

Blitzø laughs wetly. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize this much.”

This time, the laugh is real, even though it’s fucking stupid. “You’d be surprised.”

When the silence returns, Blitzø isn’t as worried that Fizz hung up.

“I’m–”, but some other voices in the background interrupt whatever Fizz had meant to say, and there’s a muffled reply, and suddenly Fizz is back, talking quickly.

“Hey, sorry, I need to go now, but I—I’ll have someone send you my phone number, okay? We can— we can talk later, maybe.”

Blitzø knows they won’t. “Sure.”

“... You gonna be alright?”

Probably not. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow or the rest of the week or forever. But– maybe he doesn’t have to be.

“Yeah. Thanks for not hanging up, Fizz.”

“Yeah, well. You’re welcome, I guess. Although I almost did, you know?”

Blitzø doesn’t end the call. Fizz, seemingly, doesn’t either. Voices return, and Fizz sighs, answer muffled again. Then, after it’s quiet once more:

“Merry Sinsmas, Blitzo.”

“It’s Blitzø now, the ‘o’ is silent.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Happy Sinsmas, Fizz.”

The line cracks, and is dead a moment later.

❄︎

It’s fucking stupid and useless and makes no fucking sense and it’s pissing Blitzø off.

This clearly isn’t a dream, and the things that the people he saw said, they’re—they’re too kind for what Blitzø would have them say, even in his most deeply buried fantasies.

Not to mention all the fucking details that he’d forgotten over the years.

Which means this shit is real, but it changes shit-all.

He thinks about M&M again, thinks about looking for them. But then he imagines him sitting at the dinner table of Millie’s family, all her siblings and her dad and her mom, laughing and having fun, and he knows he can’t. Not here, not right now.

As shitty a thing as it is to think, he can’t help but to be glad Moxxie’s family is fucked, too. He once joked about their shared daddy issues, and he still means it. It’s most definitely a shitty thing to think, because Crimson is the lowest of shit in the barrel of all fucked through seven-days-till-monday shitstains, but it’s true. And his mom? Well, fuck.

Crimson had managed to catch them off-guard last summer, and while the girls escaped and hatched their legendary masterplan that got them out of the slippery shit, Moxx and he had been locked in a fucking cargo container, to be shipped away into the sea of Envy.

Moxx had panicked, more than he usually did, and told him about his mom.

When they finally ended up getting Crimson’s ass torn to shreds (literally. Millie had been waiting for this moment), Blitzø had put his arm on Moxx’s shoulder, and for once, shut up. And that had been that.

But now Moxx is back in that place, with Crimson and maybe even fucking Chaz (and maybe even fucking literally), and he knows what he wants to do.

Then he remembers what Fizz said: We’ve never spent a Sinsmas outside of the circus.

It wouldn’t change shit about the future.

Moxx wouldn’t even remember.

And Blitzø would probably just get himself killed in the process, and who the fuck knows if dying in whatever fuckery he’s in right now would result in him dying in his reality?

Fifteen years ago, he might not have cared. Hell, fifteen minutes ago, he might have already been halfway to the hellavators.

He hopes this doesn’t make him the shittiest friend in all of hell and earth.

Maybe it’s a good thing, or maybe it’s the worst, but he also doesn’t think he can just lie down and slip back into disassociating again, because fuck him with a blow dryer, but it doesn’t feel right.

So he takes his phone, and voogles Stolas of the Ars Goetia.

It almost changes his mind about trying to stay put, because the first thing he sees are pictures of Stolas and Stella on their wedding, and Stolas looks miserable.

And he knows how to sneak into that castle by now. Knows that, even if his birdbrain won’t remember, he can still show him a good time. Maybe they’ll both have something to take their minds off of things.

But then he keeps scrolling, and he sees a portrait he’s passed plenty of times, of Stolas and Stella and a young little owlet that is laughing at her daddy, and being laughed with in return.

He can’t do it.

It doesn’t matter whether Stolas won’t remember, or Stella, or even Blitzø himself – he doesn’t want to fuck things up even for a day. Not after he’d seen what Via’s resentment had done to Stolas. Not after he’d let Via into his home for the first time, cooked for her, and brushed off her prickly comments until, over time, they started to be more teasing than filled to the brim with hurt.

He hasn’t said it to anyone, not to Stolas or Loonie or Via herself, not even Millie, but… that’s his girl now. Even if she always only sees him as her father’s kinda–maybe–sorta–boyfriend who she thinks is annoying as fuck but at least didn’t ruin a marriage that had always been shit, even if Stolas would straight-up tell him to go fuck himself because that was his daughter, who do you think you are, Blitzø!, it doesn’t change the fact that he considers her family.

Just maybe, if he’s having a good as fuck day, he can imagine that Stolas might actually say oh Blitzy, of course you are, I thought that was quite clear already darling, p̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ ̶m̶a̶r̶r̶y̶ ̶m̶e̶!̶, and that Via would just roll her eyes and turn around to hide her embarrassed smile before flipping him off like his Loonie had taught her.

His perfect Loonie, who kept looking at him with a knowing smile and a good-natured eyeroll, who probably already knew what Blitzø was thinking, and who wouldn’t have agreed to share her room with anyone who she didn’t already consider family (and nothing short of a sister, because Blitzø and Stolas certainly weren’t allowed even a hoof-slash-claw inside).

So, no.

No sneaking into Stolas’ room or life. Not today, at least.

Still feeling restless, Blitzø stands and starts wandering around the room. There’s a moment of consideration, where he images himself wrecking the whole place. It’d certainly be a way to vent, and he’d at least see that fuckass woman’s pissed face, without getting any consequences.

Then his gaze falls onto his mother’s pendant, different and yet the same, lying innocently on the little desk. Heart heavy, he walks up to it and gently cradles it in his hands.

Suddenly, he knows what he wants to do.

❄︎

He doesn’t remember the last time he came here.

There were a few times, definitely. Right after the fire. Or when he missed her too much. A couple of times, when he was looking for Barb and did not know where else to search anymore.

He’d never come for her birthday, or for her death anniversary.

He never thought he deserved to.

And there is still a voice inside his head, one that’s loud and grating and sounds too much like Cash Buckzo and then suddenly like himself, and then Barbie; it tells him to fuck off, to leave everyone the fuck alone before he fucked anyone else up. That he had no right to mourn the mother he killed.

So he tells the voices to fuck off, and marches forward.

They don’t disappear, but as long as he talks back, he doesn’t turn tail and run. And maybe that’s enough for today.

He sees the first gravemarker, and for once, it’s not himself he’s mad at. It’s Cash, because he’d cheaped out on real graves, since too many had died in that fire, and he didn’t even have the audacity to make an exception for his own wife, or bothered to remove the bits of metal and whatever else had survived the fire—

A breath. In, out.

He continues walking.

Even during those times that he’d returned because he missed his mom, he’d never approached her resting place. The grounds were large, and he’d come as close as where the outer tents used to be, but then he’d either curl himself into a ball and freeze through the night, or he’d leave after all, to get drunk and into trouble.

So it takes him a bit to find the marker.

For a moment, he’s surprised at the good condition it’s in, but then he remembers that in here, it’s only been about half a year.

The ground is cold when he sits on it, facing his mother.

“Hi, momma.”

There is no reply. A hellbird squawks somewhere nearby.

“My— the person I like is an owl, y’know?”

There is still no reply, but against all expectations, the silence isn’t smoldering.

He tests the words out in his mouth. Swallows them, spits them back up, rolls them around on his tongue – left, and right, and over, and under – and then he smiles, shyly, because they feel right.

“I’m pretty sure I love him, even.”

Suddenly, he’s giddy, a sort of giddy that one can only be at a tranquil place like this; one that doesn’t feel inappropriate, or distracting; but natural. Because he thinks of seeing his bird again, and to tell him.

I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

The last person he’s said it to was his momma; how fitting, for her to be the first one to hear them now, and to know that her son found love again.

“You actually heard of him. Remember when dad sent me to that royal kid for the day? The Goetia prince? It’s him. Although he’s not a prince anymore, so don’t worry, I’m not gonna be some stuck-up prince consort or whatever.”

He laughs quietly, and pats the earth and the grass where his mother lies.

“Although — and don’t say this to anyone, uh, sorry — but for him, I might have considered it. Don’t get me wrong, I probably would’ve still put my foot down and told him I’d rather be a secret side piece or whatever, but… I’d have considered it.”

Maybe, if the new trial was successful, the one that Stolas and V-ass-ago had been planning for months now, Stolas might be a prince once more. Or maybe he just wants justice and to then flip everyone off as he goes back to his nine-to-five.

Blitzø smirks.

“He’s a brat. And really fucking–”, he wants to say kinky, but remembers this is his momma he’s talking to, so he shuts his trap and doesn’t blush, nope, he’s as vulgar as they come, so fuck this, fuck you, fuck everyone, “He’s also pretty fucked in the head.”

He stares at the strand of grass that his claw catches, and shrugs. “A match made in hell, right? But… we’re getting better, mom. I promise. We ‘communicate’ and all that shit now, sortof, and he’s learning to be less snobby and to stand his ground, and I’m learning to be less explosive, and to vocalize my needs. It’s fucking exhausting and total bullshit, if you ask me.”

The pendant’s around his neck, and he gently takes it off. His gaze flitters to look at it, intently.

“I think maybe you’d be proud.”

There’s more he wants to say. Like I understand if you aren’t though, or I hope you don’t hate me or Sorry for killing you.

But when he tests those words out, they feel edged and heavy, so he breathes in, gathers all the thoughts about what a fucked up son he is, and then he breathes out, blowing them into the wind.

Fuck, that’s cheesy. He’d have to use that one on Stolas next time the bird was going through it.

And then he keeps talking.

He talks some more about Stolas, and laughs embarrassedly about having once claimed himself to be too much imp to simp, and that leads to him ranting about all the fuck-ups they had along the way. He even complains to her about petty things, things that he maybe even finds secretly endearing about Stolas, but he can’t have his momma think he’s a complete sap. Or something.

Then he talks about his Loonie. About how he adopted her, how he saw himself in her. He talks of the distrust in the beginning and of his mistakes, but somehow, they don’t make him feel like he’s a failure of a parent. He tells Tilla as much.

“I love her more than anything in this world, Momma. She’s my kid. Did you ever think I’d get to say that? And she’s so wonderful! My Loonie Toonie. She doesn’t even scowl anymore when I call her that. She even said I could keep using it, as long as it’s not around her friends, when I asked her if she minds! Cause Moxx was going on and on about boundaries and shit; that fucker thinks that just ‘cause his wife popped out a baby, he’s now the fucking expert or whatever.”

And that, in turn, leads to him telling her about M&M, and how they’ve met, and how their little one’s a fucking terror, but he’s also the hellfather, so he’s obviously proud. He doesn’t have as much to say about Via, but he shares what he knows anyway.

“I think the two of you would’ve gotten along.”

Then, “I wish you could’ve met them.”

He hadn’t died upon coming here; hadn’t suddenly imploded, or lost it, or been confronted by his dad or the ghost of his mom who wanted him gone.

It’s kinda nice, in a way. It’s another regret added onto this shitty curse or whatever: that he can’t go back in time to visit her early on, for him to see that he’s allowed to mourn. That he lost someone important, but his momma loves him anyway.

But this, at least, he knows now, and when he returns to his life, he’ll bring his little family here. And he’ll properly introduce them, and maybe he can call Stolas at that point something other than a sorta-maybe-kinda.

Lastly, he tells her about Fizz and Barb.

Barb is… the hardest one. It’s hard not to feel like he failed her, or that he’s to blame for her situation. He thinks it’s okay, that he tells his mom as much. On the rare occasions when the twins did fight, she had always been there to listen.

It’s a scar that will never heal, but looking down at his bandages, he knows: They’ll get better.

“I love you, momma. And I miss you so fucking much, every single day.”

In the very distance, a firework goes off.

“Happy Sinsmas.”

IV.

This one’s the weirdest of them all, abso-fucking-lutely sure.

Because the scars are healed up and the bed is an actual fucking bed and then he takes a sniff and promptly chokes because fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Please don’t be when I think this is.

There’s shuffling, and the blankets get all twisted and he already knows who it is because he sees the fucking room and his eyes automatically snap towards the window because old habits die hard and fuck this, why did the universe want to fuck him over so bad—

“You good, babe?”, asks Verosika fucking Mayday’s sleep-muddled voice.

Next to him. In bed.

He’s pretty fucking sure he’s feeling some sort of deja vu when he crashes to the ground in his attempt to jump out of bed.

Oh, he is so, so fucked.

“Blitzo?”

“The ‘o’ is—oh, fuck it”, he groans, and just… lies there for a second, appreciating that he at least gets to have this crisis on a fluffy blanket.

Verosika laughs, and it’s fucking whiplash, because he doesn’t think he’s heard her so happy and genuine in… years.

He can pinpoint the exact date when he heard it for the last time, actually.

On fucking Sinsmas.

(So fucked.)

“Uhhhhhhhhh, hey babe?”

Her head pokes over the edge of the bead, and he sputters and tries to spit out the hair that’s dropping all over his face, but at least that has him distracted enough to not have to actually look at her.

For, well. About twenty seconds.

“If you need some help, I don’t mind lending a hand”, she purrs, her tone low as a hand starts stroking Blitzø’s horn.

Fuck, the room already smelled like three all-nighters of sex, but now that Verosika’s pulling her succubit–succubus magic, it’s getting a bazillion fucking times worse.

“Actually, how about I’ll go make us some breakfast! I’m staaarving, aren’t you? How do pancakes sound? Great!”

He bolts before any reply comes.

In the kitchen, it also smells like fucking sex, which he isn’t surprised by because he remembers the sex, it was great and mindblowing, thank you very much, even though it brings him back to later complaints on how he’s selfish in the sheets, which, totally not true, just cause he maybe potentially possibly perhaps holy shit-there’s-a-lot-of-p-words-for-maybe, maybe wasn’t jumping at the idea of giving oral, didn’t mean he was shit at it. Fuck you, Verosika, and fuck you, Moxxie.

Stolas never complained!

(He shoves aside the sudden realization that duh, Stolas wouldn’t complain, because he’s hypersensitive and also has no one to compare to, unless one counts that harpy of his wife.)

(He doesn’t have anyone to compare to, right??? That fuckass from the party only gave him tongue-to-tongue action, probably??? Fuuuuuuuuck, what if Stolas did get laid, and now fucking NOT-better-than-me-cockback blew his mind with his skills and if Stolas ever wants to have sex again he’ll think I suck SO bad and not in the good way and then he’ll dump me for that shithole—)

“Thought you were making pancakes?”

Blitzø jumps a foot into the air, and then slender arms encircle from behind as the back of his head makes contact with Ver’s boobs.

Don’t get him wrong, great arms, amazing boobs, but Blitzø is kinda craving some toothstick arms and boobs of the feathery fluff kind.

Shit, the succubus pheromones are messing with his head.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, got distracted. Um. I gotta take a call outside, if you don’t mind.”

He doesn’t see her expression, but he feels her tense around him, before letting go. “Sure babe. Who you calling?”

“L–”, he stops himself, because Verosika doesn’t know Loonie yet, because he hasn’t adopted her yet. The thought almost makes him run off to go find his baby girl. “Look, I can’t tell you yet, it’s a– uh, surprise?”

Digging yourself deeper and deeper into the shithole, great fucking job, Blitzø.

“Uh, I guess? Just don’t take too long, aight?”

He nods, and then he’s off, immediately breathing the outside air in like a man saved from drowning. Or something.

There’s a long moment of awkwardness as he stares at his cracked screen, wondering who the fuck to call.

Loona? Not adopted.
Millie? Still on the farm or killing hellborn for peanuts.
Moxxie? Not even in prison yet.
Stolas? Hasn’t spoken to him in 25 fucking years.
Fizz? Hates his fucking guts!

He’s not sure if he should feel pathetic or proud.

Okay, sure. What fucking ever.

Sinsmas, his first and last one spent with Verosika.

Yeah, nope, he’s fucking out of here.

❄︎

His phone rings as he’s halfway to where he thinks he lives now.

Of course it can only be one person, and of course he should just leave his phone in his fucking pocket, or better yet, crush it in his hands, but instead, he throws a glance at it.

The last picture they’d ever taken together stares right back at him. They look hot together, he knows as much. It’s what made them start hanging out, back then — attraction, then interest. They both could shittalk like no other, and always riled each other up, whether in or outta the sack. Sure, the sex was great, but it wasn’t why they started dating.

They just… both liked each other. He thought Verosika was confident, brash and bold. She said she wanted to be a popstar, and she just did it. Blitzø wanted to try out new kinks, and she always made it clear if she was down to try it or not. They could insult each other day and night, and it didn’t feel shitty, because they were both on the same wavelength. It was fun. Verosika tried, to get his attention and to keep it and to test it. He had liked their vibe; like the baddest bitches in town, and like they both knew it, and thought the other was the only one who could compete with it.

His phone’s ringtone is the demo of one of the songs Verosika’s writing. It’s still one of her first ones.

He picks up.

“Hey, Ver.”

“Blitzo, where the fuck did you run off to?”

“Calm your tits, bitch, I just had to run an errand.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone, which is fucking weird. Verosika doesn’t do silence.

“Whatever. We still doing lunch?”

He wants to say no. Ghosting someone when they’re trying to confess to you is still better than the whole stealing the car and maxing the credit cards thing, right?

I actually am, you know?

Sorry.

Fuck, trying to do better is exhausting as shit. Fuck you, Verosika, for driving the point home twice.

“Actually, can we talk now?”

She laughs, and he’s not sure if he imagines the nervousness or not. It really has been years.

“Didn’t you just ditch me, dickbag? Thought you had some errands to run?”

“Ver.”

He doesn’t know what she’s doing on the other side. Distantly, he thinks he used to be able to tell these things. That he was aware of when a silence meant that’s so fucking hot right now I’m so wet, or when it meant I am biting my lip because I’m kinda happy to hear what you just said. Or occasionally he even understood They rejected my song again and I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Fuck, I’ll never be good enough without saying shit, and Blitzø hadn’t wanted to think of the implications, so he didn’t until it was too late.

“I’ve got an appointment in an hour, babe. Can’t it wait till after?”

You won’t want to wait till after.

“Believe me, it fucking can’t. Just… let’s meet at Hellbucks, ‘kay?”

“... ‘kay. Be there in twenty.”

❄︎

Twenty ends up meaning thirty-five, and it leaves Blitzø on the edge of his seat.

When Verosika arrives, she’s dressed up - going for cute today - and he can already see the heads turn. Even without knowing the future, it’s clear she’s made for the spotlight.

The moment she’s close enough, she leans down to give Blitzø a peck on the lips, but he pretends to slip slightly off his seat, which leaves her awkwardly kissing his temple. If she thinks he did it on purpose, she doesn’t comment.

“You haven’t ordered yet?”, she asks, and it genuinely sounds surprised. He can’t blame her; it’s what he does. With Loonie, with M&M, and of course, with Stolas. He might not remember their phone numbers, but he’ll always have their drink orders ready by the time they arrive.

He doesn’t remember Verosika’s order.

“Sorry”, he offers, and then waits for her to sit down. As the server writes down what they want, he tries to remember this time. He hasn’t spoken to Verosika much, ever since all the shit went down, but he knows she texted Stolas a couple of times, including asking about how Blitzø was doing, and he also knows that Stolas has refused any coffee dates she had suggested, out of respect for Blitzø.

Maybe he’d go if Blitzø made it a point to tag along, and to show that he didn’t mind.

Fuck, he really had changed, hadn’t he?

“So… what couldn’t wait till lunch in”, she glances at her wrist, although there is no watch, “a couple of hours?”

Maybe he hadn’t thought this out after all.

“I didn’t want you to do anything you regretted.”

Her face rotates through three different expressions of confusion before her eyes widen. She knows he knows. He knows that she knows that he knows.

“What the hell do you mean?”

There’s venom in her voice, one that he didn’t hear a ton of back in the days (only ever when they fought about her drinking too much), and heard most of the time later, whether in her songs or to his face.

It makes his own heckles rise, because he hadn’t even said anything yet, bitch, but he knows it’s not true.

Maybe he and Verosika were too similar when it came to these things. Maybe they never would’ve worked out because of this alone, or maybe they could’ve helped each other instead. It doesn’t matter anymore.

All of this doesn’t matter, really. Verosika won’t remember this conversation, and even if she did, she’d probably still be pissed.

“The tattoo.”

He nods towards her arm, where there is only unmarred skin.

She crosses her arms, and he notes how one arm covers the spot she would’ve put the heart on.

“The fuck? Did you look through my stuff? Bitch, I swear—”

“Fucking chill, I didn’t. I promise. I just—” He groans, and clonks his head on the table.

He used to be fucking good at this whole break-up shit.

Doesn’t seem to matter, because Verosika probably figured it out anyway. The next moment, she’s standing, and she slaps the table, loudly. A couple of the other guests turn to stare.

“Fuck you! Going through my personal shit in secret?! You know how fucking psycho that is of you? Fuck, that’s the last straw, Blitzo. We’re done. I’m done, with you, you fucking creep.”

She grabs her bag with one hand, and finally lifts the other off the table before stomping away.

Her hands are shaking.

❄︎

Since he has no friends, no Loonie or Stolas, and apparently no clue how to do things right, he ends up drinking at the bar.

It’s not his worst crashout, especially since all three of them at home have been trying to tone down the drinking recently. That hellhound party had been an exception, because he doesn’t want to be an alcoholic of a father to Loonie, not like his dad was, but he knows he’s prone to getting wasted to shit if he’s feeling pathetic enough. There are only vague memories of that night, but he woke up to a floor full of vomit and a blanket he knows he hadn’t bothered to cover with himself, and he knows he wants to do better.

And then during a company party with Stolas they popped open some bottles, and the bird had drunk like he had during that stupid party; and at first Blitzø had egged him on, had wanted to see Stolas tipsy in a better mood just once.

It had taken way longer than he expected for Stolas to get tipsy.

And once he was, he hadn’t wanted to stop drinking. Combined with his ramblings about how much he’d missed this, and how sad it was that being poor meant not being able to afford this every day, he’d even rather forego food for this — they had staged an intervention.

But Stolas or Loonie aren’t here to remind him of said intervention, so he starts falling back into old patterns.

Who knows? Maybe he could fuck himself up a little right now, and come morning, the magic time-travel-dream-curse would cure his hangover? Fuck, that’d finally be a useful fucking… use, for this shit.

He’s tipsy, and he knows he’s bordering on being drunk, which suddenly doesn’t feel fun at all, because it just makes his fucking head spin. What the fuck does he usually do when he gets wasted?

Right, right, he usually gets wasted and then gets dooooown to partayyy and then to fuck!

Curiously, he starts scouting the bar, sizing up the different patrons. There are some hot guys, some hot chicks, some hot other fuckers. Not many imps here at this time of day, but there are a bunch of succubi, and some sinners too. Plus a bunch of other hellborn that Blitzø can’t be bothered to check out anymore, because fuck ‘emmmmm.

They’re all not fucking… tall enough, or feathery enough, and— and they probably talk like fucking, what’s-the-word-again, fucking… playbeans… pleebeans… plebeians! Hah, that’s the word.

With a groan, his head meets the bartop.

“Rough day?”, the bartender asks, a tall and soft-looking sinner or whatever.

“Ngghnt tall ‘nough. N't’feath’s”, Blitzø replies, flipping him off.

The bartender only laughs good-naturedly. “You waiting for someone, love?”

Blitzø flips him off with both hands, cheek still smushed against the wood of the bar. “N’t yo’r lov’. ‘m Stol’s’s’s.”

A glass gets shoved towards his face, and he’s pretty sure it contains water. Or a clear alcohol. But Blitzø doesn’t think he ordered anything else.

“You waiting for your love ‘Stolsss’ then?”

“Yah”, he grunts, because that actually sounds like a brilliant idea. So he convinces his head to turn until the entrance is in his line of sight, and then he waits.

When the door finally opens, Blitzø is already half-sliding down the stool, ready to be picked up and babied by Stolas like he knows that big bird wants to do, but as he’s crashing to the ground, he catches sight of decidedly not Stolas.

He groans before he even hits the floor.

❄︎

Either the whole ‘body renews itself at midnight’ theory is shit, or he wakes up before the day’s over. Whichever one the case, his head pounds worse than—

He doesn’t even have the brain capacity to make a sexual innuendo. Ugh.

“Finally awake, babe?”

With a roll sideways, he leans over the edge of his couch and throws up.

As he emerges, he’s able to recognize his own apartment, mostly bare, and Verosika sitting next to him. With one last groan, he wipes his mouth, and sits straight, facing her.

“And you said I’m the alcoholic.”

“You know my sister’s in rehab”, comes the tired reply, “I just don’t want you to get to that point.”

The answer clearly takes Verosika off guard, her gaze searching and unsure.

“Were you actually going to break up with me in a Hellbucks?”

A snort escapes the imp, and he leans against the back of the couch, suddenly feeling less on edge. He doesn’t know why; certainly doesn’t think it’s because of his bad coping choices.

“Didn’t you end up doing the same?”

The succubus doesn’t reply, so they both just endure the silence.

“You knew I was gonna— you know. How?”

This time it’s an actual laugh, and while Verosika tenses, she doesn’t immediately jump him. Maybe she understands he’s not laughing at her.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Okay, fuckass.” Then, “Why?”

And that’s the fucking question, isn’t it?

When he actually glances at Verosika, he thinks he might not quite understand himself.

But he still wants to try.

“If you’d said it, I would’ve blown up on you. I’m– I would have been a shitty fucking asshole and left you in the shittiest way possible. And I– I think you deserve better than that.”

The thoughts and retorts practically fly through her inner eye, but maybe she sees something in Blitzø that makes her want to properly talk about this, too.

“So what, you just… hate me? Don’t like me?” She snorts then, too, and averts her gaze. The bitterness is still unmistakable. “Wanted me for a good time until I become annoying enough?”

And Blitzø knows that voice, knows that feeling. Thinking that someone only wants you for one thing; being convinced that everyone only saw you as who you’re born as, and nothing more.

“No. I like you, Ver.” He doesn’t know how true it is anymore. Not after all the shit they went through. Not with how uncertainly they’re dancing around each other even now, in their new-found fragility.

But he knows the Blitzø of this time genuinely liked her.

“The last person who told me they love me who I believed, was my mom. I dated other people since then, but it never got far enough before I– before I fucked them over.” He hesitates. “Or they fucked me over.

“Point is, my mum died because of something I caused, and my dad and sister and my best friend who I had a crush on hated me for it.”

His claws start intertwining, and then pulling apart. Intertwining. Pulling apart. It’s better than scratching at his skin.

A glance in Verosika’s direction tells him she’s listening. Actually listening. Because she knows his momma is dead and that his sister is in rehab but he never trusted her with more. Trusted no one with more.

“So over the years, I kinda convinced myself that I’m just unlovable. Fuck, I– I tried, at first, you know? I had crushes, or one-night stands that turned to more, but a couple more rejections were enough, and I was convinced that’d be all I’d ever get. So if anyone seemed to try and tell me that they— that they loved me, I fucked it up on purpose. Because I didn’t believe them. Or because it made me mad that they could love me when I couldn’t.”

He glances back at her, and gives her a sad smile. In his vision, her form overlaps with someone else’s.

“Or because I liked them too much to have them leave me. So I left first. And in the shittiest fucking ways too, so I’d be sure that bridge was burned for-fucking-ever.”

Saying it out loud, above all the pain and hurt and mistakes, he can’t help but shake his head fondly. Because one bridge had refused to burn.

And Blitzø has already been burned once. What was a second time?

Especially when there’s a chance it won’t be coming.

“I don’t get you.”

Verosika doesn’t seem like she’s trying to be dense on purpose, which is great, because if he’s just opened up to her about his vulnerabilities and shit and she’d come for him anyway, he might have done worse than maxing her cards on horse riding lessons.

She genuinely just seems unsure.

“Why are you telling me this? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m– happy, that you’re trusting me with this. Just… are you telling me to be patient? That you’re not ready right now? Or that you want me to move on?”

He misses Stolas. He misses his Loonie. His family.

He’s tired.

He wants to go home.

“I think if things had been different, I might have loved you back. Or maybe I did, at some point. But now, I just want to feel like… like I’m doing right by you. At least for one day.”

They sit in silence, and it occurs to Blitzø, that sitting here with Verosika, having a break-up that’d be forgotten by tomorrow, he still feels less lonely.

“Thank you.”

Her reply is perplexed. “What fucking for?”

“For having seen something in me when I couldn’t myself.”

She doesn’t say anything, and as the room starts to slowly darken, he thinks he might fall asleep soon. His head still feels like it might explode any fucking minute.

“I’m sorry, for making a scene earlier.”

“Eh. We're both kinda shitty, aren't we? Let's call it even. Good with you?”

She laughs, and it’s not the happy laugh anymore. But it’s not a mocking one either. Maybe just… awkward, in a way that any young demon who just got rejected might sound like.

“Sure, fucker. If we’re both shitty, does that mean I can still write angry break-up songs about this?”

He groans, and then he laughs, because fuck Verosika. “You’re a bitch.”

And then, because why the fuck not: “Sure.”

❄︎

“Hey.”

It feels less like being torn into pieces when he wakes, but still shitty, so he knows the night isn’t over yet, even though it’s pitch-fucking dark.

A hand gently shakes his shoulder.

“I’m leaving, dickhead, so lock the fucking door behind me.”

The only response is a grunt.

“Oh, and by the way: Why the fuck are you going around claiming that fucking Stolas of the Ars Goetia is your lover?”

He pretends to have fallen back asleep.

V.

He blames it on just having experienced the weirdest fucking four days in a row, which is saying a lot, because he’s having weird days all the fucking time. Some human government kidnapping and drugging him? His employee’s dad turning out to be a mafia mobster who’s trying to marry his married son off? Whatever the fucking deal with those cherubs had been? Not to mention, he got dragged off to his own execution on a random-ass Tuesday.

It’s not his fucking fault for assuming for just a moment, that waking up on his own couch, in a familiar apartment with his trusted horsie blanket and his pictures and his normal PJs and a door taped full of Fuck Off messages, meant he was finally back.

Even the fucking Sinsmas decoration is up.

And then the way it’s all off finally catches up to him, and he screams into his pillow for a solid ten seconds.

The paper garland’s not there.

And Blitzø hasn’t woken up on the couch in over a year, because he fucked his back over on a beanbag for the better part of a year in the name of being a fucking gentleman, and not even in a fun way, and he also actually has a bed now, two blocks down, in an apartment that’s still expensive as shit but at least has two bedrooms and used furniture that only smells a bit like piss.

“Uhh, Blitzø? You okay?”

The voice of the most amazing and wonderful person in all of hell finally snaps him out of it, because fuck everything else right now, he missed his daughter.

“Loonie!”

He’s already up, arms flung aside, when he gets kicked to the floor.

Ouch.

“Sorry sweetie, daddy just got a little sentimental. Fuck, you’ve got a hella mean right hook, I’m soooo proud of you!”

She stares at him blankly, one eyebrow raised.

“Since when do you apologize for being a dick?”

And okay, it hurts a little bit, because he’s got used to Dad and small smiles and whatever fucking semblance of communication they managed to work out, but this is still his Loonie, still the girl he got outta that shithole and into his home, and he fucking loves her and missed her.

“Call it a Sinsmas miracle. So, what’s the plan for today? How many clients we got?”

Finally, some good-old-fashioned murder. Daddy needs to see some heads roll.

“You hit your head or something? We’re lucky we had a client at all this week.”

Ah. Right.

With a glance at his wristglove flung over a kitchen chair, he can at least confirm that it’s not last year’s Sinsmas. No crystal.

“Um, sweetie, help daddy jog his memory, yeah? What’s our next big gig again?”

He knows he’s being suspicious as fuck, but at least this might help him narrow down what year he’s in. It can’t be their first or second one; Loonie looks older, and he can see pictures of M&M on the walls. His face is crossed out, so it must have been either the year before he broke into Stolas’ palace, or…

“I don’t know about big gigs, but there’s that Sinner who wanted his whole knitting group killed or something. Pay well enough per head, I guess.”

So they already had the book.

“Seriously, Blitzø, did you get wasted last night or some shit? Is that why you slept till fucking noon?”

He had gotten wasted last night, but that was also half a decade ago, so.

“Wait, noon? Fuck, Mill’s gonna kill us.”

As he scrambles to pick an outfit that’s a bit nicer than usual, Loona snorts. “Us? Don’t drag me into that shit, I’m only coming with for the food.”

It makes him want to tease her, to point out how he’s spending time with his family when she could be spending the whole day with her friends, but then he remembers that this Loonie doesn’t have friends yet.

“Well, then we’ll feast like we’re from Gluttony, sweetie! Just a second, I’m almost done.”

He escapes into the bathroom, freshening himself up and checking his phone, heart jumping into his throat when he sees a bunch of horny messages from Stolas. And he does spare a thought for Via, but he can also acknowledge that that ship has sailed at this point in the timeline.

Well, fuck it. He takes a selfie, sends it to his bird, and sends him a message and a heart.

❄︎

They grab a shitton of groceries, and because nothing in this fantasy matters anyway, he maxes his own card to get a fucking feast for them.

“Where are you going?”, Loonie asks from behind him once they’ve crossed the street, both their arms filled with bags.

“Uhhhhhhh. Y’know, I thought it might be fun to celebrate at the office? It’s insured!”

“The fuck? It’s not.”

“Oh. Well, doesn’t matter! There’s more space there anyway, and a fire extinguisher.”

Yeah, he did not want a repeat of that year’s incident.

“Oooookay.”

So he texts M&M to let them know of the change of plans, and he even replies to Moxxie’s complains with a middle claw emoji and an eggplant emoji instead of ignoring him.

The office doesn’t look as festive as it would the following year, but it’s better than nothing, and he tasks the other two imps with bringing some decorations on their way. Once they finally arrive, and all three imps wrestle on the ground while Loonie films it, Blitzø can’t stop smiling.

He knows the others are weirded out by it, and he knows they’re a minute away from tying him to a chair and interrogating him when he lets them fight all over the place without asking to be their third. Even Loonie seems like she’s willing to team up with Moxx if only to figure out what’s wrong with Blitzø today, more so than usual.

So he makes a strategic retreat and hides in the kitchen, dealing with the food.

Of course he can hear the others whispering about it in the other room, and Loonie and Moxxie even seem to be in agreement (although his baby of course still takes any chance to insult Moxx), but it only makes him start humming a song loudly, busying himself further.

At some point, Millie comes to help out. She needles him for answers, asks if he’s feeling quite alright way too many fucking times. Then Moxxie seems to take her babysitting or cooking duties over, whichever it is, and he’s being fucking annoying, so Blitzø tells him to stop calling him sir and just use his goddamn name, and it shuts him up for at least a bit. It’s totally the only reason he says it, too, and it has nothing to do with the fact that it feels weird to see Moxx have such a stick up his ass around him.

Loonie occasionally comes in to snack on what they already prepared, and Blitzø kicks Moxx in the shin when he complains about it. Just to be a good daddy, he also steals one of the freshly-made ‘mini kitsch’ or whatever Moxx called them.

He wonders how he ever could’ve taken them for granted. Not Loonie, obviously, never his baby; but this family of his.

“Uh, sir, what are you doing?”

Obviously, Moxx has to ruin any semblance of a compliment Blitzø even thinks of him by opening his fucking mouth.

“Setting the table, or do ya wanna eat on the floor? I don’t care, although give me a heads-up if that’s some kinda kink of yours, Moxx.”

“Sir!”

Blitzø cackles and continues the task, ignoring the other imp’s cries about shame!, and work impropriety!, as his wifey tries to calm him down. He forgot how easy it used to be to rile Moxx up. Little virgin boy.

“I meant, Blitzø, that I am questioning your ability to count. There are only four of us.”

Setting the last plate down and admiring his work, he uses his tail to whip Moxxie lightly on the hip. “Nah, I’m shit at spelling, not counting. So let’s plant our asses down, yeah?”

Millie is the first to sit, hesitant, her face slightly strained. Moxxie follows suit, and when Loonie hesitates, Blitzø points to the chair opposite to him. She’s clearly thrown off, probably having expected him to insist on her sitting next to him. He shoots her two thumb ups.

“Sooo, Blitzø. Ya, uh, invited someone?”, Millie asks, always the bravest imp in the room, and Blitzø casually leans forward, one elbow on the table propping his cheek up.

“Yep.”

The others exchange a glance.

“Why didn’t you as–!”, Moxxie starts, but Mills jumps in, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “And do ya want to tell us who tha’ is?”

He waits for them all to impatiently stare at him, and he can count down to the moment Moxx’s fuse seems to burn up, so that’s when he strikes; he shrugs, allowing one claw to scratch little circles into the wood underneath.

There’s a tension in the air that gives him goosebumps, and he can see Loonie’s fur stand on end.

“Just a guy I’m head over heels for.”

It’s satisfying to see Moxxie’s jaw drop open, because Moxx loves sputtering, but it’s not often he’s completely speechless; Mills has already gotten over the shock, because she’s fucking cool like that, and he can see the excitement in her eyes as she practically starts to vibrate. Even Loonie completely lowers her phone, staring at Blitzø like he just announced he wants to be pacifist.

But it’s even more satisfying to hear the flustered squawk behind him. A bit concerning when said squawk turns into choking, and he can already see Moxx scramble to grab the water pitcher, so he takes it as his sign to finally spin around and up, grinning up at his guests.

“Howdyhoo, birdie, you good?”

It seems to do the trick, as Stolas awkwardly thumps his chest, but finally calms down. There’s a dark blush covering his faceplate, and it’s cute to see him nod frantically, hands up in a placating manner, before he starts fussing with them.

“Ah, yes, I’m great! I have never been better! Um, thank you for the invitation Blitzy, I, uh, I hope I’m presentable for the occasion!”

It’s like he’s being handed cheese and crackers on a platter; he lets his gaze drag down Stolas’ body, not too sensual, but definitely indicating interest, and leans against his chair. Then, he turns to their second guest, offering a casual grin.

“I told him you’d be great at picking his outfit if he just asked. Knew you had great style, reminds me of my Loonie.”

He nods towards his baby and watches Octavia curiously glance at the other girl, offering a timid wave. Loonie – in typical Loonie fashion – gives a casual peace sign. Then, with an indiscernible glance at Blitzø, she nods towards the empty spot next to her.

Octavia scrambles to sit down, momentarily seeming to prioritize the cool older goth girl over giving her dad’s situationship the stinky eye.

When he turns to Stolas, the owl is still awkwardly standing there, hands fidgeting. It’s the easiest thing in the world to reach out and entangle their claws, gently pulling Stolas towards the chair next to him.

Like putty in his hands, Stolas obeys his every movement.

Blitzø doesn’t take it for granted, this time. No, instead, he refuses to even blink, watching Stolas’ elegant movements and his small smile that he’s clearly trying to keep from growing too much; he appreciates every inch of his blush, which has taken permanent residency on that heart-shaped face of his.

He tries to catalogue every single feather, and fails not to feel too giddy at the realization that Stolas must have preened himself right before coming here.

Maybe there is some truth to that saying, the one about only knowing what you have when it’s lost.

Because his Stolas, the one he’s sharing a bedroom and hopefully a future with, doesn’t carry himself in the same way anymore. At first, when Blitzø took his hand and led him anywhere, he couldn’t even be sure if the bird noticed. He followed, but his expression was either blank or crestfallen, and it felt like holding onto a paper-thin kite during a hellstorm.

Time changed him, of course. Living amongst the lower class, learning what it was like to live as the scum of the seven rings, it made a lasting impact. When Blitzø pulled him along town, when Stolas was present enough to be aware of his surroundings, he’d clutch Blitzø’s hand like his life depended on it.

And after much, much hand-holding and cuddling and talking and walking in on the othercbeing shirtless one too many times, the blushing and the fidgeting had slowly started to return.

It was good. Blitzø was happy, because that was progress, fuck yeah! And it also made him feel less alone in his own sappy, fuzzy gay feelings, and also less guilty about the boners he’d started popping. Not that he expected anything to happen. Seriously, he’d be okay if Stolas never wanted to touch him that way again or be touched by Blitzø that way (okay, a lie, but he’s trying to be a good… roommate? so fuck off), and even if he did, he’d wait however long the bird needed.

But it still felt fucking nice to have Stolas blush at him again or squawk and fluster up in surprise, or have his feathers fluff up cutely in that way he knows means he’s dealing with his high libido kicking in again.

In fact, Blitzø had been thrilled, but it’s only now, with this carefree prince in front of him, that he grapples with just how fucking different these two are.

“Glad you two could make it on such short notice.”

Stolas hoots cutely, and claps his hands together, then takes a curious glance around the room. “Of course, it’s a delight! You said it was a holiday today for you people, yes?”

“Wait, you don’t know Sinsmas?”, Loonie asks wide-eyed and muffled by the food she’d already started on, his spiritive girl.

Octavia sinks lower into her chair, and Stolas titters embarrassedly, so Blitzø quickly gets up and takes one of the ladles, spooning stew onto both birds’ plates.

“It’s a holiday to celebrate and act on your birth sin. Or, any sin, whichever one you want! It’s fun, and we usually get together with our families and loved ones for it.”

“O-oh? That’s, ah, that’s quite lovely!” It’s probably hard to tell for the others, but Blitzø is like, seventy percent sure his gaze turns towards M&M.

“So you two littler ones are his family?”

Millie’s face stays friendly, which is stupid, cause Millie’s got all these pent up feelings about being worth less than others just for being born the way she is, so she probably doesn’t even pretend to fake a smile or a nod, because if Blitzø invited him, then surely he’d have a good reason.

And Moxxie, that stuck-up bootlicker, immediately scrambles to half-bow while still seated, looking like he’s about to shit himself. “Uh, not by blood, Your Highness. We work for him and, uh, we’re friends—”

“Yeah, they’re family”, Blitzø interrupts, “The one with the little dick is Moxx, and the one that looks like she could kill you and probably can kill you, is Mills.” And then he reaches out with his hand, putting it right on top of Stolas’, because he knows Stolas might otherwise take his next words the wrong way and go places that Blitzø can’t follow. “Although, gonna be honest with you, us imps don’t particularly love being referred to as little or whatever. It’s kinda derogatory, what with us being the bottom of the food chain and smaller than everyone.”

As expected, Stolas’ eyes widen frantically, and his hand twitches like he wants to pull away.

Blitzø just squeezes tighter and smiles crookedly.

I’m not saying this to point out your flaws, or embarrass you in front of others.

I’m not telling you with the goal of hurting you.

“Blitzø! You can’t speak like that to royalty! Your Highness, please, we ap—”

Moxxie’s voice pulls Stolas out of his spiral, and his gaze – white pupils included – snaps towards the other imp, and he quickly uses his free hand to wave him off.

“Oh, goodness no, I apologize! I didn’t mean any offence. You invited us to your family celebrations, so please feel free to point out if we step out of line! I–”, he glances at Octavia, then down at his own lap. “We don’t really go out a lot, and certainly never like this. And despite having been raised mainly by imps, it seems I have been ignorant in some aspects. Please forgive me, I truly hadn’t realized.”

And Moxx is stuttering out an answer, probably weirded the fuck out by being apologized to by royalty, but Stolas is guiltily glancing towards Blitzø, seeming like he wants to say more. With a glance at Octavia, he thinks better of it.

So Blitzø just squeezes his hand once more, and smiles reassuringly.

I know. I understand.

❄︎

He reminds himself that he’s head over heels for his bird for the fifth time during the meal, and as soon as he’s wolfed enough down to feel like he’s gonna throw up, he and Millie book it and start brawling again.

Of course, the theatre nerds don’t even notice, too occupied wetting their panties about some Christine and France and sshit that sounds too kinky to be used in the context of musicals, but what-fucking-ever.

At least Millie also got sidelined by her husband, so they can deal with their jealousy in the good old-fashioned assassin way. Thus, the brawling.

Then Millie takes out the hard weapons, and as soon as he shoots, he puts up a hand signaling for her to stop, as he glances towards the table.

His Loonie is used to this shit, but Via’s a princess and kinda sensitive when it comes to violence, and he knows Mills will understand if he calls the big guns off today.

But the owlette isn’t even looking into their direction, instead hanging on to Loonie’s every word as the older girl shows her something on her phone.

Seeing his girls getting along gives him the rush that he needs to pull out his own gun and grin manically as he and Mills start round two.

❄︎

Stolas sends M&M home with a portal, and before he can make one for himself and Via, Blitzø asks him whether he should drive ‘em.

The owl glances at Loona, who is holding the grimoire in her hand as Via points out various pages excitedly. Then back at Blitzø, as if making sure he’s serious.

“It’s a little cramped for big birds like you, but, y’know.” He shuffles his hooves on the ground, tail whipping behind him nervously.

“That would be lovely, Blitzy. Thank you.”

They turn to needlessly inform the girls who clearly heard everything, but then Loonie clears her throat, looking casually between the two dads. Via elbows her, clearly nervous, which makes Stolas fidget next to them too.

“We wanted to go watch a movie in the hellaplex, if you don’t mind.”

Loonie says this almost as if bored. But she’s not checking her phone, so she’s clearly invested. Which makes Blitzø squint at her suspiciously.

Stolas is already fretting nervously, and so the imp tugs at his hand, catching his attention.

“Loonie Toonie’s not gonna let anything happen to them, and it’s just a movie. They’ll have the book with them, so worst comes to worst, Loonie teleports them or Via uses her freaky bird powers to kick some ass.” He winks at Octavia, who is still reeling from having been called so familiarly, nevermind complimented. Blitzø doesn’t even notice.

“And the girls will have their phones with them and they’ll text us when they arrive, when the movie’s over, and what time they’ll be back, yeah? And your kid’s gonna have her phone on vibration so we can call if there’s an emergency, right girls?”

The princess nods her head vigorously, gaze switching between Blitzø and her dad. Loonie just gives a thumbs up.

Stolas still seems unsure, but being surrounded by everyone’s expectant faces, he finally lets out a deep sigh.

“Fine. But please promise to reach out if you need anything, Starfire, and don’t stay out too late.”

The girls high-five, and Blitzø gives Stolas an encouraging thumbs-up. Like daddy, like daughter.

They watch the girls make a portal, and Stolas squishes his hand anxiously the whole time. As Via gives a little wave, Stolas frantically waves back, calling out one last: “Be careful, girls!”

Blitzø’s own daughter winks at him, and suddenly, he feels nervous, because he's been set up by his own kid even though that isn’t his intention!

Loonie, sweetie, you got the wrong idea!

As the portal closes, Blitzø becomes acutely more aware of Stolas’ own nerves, and somehow, that helps dissolve any worry he feels himself.

Without any rush, he takes the bird’s hand, and leads him to his van, where he tries his best to clear out the front seat enough to hold Stolas not comfortably, but at least without any acute pain. Probably.

He holds the passenger door open, like in those movies that Stolas loves so fucking much, and then he closes it with a deep breath. Their first time in the van together had been shit. For Stolas’ second time in it, Blitzø hadn’t been there, but it was even shittier. Afterwards, whenever they didn’t use the crystal, it was… normal. Usually more crowded, but they made it work.

The beginning of the drive is rather one-sided, as Stolas chatters about the evening and what he liked and what he found interesting or curious or peculiar.

When he says something privileged that makes Blitzø uncomfortable, the imp points it out again.

At least this time, Stolas doesn’t look like he got shot in the heart thrice-over.

In the insuing silence, Blitzø has to slow the beating of his claw against the steering wheel, because he doesn’t want to seem like he’s impatient, or mad. Or disappointed. He just needs something to do when sitting still.

“I take it there are more such hurtful things that I’ve said or done in the past?”

Well, at this point in time? Blitzø has no clue. Probably nothing as annoying as my impish little plaything or itty bitty imp.

His Stolas had already apologized for those, once he understood, once someone had bothered to explain, and Blitzø wouldn’t be able to hold it against this Stolas even if he wanted to.

“Sometimes. It doesn’t bother me as much in the bedroom, because there I at least get to punish you for it. It annoys me more in public, or when I can’t pretend it’s just some fucked-up roleplay.”

The owl clearly ponders the words, and when he speaks, his voice is a bit hoarse. Not yet crying, but very easy to push over the edge.

Blitzø doesn’t want to push anyone he cares about around, not anymore. Not unless they deserved it.

“I– I know this is no excuse, but I truly had thought it was part of our– our dirty talk. I’m sorry for having treated you so terribly, Blitzø. You must–”

And that’s where he cuts him off, because this isn’t how Blitzø wants to end this day.

“Stols, you didn’t know any better. It’s fine.”

They drive further in silence.

Then, still shaky but surprisingly determined, Stolas decides: “It is not. My ignorance shouldn’t cause someone I care about pain. I–” And a glance confirms that he’s twisting his claws in his lap, “I seem to have a tendency to do that. I should have realized you were uncomfortable.”

He and his Stolas had this conversation before, but his Stolas had been at rock bottom and had to learn firsthand what being hierarchical scum felt like. There wasn’t much to say after he apologized, and as far as Blitzø is concerned, there isn’t now either.

So he’s surprised that Stolas is the one who doesn’t let it drop.

Glancing at his wrist, where he feels the lack of a crystal perfectly fitted to his glove, he thinks maybe he shouldn’t be.

“Well, I didn’t tell you. So you couldn’t have known.”

"It is not your responsibility to. And I-- I have so many books. So many imps in my staff. So many ways to gather knowledge. So... many ways of educating myself."

And it's not wrong but maybe not entirely true either. Because yes, it isn't Blitzø's responsibility, and Stolas could have just read a fucking book or something.

But at the same time, Blitzø could have taken Stolas' privileged shit as a reason to hate him and be valid in his decision, but the truth is that maybe that isn't the truth after all.

You can fall for someone who does wrong but is kind at heart. Someone can be kind at heart but still do wrong. 

He huffs, then shrugs.

"The system is shit."

The answering hum is thoughtful. “So what made you change your mind now?”

They’re almost at the castle. He wonders if the harpy is home, and if he should park at the front or if it would cause Stolas problems.

“At first, I didn’t say shit because I couldn’t risk losing the book. I thought it was just how every royal thinks. For my business, I could endure that.”

He sees the way the prince freezes, and he brings the van to a stop, even though they’re not at the front gate yet. But it’s suddenly important that he grabs Stolas’ hand.

And so he does.

It’s trembling.

“Over time, I realized you’re not just an arrogant royal looking for an easy fuck, or I guess I didn’t, like, ddidn't ctually realize, because I kept telling myself that the fucking is all you wanted, no matter how much you tried to show me otherwise or how fucking obvious some hints were in hindsight, and hearing you say all that classist shit made it easier."

He couldn't hate him when he had the right to, but he could pretend. 

"I think maybe, deep down, I knew that you’d stop and try to do better if I told you.” He laughs, and it’s both bitter and fond, leaving a sour aftertaste. “If I told you now I feel trapped in the arrangement, you’d just let me use your book for nothing in exchange, and then look for a solution that’d let me do my job without being bound to you.” It’s too specific. He can only try half-heartedly. “Right?”

The hand in his is shaking harder. But Stolas isn’t crying yet.

“So if I told you about all that shit that made me feel awful, and you actually stopped, I’d have nothing to keep me from acknowledging that you're trying, that you aren't shitty and that I like everything else about you; I'd have to see what’s between us, and, shit, Stols. That shit terrifies me.”

“I– it scares me too, sometimes, how much I like you. But– all of you, n-not just the sex—!”

And Blitzø laughs. “Yeah. I know that now.”

They sit in silence, and then, ever so timidly, Stolas turns his hand, so their claws are intertwined.

“You still didn’t say what made you change your mind. About being honest with me, regarding this.”

I can’t live life without you by my side.

He lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of the owl’s.

When he looks up with wide eyes, he’s met with heart-shaped pupils.

Fuck, he didn’t know Stolas could do that.

“I love you”, he blurts out, and then kinda wants to die.

He hadn’t even told his Stolas that yet. Fuck, and this Stolas knew him for, what? A month? Two? They probably hadn’t even fucked more than two or three times.

So he tries to draw back, awkward and sad and trying his best not to run, but then the hand loosely grasping his tightens, and he’s being pulled forward.

Stolas stares at him, faces inches apart. The pupils are still there, and still fucking heart-shaped. There are tiny tear drops pricking those beautiful seas of red.

Instinctively, Blitzø raises his hands, and this time, Stolas lets him, lets go, in favor of clutching the imp by the front of his shirt. He’s quivering, and when Blitzø sees scarred hands shakily reaching up to wipe the tears away, he knows he’s not better off.

With all the feathers, it’s kinda hard to wipe the clingy emotions, and he’s not even sure on whether he succeeds, but his hands card through soft feathers, and when he moves his thumb just so, he can see the skin underneath fierily gaining color.

He missed playing with Stols’ face feathers. They’re much smaller than the ones he sometimes plays with when they’re a tangled mess on the couch, or when he helps him with preening his back. These are the ones he only ever felt when cradling his bird’s face.

An airy little hoot escapes the owl, and then they’re gazing at each other, faces only inches apart. It doesn’t matter that they’re both shaking, or that all their eyes feel misty, or that the air between them smells of the rat skewers that Blitzø had bought just for Stolas and Via.

“I think I might love you too, Blitzy.”

It’s as much permission as he can get to finally close the distance.

The movement of lips against beak, of tongue against tongue, it reminds him of that shared moment on the balcony a year ago. Like it’s a dance they hadn’t reversed, but had perfected anyway, no matter their differences.

It feels like coming home.

❄︎

The kiss might have started out vanilla as shit, but fuck, their chemistry is unmatched, and soon enough, he’s basically straddling Stolas’ thigh, which is super weird since he barely fit into the space himself, but it’s also hot and almost feels like a new sex position, so he’s not gonna be the one complaining.

And going from those little trills and gasps that Stols is emitting, he isn’t going to anytime soon either.

Or at least, he thinks so, but then Stolas suddenly pulls away, which leaves them in a pretty awkward tangle with the outline of Blitzø’s dick against his jeans now in clear view, and Blitzø knows that thirsty-ass gaze, knows his bitch wants daddy’s cock sooo bad—

But then Stolas coughs awkwardly, drawing the imp’s attention back to his flushed face, and Blitzø can’t help but to press a quick kiss against his cheek.

“Wassup birdbrain?”

Stolas looks at him incredulously, then he titters, trying and failing to hide his laugh behind the hand currently smashed somewhere between their bodies.

“I just wanted to make sure that we are left with no misunderstandings.” He swallows. Blitzø follows the bop in his throat with his eyes, and then considers doing the same with his tongue. “You— You want this now, yes? Because of what we just discussed? And not because of my Grimoire, or your fearing for your livelihood?”

Honestly, Blitzø had already pushed their conversation to the furthest corner of his brain currently not occupied by thoughts of birdpuss, so it takes him a moment to focus back.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I trust you, and know you won’t fuck me over with my business.”

Stolas smiles. It makes Blitzø want to melt.

“And—and our feelings? They are… mutual then?”

The fragility forces Blitzø back into the present and into the realization that he was about to jump his bird after said bird had probably had an emotional rollercoaster of a day.

Fuck, he should probably… take it slow, or some bullshit.

He groans, and then awkwardly shuffles back to his seat, biting his bottom lip in hopes of not groaning as his clotheted dick keeps brushing against Stolas.

“Yeah, Stols. I swear, I’m not fucking with you, you’re not fucking with me, ‘kay? We both want this, but I should probably… take you on a date first, or something.”

Stolas honest-to-Satan pouts.

“Yeah, I’m very aware that there’s no fucking happening right now.”

And shit, his bird is so ridiculous and cute, Blitzø can’t help but burst into laughter, even though he feels blue-balled as fuck and honestly agrees with the sentiment. Though it might not be the worst call of action, as Stolas joins in, laughing, because Stolas always laughs around Blitzø, even at his shitty jokes, and this is at least as good as sex.

After a couple of minutes, Stolas sighs dreamily and then leans across the console, right into Blitzø’s space, whose breath doesn’t hitch, fuck you very much.

He can feel the other’s beak gently peck the scarred side of his face, and then his circus insignia.

When there’s no more kisses, he opens his eyes, not even having realized he had closed them. Stolas’ hand is already placed upon the car’s door, and his face is still flushed, but he looks happy.

“Good night, Blitzy.”

Blitzø returns the smile.

“Night, Stols.”

He wonders if the owl will use this opportunity to walk the rest of the way, to keep Blitzø’s gaze on him or at least his ass as long as possible, but as soon as he’s outside the car, a portal opens.

Familiar sheets and a room he hadn’t been in for over a year greet him, and with one last wave and a blown kiss, Stolas is gone.

Only his scent lingers.

Which doesn’t help with the boner situation.

The van’s horn probably wakes up half the neighbourhood, but he doesn’t really give a shit right now, not when his car smells like horny bird and his mouth tastes like disgusting rat skewers but also Stolas.

He remembers Loonie’s greenlight, and the fact that there’s no way Via’s already home, and that Stolas had been all pouty and gaspy and needy, and since when was he a fucking prude anyway?! He’s done a bunch of crazy shit with both Stolases, and their first time had literally been Stolas’ fucking sexual awakening, so who was he even holding back for?

Fuck it.

Time to climb a balcony and ravish a prince.

I N T E R L U D E

He already knows this time is different even before opening his eyes.

It’s strange, if you think about it too long, because everything should point towards this one being the one closest to where he should be. He’s cozied up in a sweater that doesn’t feel too shabby, and there’s a blanket around his shoulders.

Most importantly though, the air smells of cookies and Loona’s shampoo and Stolas.

Not as a subtle scent in the room of someone who has lived here for some time now, no, instead, it is much more intense and right in the face.

Literally.

And he knows for certain that whatever fuckery’s going on is different, because his face is smushed into feathers that smell too much like the shampoo he used to buy before Stolas admitted to needing a special one, and his body feels unnaturally chilled to the core, and – only through decade-long training to know the estimated time of day that comes with being an assassin prone to kidnapping – he can tell that it is already afternoon at the earliest.

Stolas lets out a sort-of-hoot, sort-of-sigh, which Blitzø only hears on account of being pressed into the other’s chest fluff and also having slept very lightly.

When he looks up, there he is.

Eyes downcast and vacant, frame curled up into himself and frail, like just the slightest gust of wind could break him into a million different pieces.

And Blitzø knows that gaze, knows that sweater and that horse blanket wrapped around the both of them and he knows the decoration hung around the apartment; he doesn’t know why today didn’t start in the morning, why he didn’t get the chance to stop Stolas from leaving the office or to try and step in when Via said those things she only half-knew to mean, but he knows how the rest of the day will go.

He doesn’t change a thing about it.

Not when M&M drop by, or when Loonie’s friends do.

Not when Stolas leaves for the balcony or when his family asks him to join for games.

And especially not when he asks his bird to dance.

When Stolas glances down at his lips, and Blitzø inevitably mirrors his gaze, he can only smile as he pulls his bird into a tight hug, unregarding of the lack of reciprocation tonight.

For once, he thinks this is exactly where and who he wants to be.

+I.

“Blitzø? Darling, it’s time to wake up.”

The imp in question groans and then stretches, popping a few bones in the process. Fuck, he felt like he’d been awake for a week and had finally gotten some good night’s sleep.

He bolted upright.

“Fuck! Stols?”

Holy shit, he could cry right now, and double-holy shit, because he’s starting to fucking cry–

Slender arms that smell of home immediately wrap around him, and Blitzø only wishes that damn sweater would disintegrate so he could huddle into those soft feathers. So the hellcotton has to do.

“Blitzø, what’s wrong? Did–”, a hand gently caresses his back, the other his horn, and he can already feel himself purring, uncaring that the bird trips over his words in search of what to say, “Did you have a nightmare?”

What a big fucking question.

He finally looks around himself, and he’s faced with a new familiar: a small room, a large closet and an almost as large shelf filled halfway with books. A tall plant, and a smaller one on their desk, and a shitton of horse pictures and drawings; some worn, some that hadn’t seen what felt like one night ago.

“I don’t know.”

Finally, his eyes settle on the bird sitting next to him, already dressed for the day in a sweater gifted by Blitzø, with his side of the bed being made. It’s a large bed, one that takes up too much space for a room this size, and still isn’t enough for Stolas’ longass legs.

Was it just a dream?

He doesn’t think so.

There is his pendant lying on the desk, and he knows, if he goes to his mother’s resting place, he will know for certain whether his mind just played a trick on him or not.

Maybe he can take Stols and the girls there tomorrow.

“Do you want to lie back down? I can take care of what’s left, it’s no problem.”

Maybe it doesn’t matter, not really. Whatever happened in the past, whatever mistakes he’s made, he made it this far. Now, he’s here. And he’ll cherish every second of it.

“Don’t worry, pretty bird. I’ll just get dressed and shit, then join you, ‘kay?”

Stols sends him an unconvinced stare, and it’s that which makes Blitzø finally smile, earnest and gentle.

“I’m fine, I promise. Just a little shaken up.”

“If you say so…”

And so he leaves, both the room and Blitzø alone with his thoughts, but they don’t turn dark. He’s gotten better at that.

Time to rummage through their closet and surprise his bird with matching Sinsmas outfits.

❄︎

Loonie ends up sleeping till noon, which means Stolas lets Hell-a-Novella play in the background as they finish the last preparations. At some point, his daughter re-appears, disgruntled, disappears in the bathroom for half an hour, and then beelines back towards her room.

M&M are the first to arrive, duh, because they’re family and because their little one still needs to sleep early, but it’s fine and whatever. It’s also so fucking worth it to see Stolas sit on the floor, feathered ass drowning in that new plush carpet he bought from his last salary, and playing with the monster like he’s used to doing this everyday.

Guess eighteen years don’t mean much if you’ve done it once already.

Maybe Blitzø will get just as good one day. And, well, if not – he’ll just be the cooler uncle once the kid knows how to grab a gun and aim, unless the kid'll grow into a boring as fuck teen. Which won’t happen, not with Mills as mom (fuck your genes, Moxx).

From the way she’s smirking at him, he knows he’s staring. But he can’t fucking help it, okay? Not when Stolas is tickling the little thing, or lifting it up and pretending they’re flying through the stars or some shit. He looks happy, delighted even, and he doesn’t mind crawling on all fours to entertain the kid; always the first to volunteer giving the bottle or rocking the ear-piercer  to sleep while singing lullabies or even changing the diapers. His advice doesn’t always apply to imps, but it’s still helpful seven times out of ten.

M&M adore him even more for it. And Blitzø? Well, he already knew he was a goner. Now he’s just a bit more of a goner with a boner; specifically to bone an egg or lizard or whatever little freak they’d make into Stols’ ass.

Anyway.

Loonie finally joins them, throws some insults at Moxxie, and then beelines towards where Stols is still playing with the tiny imp. Turns out, she’s surprisingly into the whole being-an-aunt-slash-cousin thing.

The only person capable of pulling her away for a prolonged amount of time, is… running late.

“Hey big bird, don’t worry your pretty little head ‘bout it, ‘kay? She’s coming.”

Stolas anxiously twists his hands, so naturally, Blitzø takes them gently into his own. With a squeeze, he manages to focus those white pupils back onto himself, and he smiles reassuringly. Tentatively, Stols smiles back.

Everyone else’s focus is currently elsewhere, and Blitzø is, like, 69% sure no one’s looking at them right now. He knows Stols’ pulse has slowed from the way he always makes sure to press the tips of his claws into slender wrists, and it’s how he notices the other’s pulse quickening again as they fail to tear their gazes away.

It’s been exactly a year since they’ve kissed.

Sure, there had been cheek kisses, forehead kisses; some during tender moments of comfort or gratitude, others in secret, as a promise.

It’s a pity he wasn’t sent back far enough to relive that kiss they shared as they fell, but he thinks — or maybe he doesn’t actually think, as their faces inch closer — that today might be the luckiest fucking day in his life—

A portal opens in the middle of their living room, and Stols is already gone, rushing to embrace his daughter. The sight makes him smile, and he refuses to look into Millie’s direction even though he can feel her prickly stare stabbing him in the neck.

When Via finally pushes her dad away, complaining and groaning, she greets the others. She’s a timid girl most of the time, which you don’t see a lot in hell, and even more obviously, she’s awkward around others. But she shoulders through, lets herself get hugged by Millie and then shakes Moxx’s hand, and Blitzø understands the pride he recognizes in Stolas’ eyes, because he feels the same.

And then she’s in front of Blitzø, not as tall as her dad, but still a little more grown up than the last time they met, face still guarded around him in a way that might never fully disappear, and she truly does perform a Sinsmas Miracle.

She hugs Blitzø.

It’s stiff and gangly, and only lasts a second before she’s off to hug Loona, but it’s a hug nonetheless.

A weight settles on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Stolas smiling down at him.

“Happy tears?”

Blitzø scoffs, cause he’s obviously not crying, and then he wipes across his face and elbows the bird. “Yeah.”

And once his elbow connects to firm hips, he decides he doesn’t really wanna leave, actually, and so he doesn’t. Stolas leans his way, too.

Together, they watch their family, and if they’re both a bit quieter than usual, no one comments. What they do get comments about, once they move from their spots to get the drinks, is their matching sweaters, earning them an “Ew.” from Loonie and a “Dad, gross!”, from Via.

A sinner riding a green horse with a sack full of gifts. Written on the back:

I’m giving.

I’m receiving.

It’s worth the embarrassed squawk Stolas lets out when he realizes just what Blitzø had gifted him, because the resulting blush is worth everything. Even if that means the girls disappear into Loonie’s room for the next hour and a half.

Stolas seems happy to let them.

Eventually, some friends of Loonie’s drop by, and soon after, M&M leave. Fizz even drops by for a surprise-gift that’s dick-shaped and 'coincidentally' a gift for both Blitzø and Stolas, gives some autographs like the show-off he is, and doesn’t question when Blitzø hugs him longer than usual before he leaves. No one does.

They play games and drink moderately (Blitzø always makes sure to talk his ear off or let his ear get talked off whenever he catches Stolas staring too long for his liking; he notices how Stolas, in turn, makes sure to let Blitzø know every single good quality about him that he can “casually” comment on).

Via tries, too, and Blitzø ignores his Loonie’s smirk when the owlette downs it like a pro.

No need to get in the girl’s bad graces. ‘Specially not when Loonie’s there to make sure that the princess doesn’t do any shit she’ll regret.

“I’ll go out for a smoke. Do you wish to join me?”

He does.

❄︎

Obviously, Blitzø would never forget their dance on the balcony, even if he hadn’t relived the experience just a day ago.

From the way Stols is fiddling with his cigarette, movements lingering when he passes it on, Blitzø bets he feels the same.

For a while, the only sounds heard are the noises of other sinners and hellborn celebrating, and the young adults behind the glassdoor.

“You seemed tired today, darling. Are you quite sure you’re alright?”

He’s missed that nickname so fucking much, even if it’s only been a couple of days. Comes from not having heard it for a couple of months, probably.

“I guess I… looked back on some things. From before.”

Stolas takes another drag.

“Bad things?”

Blitzø gets the last bit, before stumping it out against the railing, and then glancing at Stolas’ hand resting against it.

He reaches out.

Then drops his hand, scratching his neck instead.

“I dunno. They were… kinda shitty, but also, not? Fuck if I know.”

But then he considers. Really considers.

Not whether some of his past Sinsmases were shitty or not; no doubt on that fucking front.

There are many things he would’ve done differently.

Many things he’s trying to do differently, already.

When he glances back at the hand on the railing, he thinks about the things he wants to be different.

“Helps me appreciate what I have now though.”

And then his hand joins Stolas’s, pinky claws touching.

He can see the owl gulp.

“Care for a dance?”

It’s not like he usually would ask, but it feels nice anyway, knowing it’s probably fulfilling one of Stolas’ many romance dreams. Stolas doesn’t give him the feeling anymore that he needs to change, but sometimes it’s nice to. Especially when the owl’s eyes widen, his blush deepens, and he lets go of the railing in favor of holding a hand out.

Blitzø takes it.

And they dance.

It’s a different song blaring from the inside this year, but at least it’s not one of Verosika’s, and it’s slow enough to… somewhat count as romantic. His heartbeat fastens, and he sees Stolas’ pupils widen. He hopes it’s romantic. Hopes Stolas thinks so too.

“Thank you, Blitzø. For today.” A glance towards the living room. “And for everything you’ve done for us to be here today, like this.”

“Not a one-man job, Stols.”

Stolas smiles at him with mischief in his upper eyes. “I’ve already thanked Moxxie and Mildred, as well as Loona.”

“Pfft, smart-ass.” It’s Blitzø’s turn to face the glass, and nod towards it. “I may have helped with getting your kid to listen, but you made her stay. And— you made me stay, too, y’know?”

As the song comes to an end, so does their dance. Maybe it’s coincidence, probably it’s not, since even the new balcony is like four fucking feet tall, but eventually, Blitzø ends up on the staircase, and Stolas in front of him.

“I’m not quite sure I’d call being so helpless and incapable as to take care of myself making you stay, but I appreciate the sentiment. And— I appreciate it; that you never left or gave up on me. That you stayed, and continue to do so, even when I put a strain on your and Loona’s life.”

They’re still holding hands, so it’s easy to squeeze the bird’s ones.

“None of that, bitch. You think I’d bother with someone if I didn’t want to?”

They're the wrong words, he realizes too late, and only through the way Stolas lowers his gaze ashamedly. And there’s a lot to unpack there, a lot they had unpacked already, during late-night conversations or tender moments, but it’s still a sore spot for both of them.

But Blitzø is tired of wrapping everything in soft shit when he’s a jagged being, and he’s tired of second-guessing and running away when this time next year, he might look back to this day and not have a single regret. So he lets go of one hand, and uses it to tilt Stols' chin up.

“I want to, okay?”

“You had to move places to accommodate us all. Not to mention the financial strain—”

He considers shutting him up in a way that’s easy. Once familiar, never forgettable. But he wants more than easy. More than familiarity, or second-guessing.

“It’s not a ‘strain’ or a ‘bother’ or whatever the fuck, okay? If anything, it’s selfish.”

All four of Stolas’ eyes widen, and his breath hitches.

“Selfish?”

The ladder he’s standing on echoes faintly as his tail accidentally slaps it. He uses his free hand to catch it, holding it still. Stolas never stops watching.

“Yeah. ‘cuz I want you here.”

And Stolas just smiles. Hopeful, maybe, and fucking beautiful, sure, and maybe even satisfied. Happy. But he doesn’t say anything else.

Which means usually, Blitzø wouldn’t either. But today is Sinsmas, and even though Stols already got him a limited horse plush as a gift, maybe there’s one last gift left for Blitzø.

“I also– I also don’t really want you to leave, if I’m being honest. Not because I couldn’t afford the new rent without you, or because our daughters are practically sisters now, or because I think you can’t do it on your own or anything. Don’t let that shit even get into your head, ‘kay? I just— I like having you here. You, with me. Living together, going shopping together, cooking and even burning down the kitchen together, which I by the way still think was your fault—! Anyway. So. If you want to…?”

He waits with bated breath.

Stolas stares, and stares, and then he wraps his loose hand around Blitzø’s, the one around his tail, and it just makes the tip of it whip around more wildly.

“You said our daughters are like sisters. Like— like a family.”

Blitzø nods, and tries not to stare too hard at the other’s beak.

“Blitzø. Please. I don’t— I don’t want to misunderstand. Please tell me I’m not misunderstanding.”

The imp starts to nod, but then processes and shakes his head; he swallows once, and then twice, trying to find his voice.

“Wanna be my boyfriend, Stols?”

Tears immediately spring into the owl’s eyes — all four of ‘em — and Blitzø allows himself a moment to panic about whether he fucked everything up or if maybe Stols meant our daughters and family as in, like, fucking marriage or whatever shit, and Blitzø just fucked up his own proposal by not even having a fucking ring—

“Oh, Blitzø, I would love to!”

And then he’s squished into feathers and the leftover scent of burnt food and the smell that Blitzø has started to associate with home, and he can’t do anything but to hug back.

When they part, their faces are only inches apart.

“Seriously, birdy, the only strain you’re giving me is the strain in my pants—”

He gets shut up by a beak crashing against his lips, and a tongue entangling with his.

❄︎

Everyone’s gone, with the only one left being Octavia, although she had planned to stay the night in the first place. And – after some verbal begging on Blitzø’s part and the expression of a kicked hellhound on Stolas’s part — the girls agree to watch a movie together.

On the one condition that they keep their hands and mouths to themselves.

Well, at least they hadn’t been mad! Via had only rolled her eyes in response and mimicked some gagging at Loonie, who made it a point to clarify that everyone knows, and fucking Moxxie won the bet now, seriously.

Loonie and Via make themselves comfortable on the ground, flipping through channels and voogling plots as Blitzø and Stolas make a two-demon-cuddle-pile on the couch. For their “old man backs”, as the girls so kindly put it when taking the floorspace.

“Oh, here’s some sort of earth Sinsmas classic. Sounds dumb as fuck. Wanna watch it?”

As Blitzø skims through the summary on Loonie’s phone, Stolas leans forward, excited: “Ooh, what’s its name?”

“A Christmas Carol.”

Blitzø shoots the TV.