Chapter Text
The first day was bad.
It was dawn. The stringy darkness was slowly sucked into the window as the hellsun rose, clinging and sticking only to the lone gangly figure on the couch. Feathers lay in exhausted disarray. One hand trailed to the floor, fingers frozen caressing a bottle of absinthe.
It had been a nightmare, surely, the figure thought. Light filtered through his eyelids at last. The memories of the previous day were beginning to come back to him, carving their way through his insides as nausea rose in his throat.
‘Stolas’, he heard faintly.
Stolas. It was a name, he thought dimly. His name - supposedly. A collection of sounds, meant to refer to him.
"Mother," he remembered asking, in what felt like another lifetime. "Why did you choose to name me Stolas? Does it have some significance?"
Soft laughter had sounded, and a tired hand had stroked his downy feathers. "I didn't choose it, sweetheart. It was written in the stars, long before your birth, or indeed mine. That a son would be born, under a sun in Cancer and a moon in Pisces, as Libra rose above the Earth’s horizon and Venus circled Saturn - and that he shall be named Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia, as is his destiny."
"So - is my future there, as well?" He'd asked in wonder. He could barely remember now, having a sense of wonder. "Written in the stars?"
"I don't know," the voice had said softly. "Prophecy is not a gift I possess. But it may well be the gift given to you."
"Be careful. It is not always wise to know what one's own future may hold, Stolas."
Soft feathers rubbed against his own with a gentle hoot. The young prince had cooed in response. "Do not be afraid. Your future will be bright, my little starfire. I look forward to seeing the man you become."
"Stolas," a voice - very different from his mother’s, male and rough - repeated more insistently. The bird groaned.
If he was an optimist, he may have found some solace in the fact that once upon a time he had been deemed important enough for a name. But he was not. Nor had the name ever really been his.
There were other names he'd been given. Ones he'd earned and ones he had tarnished.
Lover.
Husband.
... Dad.
Each and every one of them felt like a scrape against his skin; each a name gifted to him that he had then thrown away.
An alarm clock blared. Stolas squeezed his pillow until his muscles ached and whimpered.
A calloused hand softly touched his feathers as he curled into the couch. The voice became softer.
"Stols?"
There was no answer. The owl felt a weight shift, and heard the creak of the springs.
"Stols, can we... talk?"
Blitzø squirmed, trying to find a space to sit between Stolas and the edge of the pillow.
"Look. I - yesterday was hard. I get that. I mean - well, no, of course I don't - " He sighed.
"We don't have to talk about it all yet, I just... I just need to know why you didn't tell me you needed these." A soft shaking sound followed, reminding him of Octavia's rattle. The voice was soft, softer than Stolas deserved. "I could've gotten some for you. You didn't have to -"
"No, you couldn't have," the bird laughed dryly. His throat felt parched, and his claws dug into the fabric.
"Why not?"
Finally, Stolas looked up, squinting his eyes at the sun. "Because they cost a fortune." He smiled in a way that made Blitzø's heart drop. "Only meant for noble-grade depression, you see, for self-absorbed, exorbitantly wealthy, egotistical narcissists unhappy with their privileged lot."
"Stolas -"
"I don't need them anymore," Stolas snapped. "I've got everything I ever wanted, haven't I?"
A silence hung between them like a curtain of vines. Blitzø opened the bottle, shook two pills onto his palm, and held it out towards Stolas. “It’s not a choice, Stolas. You’re taking them.”
Blitzø expected many things. Silent refusal, crying, yelling. What he didn't expect was laughter, and it made his blood curdle.
"Oh, Blitzy,” drawled Stolas, his fingers curling in a yawn. “My dear darling Blitzy. You really think two is enough?"
The imp took a deep breath. This was not the time. “Then what’s your fucking dosage?” His voice trembled like a tightly-pinched guitar string. Stolas didn't need a mess to deal with. Not another.
The bird shrugged and rotated his head back towards the back of the couch.
"If I take the rest of that bottle - that might be enough."
Blitzø's fingers closed over the pills in his palm, his breath hitching. "That's not funny, Stolas."
The bird buried his head in the pillow once more. The message was clear: leave me alone.
After a minute, there was a quiet, gentle sound. A soft whisper as the pills were poured from Blitzø’ trembling fingers back into the bottle. It reminded Stolas of the sound of sand in an hourglass.
He slept for the rest of the day.
The second day was worse.
Stolas woke to a clatter - the banging of dishes and pots as the smell of cooking oil wafted towards him. It was nauseating and loud. With a groan he drew the blanket - had someone draped one over him? - over his head.
"Morning, Stols!" Came an enthusiastic shout, accompanied by the bang of a kitchen cabinet. "Got something special for ya today, birdie!"
Two minutes later, a plate was set on the coffee table before him. He lifted his head just a little, observing what Blitz had prepared - pancakes, with rats' tails poking out from the sides, the entire thing soggy and drenched in something called Beelzebub’s Breakfast Banger.
"Thought it would be up your alley," Blitzø grinned. "Ya know, because the rats were caught right up mine."
Blitzø winked. Stolas didn’t.
"There's chocolate chips?" Blitzø added hopefully. "And we've got whipped cream and everything."
"Thank you, Blitzø," the owl forced out softly. "I'm not hungry."
He heard a sigh that squeezed his insides. "It's not about that,” said the imp. “Ya gotta eat something, feathers. Doesn't have to be all of it. Just - half a pancake, glass of water and your meds." Blitzø smiled weakly, punishing the plate and glass towards him along with two pills on a napkin, the bottle now in his pocket.
Like he didn't trust Stolas to hold it.
"And then we can watch hellanovela on the couch if that's what you want. Nothing else, I promise. Loonie's out for a few days. How does that sound, Stols? We got a deal?"
"I don't do deals anymore,," Stolas said quietly.
"...Okay. Do me a favor then. Favor for a.... for me."
Stolas screwed up his eyes, digging into the merciful darkness of the couch cushions.
"Stolas -"
"You're trying," the bird mumbled. "I know you are, Blitzø. I appreciate it, truly. But right now, I want to be left alone, please."
"Too bad, feathers."
"Why?" Suddenly Stolas sat up, his eyes blazing. "Why, Blitzø? Why after everything can't you leave me alone for one single moment to wallow in my own misery to my heart's fucking desire?"
The imp's hands clenched. "You wanna know why? Because you were doing better," he said tensely. "You were. And you - we - we were getting somewhere. So what's all this, Stols? Ya gonna starve yourself to death?"
Maybe, said a voice in Stolas’ head.
Blitzø sharply inhaled air, and his voice softened. "Stolas," he said softly. "Octavia wouldn't want -"
The owl rose sharply, the horse blanket dropping to the floor in a heap. A moment later, the door to the bathroom banged, nearly dropping off its hinges. Blitzø heard the faucet running, failing to mask guttural, desperate sobbing.
The imp knew not to say her name after that.
“Stolas.”
It had been a month. A month, since Sinsmas, since the owl had been left sobbing in the snow by his own daughter.
Red fingers curled underneath his chin, bringing his face upwards. The white of his face had turned a pale ashen grey, framed by unkempt molting feathers. His beak was cracked and thin from dehydration, no matter how many glasses of water Blitzø pushed into his hands. His eyes were empty, unseeing red orbs, white pupils immobile as if suspended by a thread.
Slowly, they moved to meet the imp’s gaze. The owl said nothing. He knew this tone - and hated it. The I just want to help tone, the could you please take your medication today tone, the you’re scaring me, Stolas, and I don’t know how to help you tone.
Stolas hated it, because it was one more way in which Blitz pretended like he was worth caring about.
“Yes, Blitzø?” The owl asked, tired and quiet.
A weak smile was his reply - but Blitzø’ eyes were not happy. Sad, perhaps? Something else? He looked - determined, and stubborn.
“Get dressed. We’re going for a drive.”
The avian raised an eyebrow. “How very informative. Where are we going?”
“Just - put on something you like, birdie. Loony’s sweater, the one that’s fluffy as fuck.”
The imp seemed set on a course of action, and yet also agitated. Stolas felt guilt churning deep in his stomach. He didn’t deserve to have someone worry about him. He didn’t deserve any care from the man he abandoned his daughter for.
Slowly, he rose. The red sweater draped over him, hiding the edges of his bones that had gotten sharper. He inhaled. His old clothing had smelled of preening oils - this sweater, despite having been his for months, still smelled like a mix of Demonique and Blasphemy 666 from the Stylish Occult discount rack. The owl’s talon caught on a stray sequin, picking at it like a scab.
He missed his Via. Was that a crime? He tried - he really did. Some days he almost felt like the demon he’d been in early December - not healthy, far from it, but functioning and learning to thrive, little by little. He’d learned to do laundry, to answer the phone, even to sort out recyclables after one passionate speech from Moxxie.
And now - everything reminded him of Octavia. Every guitar chord in a stranger’s ringtone, every beanie drawn too low over the eyes, every ping of Loona’s phone.
He wondered what she was doing, at this very moment. Was she out with friends? Studying magic? Strumming a song, perhaps, or even doing something as mundane as getting a glass of water?
He’d never know. For a hundred years, he’d never know what his daughter was doing, or thinking, or dreaming. He could only hope that - no matter where she was - she’d never feel the way he did now. The thought nearly brought the little he’d been able to swallow of breakfast back up his throat.
His hands moved mechanically. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering to entertain whatever Blitzø’ new idea to cheer him up would turn out to be. Any fleeting moment of happiness did nothing but make it hurt more when he remembered what he had done. He walked outside behind Blitzø, waiting as the imp fought the ignition to go who-knows-where. Sometimes Blitzø tried to surprise him - a visit to the library, or tickets to a show. It had been nice, once in a while. But now, he feared even that, because he knew he’d pay for it after.
How can you smile? The voice would snarl. How dare you feel anything besides the guilt for what you’ve done to her?
It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Maybe it had always been there.
You worthless, pathetic excuse for a -
“FUCK!” Stolas squawked, eyes watering at a sudden sharp pain to his forehead.
“Car’s not getting any smaller, feathers. Door’s right where it’s always been.”
“You’re one to talk,” Stolas groaned, rubbing his head as he leaned further down, squeezing his head and limbs into the cramped, imp-sized vehicle. “You do not have to compress yourself into a conical singularity simply to enter a vehicle or dwelling.”
“Nope,” Blitzø said, jamming his keys in the ignition until a few stray sparks finally woke up the engine. “Couldn’t if I tried.”
He glanced over at the bird. “Would love to hear about conical what’s-it’s, though. Sounds rad.”
Stolas leaned his head against the window as much as the space would allow, and sighed as the van began making its way down the road.
“Where are we going, Blitzø?” He asked after a long silence. Blitzø’s hands tightened on the wheel.
“Look - I’m sorry, okay?”
Stolas blinked with a soft hoot, turning to look at him. An apology was not what he’d expected. “You’re - sorry?”
“Yeah,” said the imp. Stolas could feel the tension rising, and it made him curl a little inward despite himself. “I’m also not, because I can’t fucking watch you like this anymore. But I guess I’m sorry I’m not giving you a choice.”
Ah.
Well, it had only been a matter of time, he supposed. Stolas’ heart sank.
“Oh,” the bird said, softly. “I - I understand.” He thought to ask to return - to gather his things - and then remembered that he no longer owned anything that wasn’t a gift he didn’t deserve.
“You’re not mad?” Blitzø almost looked - relieved. “I didn’t mean to… spring it in you, like this. I guess. Could’ve had a whole talk about feelings and shit, but I just - I want to help. It helped me, yeah? And you’re - this is scaring the shit out of me. So just - I just need ya to try.”
“It helped?” Stolas asked, now frowning. He knew Blitzø’ family, too, had thrown him out - but had never heard the imp talk about it with anything but pain in his voice. Certainly not with appreciation.
“Yeah - yeah, it did. I mean, you’ve seen it. We talk now.” Blitzø gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Or - well, I talk at you mostly - but it helped us too, that time you came with, remember? With the flowers? I decoded all your floral bullshit and then we - I thought it helped us not be so… far apart anymore.”
Now Stolas was thoroughly confused. “The flowers?”
The car skidded to a halt, and then everything clicked into place.
“Blitzø,” Stolas said tensely, a hint of his former upbringing making itself known. “I am not -“
He straightened up too fast, banging his head hard against the roof of the car with an undignified squawk. Blitzø rubbed his arm in sympathy.
“Sorry, birdie. You are going to therapy.”