Chapter Text
Blitzø opened his desk drawer for probably the hundredth time that week, sighing deeply. Inside was a list written on a loose piece of notebook paper, and he stared blankly at the first three words that he had surrounded with doodles of horses:
NOO YEERS REZOLOOSHUNS
It had been Millie's idea for I.M.P. to do New Year's resolutions together. Blitzø hadn't wanted to do it, but Stolas had seemed so charmed by the idea that Blitzø had gone along with it on the condition that he didn't have to show it to anyone. Stolas had called it “a wonderful opportunity for self-reinvention”. Blitzø had thought that was bullshit, but he wasn't going to argue against anything that helped Stolas feel better.
And Stolas had been feeling a lot better, now that he had a prescription for his Happy Pills again. It turns out that one of the Goetia assholes, that parrot guy named Vassago, was less of an asshole than Blitzø had thought.
When Vassago had first showed up at Blitzø's apartment shortly after Sinsmas, Blitzø had almost shot him in the head. It was a matter of principle, and also because he really fucking wanted to shoot every single fucker involved in that Trial. But it turned out to be good that he didn't, because Vassago had just come to give Stolas a care package and an apology.
He had gone on a very long walk while Stolas and Vassago had squawked at each other. If Stolas wanted to forgive him, that was fine, but that didn't mean that Blitzø had to stay and play nice. But when Blitzø had come back, Stolas was holding a prescription in his trembling hands, trying not to stain it with his tears of gratitude.
Blitzø hated that Stolas still had to rely on the Goetia for anything, but it wasn't like he could have gotten that prescription for Stolas himself. Not without doing something monumentally stupid, anyway, which would have probably made Stolas feel even worse.
He wished that he had known that Stolas had been going cold turkey on his psych meds that first month. He didn't know what he would have done about it, but it would have made everything make a lot more sense.
Blitzø wasn't a fucking idiot - he had noticed how depressed Stolas had seemed after the Trial, how nothing he did really seemed to help. But he had just assumed that it had been from losing his… well, his everything. He hadn't even known that Stolas had been taking meds until after Octavia had confronted him with a bottle of them.
It had taken Stolas a little while to adjust to the meds again, but they definitely helped. They had both silently worried about what would happen when Stolas ran out of pills, until he had gotten the prescription. It had probably been so easy for Vassago to get the same drugs that Blitzø would have risked life and limb for. Everything was so fucking easy for the Goetia.
Well, except for Stolas, who had given up all of those privileges to save Blitzø's life. As if Blitzø had ever been worth that.
He shook his head, trying to dispel those thoughts before they fully formed. The important thing was that Stolas had access to his meds again. That he was getting the help he needed.
Which brought Blitzø back to the list. It had been a month since the new year had started, and he went through each of the five resolutions one by one.
1) Quolitee time with Loonie
Fucking nailed that one. He had taken Loona to the shooting range three times this month, now that she was going on missions. It was something he could teach her that she actually seemed to enjoy learning, and it warmed his heart to see her excitement as her aim improved. He was sure that his baby would be blowing bitches’ heads off in no time.
2) Help Stols feel mor at home (air matress, flours, star shit???)
He had done that one too, although it had taken a little while. The couch was way too small for Stolas, but so were all of the air mattresses he had seen. He guessed that air mattresses didn't generally come in Goetia size, since he couldn't imagine a Goetia buying one. But he had bought two and taped them together, and that seemed to work fine.
Stolas took up a lot of floor space, but it had only taken him and Loona a few days to get used to walking around him. And now that Stolas was properly rested and medicated, he was often up before either of them anyway. He even tried to cook them breakfast once, but after they had cleared the smoke out of the apartment and thrown out the blackened discs that had once been pancakes, Stolas had sheepishly promised not to try cooking again without supervision.
Blitzø had also gotten Stolas a planter and some flowers for the balcony, including a tiny carnivorous plant. Stolas had absolutely loved it and was often on the balcony tending to his flowers. He had even named the carnivorous plant Renascentia, “or Rena for short” as he had excitedly told Blitzø. Blitzø had no fucking idea where the name had come from, but he took the fact that Stolas had named it as a good sign.
It had actually been Loona's idea to get Stolas those glow-in-the-dark stars to put on the ceiling. She had seemed almost embarrassed as she shoved them into his hands, and more so as he thanked her for a solid thirty seconds. Stolas had spent hours placing them on the ceiling in constellation patterns, and then he had spent several nights quietly telling Blitzø all the constellations’ names and stars and stories. So yeah, Stolas seemed a lot more at home now. Mission fucking accomplished.
3) Be less of a dik to Moxxie sumtimes
Millie had strongly suggested that one. It had been the first hard one, since Moxxie had such a talent for annoying the shit out of him. But he had found two separate occasions in the last month to compliment Moxxie on his shooting. He didn't like to admit it, but despite all his faults, Moxxie was an incredible shot, and even better than Blitzø at long-distance sniper shit. And the dumbfounded expression that Moxxie had given him both times made the compliments totally worth it.
4) Kil 100 targets this yeer (bistanders dont count asshole, chalenj yurself)
That was going to be easier than he had thought. Business had been booming ever since the Trial, and in the last month alone he had killed 18 targets, putting him way ahead of schedule for the year.
That just left the final resolution:
5) Go bak to therupee
Well. Four out of five wasn't bad, right?
He stared at the final resolution like he could will it out of existence. It just sat there on the paper, just as stubborn and unattended as his many, many mental health issues.
Dr. Smith had called him a few days after the Trial, leaving a voicemail when he didn't answer. Blitzø hadn't listened to it, but he had texted them to tell them that he wasn't ready to go back to therapy yet. They had texted him back immediately to tell him that they understood, but that he should call or email to set up an appointment as soon as he was ready. And he had said that he would.
But that had been two months ago. It was the longest he had gone without therapy since he had started, even longer than when he had stopped going after their fight.
It hadn't been as bad as the first time. He hadn't lashed out too badly at anyone he gave a shit about this time, at least as far as he knew. And between Stolas and the increased business, he had plenty to distract himself with. But now that things had settled a little, his shitty brain was starting to catch up to him again.
His negative self-talk was getting hard to ignore. And stupid little things were starting to send him into a panic spiral, like when Stolas had tried to be helpful by cutting up some meat for dinner. When Blitzø had seen the butcher knife slicing through the marbled red and white meat, he had suddenly felt like something cold and heavy was encircling his neck, trapping him and leaving him unable to breathe. He had locked himself in the bathroom for twenty minutes, just waiting for his hands to stop trembling.
And the nightmares had gotten bad again. He had already woken up Stolas three times this month with the noises he had made in his sleep. He didn't know if he was louder than usual or if it was just because he and Stolas were sleeping in the same space, but he couldn't keep doing that. Stolas needed his sleep, and no matter how many times he told Stolas that it was nothing to worry about, he could tell that Stolas was still worried.
The problem was that it felt idiotic to think about going to therapy when Stolas had it so much worse than him. Stolas had given up everything to save Blitzø: his wealth, his title, his magic, and, at least temporarily, his daughter. He would have lost his life too, if Satan hadn't decided that his life was more valuable than Blitzø's. (And honestly, how could Blitzø disagree with that?)
Blitzø, by comparison, hadn't actually lost anything. He was actually better off than he had been before the Trial: his business was more successful than ever, his family was still intact, and he even had Stolas back in his life. What the fuck did he have to complain about?
He thought about all of that as he glared at his last resolution. It just sat there on the paper in his own shitty fucking handwriting, surrounded by horses and completely unbothered by him aggressively wishing it out of existence. If anything, it just seemed more insistent somehow.
5) Go bak to therupee
Fuck it. Might as well try to go five for five.
He groaned, slamming his desk drawer shut and unlocking his phone. Dr. Smith had already called him once and emailed him twice since they had first reached out, asking to “follow up regarding appointment availability”. He hadn't responded, so he should probably at least let them know he hadn't fucking died or something.
He opened up his contacts and scrolled to their name, staring at it for a moment. Then he pressed the call button before he could pussy out.
As soon as he heard ringing, he immediately regretted it. It was almost a relief when he heard their pleasant voice asking him to leave a message, and he hung up before the recording finished. That was it, then. He had called, and they hadn't answered. Maybe he would try again later - much later.
What he wasn't expecting was for them to call him back two minutes later. He stared at his phone in horror, seriously considering throwing it out of the window for betraying him like this. But sanity won out for once, and he managed to pick up. “It’s me,” he said, his tone forcefully casual, realizing too late what a weird way to answer the phone that was.
But Dr. Smith didn't seem to mind. “Blitzø!” they said, the excitement evident in their voice. “How wonderful to hear from you.”
“Yeah, uh… thanks,” he said, absolutely at a loss. Why the fuck did he think he could do this?
“Did you want to schedule an appointment?” they asked, undeterred by how fucking awkward he was being.
“I don't… uh…” He held his head in his hand, gritting his teeth. Fuck it, he had gotten this far. It would be stupid to back out now. “Yeah, I… I guess so.”
“Excellent,” they said brightly. “Do you have any availability this week?”
Blitzø chuckled nervously. “Don't suppose you still have my old appointment time available, do you?”
“Of course I do,” they said, like that was obvious. “The code for the door is still the same. Do you remember it?”
“Uh… yeah, I do,” he said, a little dazed that he had gone from giving up on therapy to having an appointment booked in a matter of minutes.
“Wonderful. I very much look forward to it. Goodbye, Blitzø.”
“Bye,” he echoed, and the line went dead.
He stared at his phone, not sure how to feel about what had just happened. He looked at the open window in his office, still tempted to throw his phone out of it. Breaking his phone usually helped when he felt weird.
He decided to compromise and threw it across the room. His phone had a case now, so it was probably fine.
Just like him. He was definitely probably fine.