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In hindsight, he probably should've just fucking gone back to bed after he woke up and found that somehow, during the night, his favorite horse blanket had gotten tangled around one of his horns, and he'd fucking ripped a huge long tear right down the middle.
Somehow! He hadn't wrecked a blanket since he'd been a fucking teenager, when his whole body had been a stupid weird mess of limbs and horns growing too fast for his brain to keep up with. But now here he was, with his favorite blanket nearly ripped in fucking half. And while he's okay at patching things up--torn pant knees, ripped elbow seams, sliced-open skin--this isn't just a fucking patch job.
And the thing about that blanket is that it's ideal in every single fucking way: the dark color of the body hides all but the worst of spilled messes; it's fucking soft and warm ("minky," they'd called it in the store, which sounded stupid but it felt good, so whatever); it's got a horses AND horseshoes pattern, which makes it fucking ideal; and it's the same brand that his momma used to buy. It wasn't like they could afford new stuff very often, and the reason Blitzø is even halfway decent with a sewing needle is because she'd taught him how to fix clothes to keep them going longer. He and Barb and Fizz would wear shit to utter rags, and then their old clothes would be turned into practical rags before they got new shit.
But the blanket--look, almost no thing survived the fire. All of their old toys and memorabilia, the stuff that his momma kept tucked away and saved (which he knows she did, because he'd seen inside her treasure chest a couple of times, and he'd been simultaneously embarrassed, because Mommaaaaaa, seriously? But also happy that she cared enough to keep that shit)--all of that had burned. Even the original strap of her skull choker had burned away, the cheap leather long gone, even though the stone charm itself had remained intact.
Blitzø will never not be glad he managed to find that little skull.
The truth is, he'd nearly forgotten about the specifics of the shit they'd had in the circus. He remembered events more than the stuff, because they really hadn't had a lot of stuff--the first time he and Fizz had stolen his old man's booze to try it, the first time he and Barb had successfully completed their dual act in front of a packed audience, the way Barb laughed and the way Fizz would sing when he thought no one was listening, just--fuck. He'd rather have his momma back than any of the old stuff she used to keep... but then he'd been in the fucking department store a week after he'd adopted Loona, trying to figure out all the new shit they needed now that there were two people in the apartment, and he'd found the blanket.
It'd been on clearance, because the maker was going out of business or something. Which, sucks to be them--Hell's full of get-rich-quick-get-poor-quicker businesses. But Blitzø has never been so proud that he felt above bargain bin shit, and as he dug through the piles, he'd found the blanket and looked at the tag, which had felt kinda like getting bodyslammed by memory.
So no, it wasn't exactly like the blankets his momma used to buy and cover them with when they slept, but it was made by the same people, and it had felt the same, and that had counted.
And now it's fucking torn to shreds by his stupid fucking horns, and there's no way of getting a new one. Fuck his entire life.
From there, things only spiral further. He burns the coffee, and Loona is extra bitchy about that--he loves that girl, loves her more than he's ever loved anything about himself, but fuck if he hadn't been so fucking tempted to snap back at her when she'd snarled at him for the coffee--and then Stolas nearly cuts one of his fucking fingers off because the fucking bird had gotten it into his head that he wanted to be helpful around the house, which apparently meant trying to help with breakfast. They both panic a little at the sight of his blood, though Blitzø will deny to his fucking grave that he'd freaked out more.
Then traffic is extra shitty. Blitzø can't go as fast as he fucking wants because he has an injured bird and a cranky daughter to deal with--not that Moxxie appreciates that, the bitch. He lectures and whines until even Millie puts a hand on his mouth and tells him to shut it.
Which, Blitzø would be cheered up by that, except see everything else that had just been going wrong that day.
Work itself actually helps, if only because he's able to blow off some steam. Sometimes, all you really need to feel better is to make someone else's day worse.
But then after lunch, they wind up at some shitty little trailer park that has way too many (metaphorical, okay, he knows) ghosts: in the hollow-eyed little girl that peeks at them from around one trailer, in the thin-faced woman who grabs her kids and curls herself around them, like they're the kind of monsters that'd kill kids.
...well, okay, they are, but not in this case. Not when there's a mom that is trying to save them, and a dad that's only really present in the things he's left behind.
The sight puts Blitzø in a shitty mood all over again, and it's worse when they bust into the target's trailer. He's a gross slob of a man, rail-skinny except for the bowling ball paunch, with skin that's gone yellow and papery. His eyes are bloodshot as fuck, but even without those signs, the sheer fucking wave of alcohol stink that hits them is enough that even Blitzø's stomach turns. Loona, his poor baby, stops to hurl, and Millie looks a little green around the edges too.
So that leaves him and Moxxie, which isn't the worst matchup, if he'll be honest, but in hindsight? Sending the two of them after a shitbag dad was probably not the smartest move.
They storm the room. It's not as dramatic as Blitzø likes to be, but the health of his team does outweigh the showboating, even if a part of him is still cringing about that. The asshole just stares at them, his eyes squinting and his mouth hanging open, and Blitzø wonders if his brain's completely fried by the alcohol, or if he's on worse shit--and then he just starts laughing.
"Fuuuuuck me," he wheezes, and his voice is high and nasally, in that exact register that feels like acid nails on all of Blitzø's nerves. It's not that the guy sounds exactly like his old man, but close enough--enough that Blitzø's whole body does a gross-out shudder. "That bitch actually kept a fuckin' promise for once in her fucking useless life!"
"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" Blitzø snarls, which is like, a major rookie mistake. You don't engage with the target in conversation, you just pop them, do your basic cleanup, and leave. Talking leads to all kinds of shit that are all ultimately just distractions. But his finger is shaking on the trigger, and he can see, out of the corner of his eye, that Moxxie is just as frozen.
"M'wife, that bitch," the asshole says, so utterly casual. "Fucking cunt never could do anything right in her life. I'm surprised that she did something right after. Haha!" He throws his head back and howls in laughter, and as he does, a baby starts crying.
And, like, Blitzø has really limited exposure to Actual Real Babies, okay? Fizz had been the youngest member of the circus, and by the time he'd been dumped with them, he'd already been an actual talking person. (And also, he was the same age, ish, as Blitzø and Barb, so that probably doesn't super count.) Even Verosika's weirdest fans hadn't been the kind who'd bring babies to concerts or meet'n'greets. He sees them on the street sometimes, or has to deal with them shrieking in the Hellevator, but not--this. Not in this shitty rundown place that stinks of giving up and hope that's so dead it's gone rotten, while some fuckface alcoholic cackles because someone from Hell put a hit on him as the baby cries and--
"She should've fuckin' known better, though," the target says. He's talking to Moxxie, maybe because he can smell blood in the air--Moxxie's always been a softer touch when it comes to families. Blitzø doesn't know what the fuck happened with his momma, but it doesn't take a genius of his level to know it wasn't anything good. "Tried to run away wearin' her Sunday best, ha! Course that fuckin' bitch was gonna drown. Good riddance. I--"
In another scenario, it would've been fucking badass what happened next: him and Moxxie both pulling the trigger at the same time, and two neat little holes appearing in the asshole's forehead. The force is enough to knock the couch all the way over, and the target's legs twitch a few more times, then go still.
Blitzø looks at Moxxie. Moxxie looks at him.
"I'll get the baby," Moxxie says.
"I'm burning this place down after," Blitzø answers, and that's that.
It should be cathartic, in some way, to burn a shitty place with a shitty dad down, but he just feels worse, watching as the flames start eating up that trailer. He wants to feel like maybe this is a good thing, but there's just emptiness, plus now they have a shrieking human baby to deal with.
And fuck. What's one more kid with a dead mom, whose childhood is going up in flames?
When Blitzø finally tunes back in, Moxxie is insisting Loona look up orphanages, like he doesn't understand that Blitzø's daughter has fucking trauma about places like that, Millie is staring at the baby like she wants to rip it apart, and Blitzø has a headache that is bigger than his dick pounding in his skull. Millie's been extra weird about kids lately, so he very carefully inserts himself into her line of sight. He doesn't particularly wanna throw down with her right now, but he also doesn't want her to snap and do something to the kid when Moxxie's gone and gotten himself attached.
They eventually find some orphanage that's attached to a church or shit like that, so Blitzø opens a portal to that place, holding it open as Moxxie scurries to put the baby down, then ding-dong ditches. He clearly wants to wait and make sure someone does actually grab the kid, but whatever. Blitzø's done. He just wants to go home.
When they get back to the office, Stolas is having some sort of bitch-off with a client on the phone. Under most circumstances, Blitzø would have a good time listening to that shit--turns out, it's pretty fucking fun to listen to Stolas be a privileged cunt to other people--but today, it just drags on his already-tweaked nerves. He excuses himself almost immediately to the bathroom, and Loona does actually try to ask if he's okay, but he can't even be glad that she's showing that kind of concern for him. He's tired, he's raw, and he just wants to fucking sleep for a year and not worry about any-fucking-thing else.
Unfortunately--which is real fucking rude, if you ask him--he can't just stay in the bathroom forever. He's got the keys AND the Crystal, so everyone's stuck in the office until he can stop being a giant pussy about everything and drag himself out.
When he does, Stolas is off the phone, looking all worried and fussy, and Blitzø has to hold hold up a hand before he can launch into one of his spiels.
"Not--not right now, Stols. Okay?" he says, and it makes him sound so fucking whiny, like he's some sort of pussy that can't take a decent pounding, and like, he's NOT a pussy, he is a DICK if he is anything, but just--yeah. Apparently not tonight, honey, I've got a fucking migraine is kinda universal.
And fuck if Stolas doesn't look a little bit like he's gutpunched at that. There's a second where it seems like he might just say something anyway, and fuck what Blitzø wants, and then he very visibly pulls himself back.
Which, hey! Blitzø has been learning how not to say the shittiest possible thing when he wants Stolas to stop, so maybe there's something to all the work they've been putting into this whole "don't call this a relationship but honestly, it's a relationship" shit. Stolas nods, Blitzø chews on the words he wants to say to make things worse instead of actually say them, and then everyone piles back into the van for the ride home.
Which... is also not that great, frankly. Millie's still looking queasy at the edges in a way she never does, and when Blitzø starts to ask if she needs a barf bag or something, Moxxie catches his eyes in the rearview mirror and shakes his head. And you know, fuck you Moxxie for thinking you get the final say and shit, but...
Blitzø knows what it looks like when people are keeping a secret. He knows, because he's the fucking king of secrets and keeping them, sometimes--and maybe sometimes especially--from himself. And he knows because maybe the only fucking useful thing he's ever learned from his shitty old man was how to read people. He knows how to judge little eye movements and tail curls and mouth lines and shit like that.
And he knows that M&M are hiding shit from him, and he hates it.
He fucking hates it in that same ugly shriveled little piece of him that's always wanted in with their relationship--the same part that's always had him crawling through their windows, hiding in their ceiling, whatever the fuck he could do to get a little closer to them. And, like, maybe it's vaguely hypocritical because he's sure as fuck been real focused on the Big Unnamed Something that he and Stolas have over his friendships, but also--still--
He stews over it for most of the commute, and by the time he actually gets the words in his shitty mouth, they're at M&M's building. Maybe that therapy shit he's been applying to Stolas is helping with other people too, but he sure as fuck doesn't feel any better, watching them hop out of the van and go into their building. In fact, they sit there idling for so long that Loona leans forward from the back and flicks the back of his head, hard.
"Ow! Fuck, Looney, what--"
"If you wanna stalk Grandma and Nerdbaby, do it on your own fucking time," she says. "I've still got a headache from that last guy's stench, I wanna go lie down."
He cringes a little, because he hadn't even noticed. "Shit, fuck, sorry--you need drugs for it?"
"I need to lie down," she says, and then she leans back and turns up her music so loud that even he can hear it through her headphones. Blitzø grinds his teeth a few times, then glances sidelong at Stolas.
Stolas is sitting quietly, though it has to be awkward, crunched as he is in his seat, but he hasn't said a word of complaint. He's got his face turned away, which is the most privacy he can give Blitzø and Loona in this van. And Blitzø knows for a fact that it's not comfortable for him in here--he's heard the way Stolas's spine pops and cracks whenever he gets out of the van, no matter how short the ride--and there's just another shitty failing staring him in the face. The two people he gives the biggest shits about in Hell, and he's been ignoring the fact that they're both uncomfortable and done with work too.
So he swallows hard, shifts the van back in gear, and drives everyone home.
Once in the apartment, Loona waves off Stolas's question about dinner--"Sorry, but I think if I even smell food right now I'm gonna hurl, you have no fucking idea how bad that shit was, birdbrain," she says--and heads into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
That just leaves Blitzø, and Stolas, and he sort of wishes he could just crumble to dust on the spot. He just doesn't wanna be a fucking person for a little bit, but someone has to hold their shit together, and it might as well be--
"Blitzø?" Stolas says softly.
He lets out an explosive breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. There's a headache pounding in his own temples again, and he squeezes his eyes shut against everything of the world around him. He can't just keep telling Stolas to shut up, as much as he really wants to. Fuck, being a pile of dust is sounding more and more tempting by the second. "Yeah?"
"I realize this might be a bit presumptuous of me," he says, still softly, "but I thought--well, that is, I took some liberties, and I'll accept if you're upset about it, but... look up?"
Because he can't just immediately give in, he sits for a few seconds longer, eyes squeezed shut, then looks up.
In Stolas's hands, folded in a neat square, is his blanket--except it's clearly been repaired with tight, neat little stitches. The thread is a bright tinsel-y gold, and there are other lines of it in places where he knows there were smaller, less catastrophic rips. When he reaches out to take it from Stolas and runs his thumb over a line of stitches, it's surprisingly not that scratchy at all.
"The fuck?" he asks.
"It's been some years since I've had to do anything with needle and thread, but I was quite good with it, if I do say so myself," Stolas says, and there's an echo of smug pride in his voice. "Embroidery was a hobby that they say my mother was talented at, and... well, as a fledgling, it was a way for me to try and feel closer to her, when I'd never known her at all. And there's a technique in ceramics, you see, where broken pieces are repaired with a special resin that's painted gold--to highlight beauty in flaws, not to simply hide them."
Blitzø stares at the blanket in his hands and swallows. Fuck if there aren't a whole lot of things implied in Stolas's rambling, and all of those are things that feel too big to fit in his body. How the fuck did that stupid owl manage to do this to him, over and over?
"Stolas," he says, and has to stop because now he's all choked up, and if he cries, he might just have to shoot them both to escape the embarrassment.
"I took it with us to work today," Stolas says. "It really wasn't so hard. Once I remembered how to do it, it went quite fast. Do... do you like it?"
Now he sounds all worried, and all Blitzø can do is turn to him, and tip forward. Given their height difference, his face plants into Stolas's lower abdomen, just above his crotch, but for a rare once, Blitzø just feels worn out, willing to test if someone will catch him if he isn't promising fuckery with it.
And what do you know--Stolas's long skinny arms come around him, and a moment later he's scooped up into a surprisingly steady embrace. Stolas doesn't have the same comforting weight to his softness that Blitzø's momma had, but he's still soft and warm, and his scent has grown familiar enough to be calming.
"I've gone over some of our finances, too," Stolas says, his voice a low steady hum as he carries Blitzø to the couch. For an embarrassing second, Blitzø is terrified that Stolas is just going to put him down and pull away--but instead, he sits down and adjusts so that his legs are bent, just enough for Blitzø to have a comfy little cradle to sit. "We should be able to afford an order tonight. I saw you were eyeing that new challenge menu at that pizza place you like so much. We could do that, and save you the trouble of cooking."
He grumbles, though somewhere during the short walk, he'd put his face into the crook of Stolas's neck. It's not as good as being buried directly in his feathers, but his sweater's soft enough. "Shouldn't. Even with the money, we should..."
"Once in a while is all right, darling," Stolas says. He smooths a hand down Blitzø's back, and then a second time, letting his claws dig in at the base of each spine to help press out some of the tension he's holding there. "I can contribute as well. Caring for yourself is sometimes remembering to be kind to yourself, and taking advantage of what's available."
"You'd know," he mutters. "'Bout taking advantage'n shit."
That's a shitty thing to say. He knows it is, but somehow, Stolas just takes it in stride.
"Perhaps you should listen to me, then," he says. "You've taken care of me so very well for so long, Blitzø. I would like to care for you, too."
He wants to argue. He wants to point out that Stolas's money is technically his money, right now, and they're both kind of skirting that line of poor and middle class. What good is a pizza going to do in the face of a shitty day?
But also, Stolas keeps rubbing his back and kneading out those achy spots right around the spines. He'd started humming at some point, his voice all gentle and soothing. Every time that Blitzø remembers that he should be grouchy about this, Stolas just hums louder, and it's definitely a lullaby which is fucking embarrassing, and also? Pretty effective.
Fucking asshole, playing dirty like that.
At some point, Blitzø blinks his eyes open and realizes that everything in the apartment is dark. There's lights from the city filtering in through the windows, but they'd arrived home when the pentagram was just beginning to dim. He snuffles something that would be a Your Mom joke, except he'd never disrespect moms that way.
"Ah, you're awake." Stolas's fingers, which had been stroking his skull all sweetly, dig in a little at the base of the biggest spine. "Loona and I discussed about dinner. She thought pizza was an excellent idea."
Blitzø squints into the dimness. "You don't like it," he says.
"I don't mind it. It's simply not my favorite," Stolas says, and while Blitzø tries to wrangle his mushy brain into a real argument, he goes on, "You like it, though. It's all right to indulge now and then."
"Fuck you," he says. He sits up, though he doesn't really want to--Stolas is real fucking warm and soft, okay, those feathers are prime sleep estate--and rubs at his face. "I am the king of indulgence."
"Yes, and no." Stolas stretches now that he's been (temporarily) freed, and then he texts something on his phone, which had apparently been in his other hand this whole time. Probably explained how he could have sat there for however fucking long Blitzø was passed out on him. "You'll do a great many things to indulge if you think it will be worse for you in the long run. But a genuinely nice thing for yourself? I know better."
It's... not wrong, but also, fuck if that doesn't make Blitzø's skin itch in indescribable ways. He growls something that isn't really words, but is probably another fuck you, and Stolas just laughs.
"I'm right, and you know it," he says. "You'll simply have to deal, darling."
"I deal with your spoiled ass every fucking day," he says, but then Loona's door opens, and she flips on a light. It's not bright enough to make his headache worse, but he still whines, because he's apparently the world's biggest baby at the moment. It doesn't really help with him accusing Stolas of being the baby, and Loona probably heard it, but whatever. He does still have a headache.
"I've got the shit pulled up," Loona says, and she turns her phone to show the order screen for Dirty Dick's Deep Dish Disasters. "Hot sauce challenge for you?"
Blitzø squints at the phone. He's tempted to say yes, and then to go for the spiciest shit possible. Let them deal with the destroyed toilet in the aftermath.
Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, "Nah, just my usual. Fuck. My guts are getting old too."
Loona raises an eyebrow, her ears perked forward. "That's... surprisingly mature of you."
"I'm your father," he says. "Of course I'm fucking mature."
"Uh huh," she says, and turns to Stolas for them to discuss their orders, and Blitzø considers arguing. He could pitch a fit, maybe get them both mad at him, and then he could roll out of the apartment and go over to M&M's and ruin things there too, and then fuck it, he could hop the Hellevator down to Lust to where Fizz is performing for the night and--
Stolas's arm comes around him, a thin barely-there weight. It's so light, but it's somehow heavy enough to topple Blitzø over, into his side, which again: Hell hard and stinky. Bird soft and nice-smelling.
Fuck.
And then Loona is there, leaning down to plant a kiss on his forehead, right over his mark. Which is too much for his little squishy brain to handle--the fuck? The fuck?! His baby just?? For some reason??? Showed affection first?!???
But he's too tired and muzzy to launch himself at her, which, in hindsight, is probably why she did it. She says something to Stolas, who hitches Blitzø a little more against his side, and then she leaves the room.
They sit in quiet for a few moments, and then Blitzø mumbles, "Stols?"
"Yes, Blitzø?"
"Did I already eat some shitty pizza or something, and now I'm just fucking hallucinating?"
Stolas laughs, a little vibration against Blitzø's side. It's the closest his body ever feels to the sensation of a purr. "No, dear. She was worried about you."
"Ohhhh, so not shitty pizza, just hard party drugs or something."
"You know better," Stolas tells him, and then scrapes his beak against the curve of a horn, in that affectionate way he sometimes does. It's one of those gestures that has started happening more and more, and Blitzø has watched enough bird videos (what? It's called research, asshole, don't read too much into it) to know that it's like an affectionate preening gesture. And bird demons probably don't have an exact 1:1 match with bird animals, but they're close enough, in his experience.
"Don't," he mumbles, just to be contrary. "Loona likes her personal space and I respect that, like, ninety percent of the time."
"She was the one who did it," Stolas points out, all reasonably, like a guy who actually knows his shit. Asshole. "You didn't ask her for it, nor did you force her into the contact. I'm simply afraid that your daughter loves you, Blitzø."
If there's a sad little warble in his words, something that's deep and dark under that, it mostly doesn't come through. There's still so much of Stolas that's broken up and hurting about his own baby girl, but he's gentle and he's firm talking to Blitzø now, and Blitzø doesn't know the fuck how to deal with it.
So after a few stupid seconds, he grabs for Stolas's hand. And like every time, he has to marvel a bit at how fucking delicate it is, all these thin tiny fragile bones. A good solid handshake feels like it would utterly pulverize him, and so Blitzø is real careful of how he laces their fingers together, and how tightly he squeezes.
"Fuck you," he says, because thank you is almost as hard as I'm sorry and he might be doing better, but he's not as good as he could be. He might never be as good as Stolas deserves, but for whatever reason, the stupid bird leans into him, and doesn't try to pull away. That sharp beak taps against his horn again.
"You're welcome," Stolas says. His other hand skims down Blitzø's back one more time, then settles on the back of his head, pressing just enough that he has to (has to, okay, he doesn't make the rules when there are feathertits involved) tip forward into Stolas's long thin chest. Like before, it's not AS good as faceplanting into titties, but it's warm and it's dark and it's still soft and it smells like Stolas. Good enough.
"Pizza isn't gonna fix me," he says. "Just so you know."
"It'll help," Stolas says, all smugly superior and Blitzø considers biting him for it, then decides it's too much effort. "You can nap again if you want, darling, and I'll wake you when it arrives."
He thinks about it--it's real fucking tempting, he isn't gonna lie--then shakes his head without lifting it. "Nah. My sleep schedule's gonna get even more fucked. I should stay awake. What--"
"They've brought Spirit back to Voxflix," Stolas says. "I checked earlier."
Blitzø almost considers lifting his head so he can give the bird a big old wet kiss, but all he does is turn his head enough to see the TV, watching as Stolas reaches for the emote (fucker doesn't even have to stretch that much, with those fifty-foot-long arms of his) and queues the movie up. As it starts, Stolas settles back, tugging at Blitzø's (fixed!!) blanket, to drape it more comfortably over him, and Blitzø thinks that if he were any less woozy, he'd be crying like a fucking baby right now.
Because yeah, the day was shitty, and nothing is gonna make it LESS shitty--he's still gotta get to the bottom of what M&M are hiding from him, and tomorrow's gonna be another day of another unfun grind, and fuck if he doesn't desperately wish he could take a vacation. Days like this, he actually kind of wishes that Stolas was still rich, so he could slink off to the palace and pretend for a night that there weren't problems waiting for him at home.
On the other hand... this way, he doesn't have to leave. This way, he's got a soft bird to curl up with, and food coming, and even though Loona's back in her room, she's got the door cracked a little, which means she's probably gonna eat with them, and that's... nice. It's actually really fucking nice, which is a fucking novel way to end a shitty day. He's had so many of them, and none of them went like this.
And, fuck it. He'll take it.
He muffles a yawn, curls his tail around Stolas's leg, and lets himself relax.