When Loona woke, something was off. Blitzø wasn't up.
Usually the thoroughly vexing imp who called himself her father (much too loudly and much too often) would be in the kitchen by now, burning both their breakfasts and oversweetening his coffee; the scent of carbonised meat and caffeinated sugar rousing her from her sleep. Or he'd be knocking on her bedroom door with a stupidly, saccharinely cooed greeting; the kind more befitting a toddler than a fully-grown Hellhound with sharp claws and sharp teeth and blunted social skills.
But he wasn't. There was only the hum of the frayed electrical wires in the walls, the dank smell of mold and depression, the muffled arguments of the neighbours on the next floor up.
She tried not to care, but a knot of worry still roiled in the pit of her stomach.
Maybe he's hungover, Loona told herself. Maybe he stayed up all night playing with his stupid pony toys. Maybe…maybe he just had a bad night and needed a sleep-in.
And she almost believed it.
So she got up, made her own breakfast, swiped a bottle of booze from the top shelf to spike her coffee with; and still Blitzø didn't get up. She chowed down on eggs and bacon that didn't taste quite right, dumped her plate in the sink without washing it, and still Blitzø didn't get up.
She debated eating the plate she'd set aside for him, just to serve him right… but couldn't bring herself to, so she shoved it in the fridge.
With literally nothing to do until the imp decided to show his stupid face, Loona parked her tail on the couch, pulled out her phone, and idly scrolled through Sinstagram. She paused longer than she'd care to admit on Vortex's page, looking at his latest photos - him flipping the bird to a passing police car in the living world; him backstage at another of Verosika Mayday's concerts; him buying beer and food for the party tonight.
The party he'd invited her to.
She flicked over to her texts, to the RSVP Tex had sent her, and stared at that for a while too. She almost couldn't quite believe it. She hadn't been to a party in so long, and it was thrilling and daunting and terrifying all at once.
There was just the small hangup that she was still crushing on a guy who was most definitely taken. It was going to be… yeah, it was going to be complicated.
Loona hoped tonight would go okay.
And then she realized they were way late for work.
"For FUCK'S SAKE, Blitz, wake the FUCK UP already! What is wrong with you today?"
She leaped up and slammed open his bedroom door, ready to give him even more of an earful…
…and stopped.
The dumbass was still lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzed and screeched, the screen lit up to display a growing string of waiting messages from a client and missed calls from the fatty and his wife, all unseen and all unanswered.
And he wasn't moving. Wasn't reacting.
Just staring.
This wasn't like him. This wasn't like him at all.
"Blitz?"
Loona called his name; moved closer; called his name again. She went right up to his bedside, shook his shoulder; called his name once more.
Nothing. No reaction.
No matter what she said, what she called him (Blitz, asshole, dumb fuck… Dad…), Blitzø remained unresponsive. No matter how hard she shook him, he didn't snap out of it. His chest rose and fell, his claws tremored a little, he blinked when his eyes watered until a few tears trickled slowly down his cheeks…but that was about it.
He was there, but he wasn't there.
Something was very wrong.
The part of Loona that was still a frightened, lonely pup giving up on ever finding a place where she belonged shivered in fear. She might have whimpered, too.
She picked him up gingerly, and got him into a sitting position. He was so limp and boneless that she had to keep holding him up, and he was trembling all the while. So she wrapped him in his blankets, sat beside him on his rickety bed and let him slump against her side.
Shit, he was so small next to her.
And he still wasn't reacting, even though she was the one who'd initiated this physical contact. Loona had dreaded how clingy and smothering and over-the-top Blitzø would get if she did something like this. Now, though, now she wished he would make those dumb puppy eyes and nuzzle her cheek and hug her too tightly… because that would mean he was okay.
But he wasn't.
Loona didn't know everything about her adoptive father; especially not the details, the specifics, the ' I-won't-ask-if-you-don't's - but she'd lived with him for four years. She could guess enough - no, somehow, in the depths of her being, she knew enough. That they were alike. She was familiar, at least, with the emotion behind his blank, unfocused eyes.
He'd saved her from it then, four years ago.
And she'd be damned if she was going to be another demon who'd cast him aside for whatever bullshit reason when he clearly needed help.
Blitzø was her pack. Her family.
Her dad.
She was going to return the favour. Somehow.
Blitzø's hellphone screamed again, rattling on top of the dresser. Moxxie's disapproving pfp squinted up at her from the screen.
Loona didn't really want to talk to the imp who always found something to fault about her. But she knew this was well beyond her. She knew Moxxie was a nerd, and maybe, just maybe he might have filed some scrap of useful information in that annoying head of his. He was always trying to psychoanalyse her, or her father; and if that could be helpful for goddamn once…
She hoped Moxxie would listen and believe her. Because if he could help, Blitzø sure needed it. She needed it. She needed him to get better.
So Loona picked the phone up, and, swallowing back the lump in her throat, answered the call.
"Sir, what the fuck! Why didn't you pick us up this morning - why aren't you at the office? It's well past 9! We've been locked out for half an hour–"
"Moxxie… it's Loona."
"...Alright, what's going on. Is this some kind of prank you two are pulling on us?"
"Fuck's sake, Moxxie! Blitz isn't well! He's… really not well. He's awake, but he's not moving, he's unresponsive - I've - fuck - I don't, I don't know what to do."
"…"
"And you're the only fucking demon I know to ask for help."
"Okay… we'll be over there as soon as we can."
When Moxxie saw Blitzø huddled on the sofa, an operatic hallucination leaped to the forefront of his mind.
Cause you're thoughtless and cruel and you'll end up alone.
He felt a faint pang of guilt at the memory, at Loona's look of helplessness as she gestured to her silent, unresponsive father figure. When Loona, not Blitzø, had answered the phone after nearly a dozen attempts at ringing his boss, he'd almost on instinct assumed that it was a prank, an excuse for the both of them to get out of work… except that her voice was almost distraught.
And Loona never showed that level of emotion unless it was aggression.
He opened his mouth; to ask her something, or to apologise, he didn't know which… but words failed him, so he closed it again.
She shuffled her paw awkwardly and grimaced in response, then turned away and scrubbed at her eye with a paw. Moxxie pretended not to notice. Now wasn't the time for that.
While he was thus diverted, Millie was first to approach their silent boss - carefully, warily, like trying not to spook a wild stallion. It gave Moxxie time to survey the apartment. He'd never been in here; Blitzø had never invited him over – which was strange, considering how often his boss tried to cajole him and Millie into hanging out after work (and follow them anyway when they declined). But here he was now.
There were pictures scattered across the wall, nearly all of them starring him, his wife, and the hellhound in some way or another. It would have been more than a little bit creepy, were it not for the scribbles. Blitzø was – had been – in many of the photos, and in each one he'd blotted himself out with thick, rough strokes of a black marker pen.
The difference between these pictures and those circus posters, that brash framed pinup in the I.M.P. office… it was stark.
Avoidance or destruction of one's image - a symptom of self loathing.
Satan, he'd hit the nail on the head back in that hallucinogenic-induced opera hadn't he. Blitzø had issues, not the annoying kind but the sad kind. He should have guessed; so many in Hell concealed their suffering with aggression or standoffishness.
What had happened to their boss, to put him into such an uncharacteristic state? What troubled past might he have internalised and bottled up for who-knows-how-long? Why did he choose such a crass and abrasive mask to hide it? Why did he never open up–?
-no, no, you can't resent him for it. You already know why.
"Let dis be a lesson, Moxxie."
High-heeled shoes floating in a polluted lake.
You don't want to reopen your own old wounds.
He started back into awareness at a sudden sound, and his head whipped around in search of it.
Blitzø was still unmoving, and Millie had started to panic, her voice rising in pitch and becoming underlaid with distressed hissing. There were tears welling in the corner of her eyes as her efforts to get their boss to react became more frantic. She made to grab him by the shoulders and shake him; hell, she looked like she was winding up to slap him awake, even. And Loona's hackles went up and she snarled, winding up on her haunches to pounce…
Moxxie rushed over and tugged Mille back. He stroked her hair to reassure her, pressed his forehead to hers until her breathing slowed and her anxious chittering eased. He could still feel the panic thrumming in her muscles and bones, but she was present and she had enough control, and he trusted her to keep that control.
He sent a quick apologetic glance towards Loona, still furiously puffed up; but her glare and her growls were easing. When she seemed as calm as she could get given these circumstances, he twitched his head towards Blitz; a silent ask for permission. She gave a curt nod in answer.
And Moxxie turned his full attention to Blitzø.
He kneeled in front of his boss where he slumped on the couch, trying to get into his line of sight.
"Sir? Blitz? Hello?" The imp watched his boss's eyes for any sign of acknowledgement, awareness, but his thousand-yard stare didn't change.
"Blitz?"
Awkwardly, he put a hand on Blitzø's knee - and still got no reaction, not even a reflex.
"He was… like that earlier," Loona rasped, and Moxxie thought she sounded even closer to tears. "He won't react to being touched, and you know he would if he was alright!"
"He would. Blitz would." Moxxie sucked in a troubled breath. Even in prison, when they'd first met, Blitzø had never stopped talking, rambling, infodumping. That openness was what had endeared him to the fellow imp in the first place, after a lifetime of mafia propriety and Chaz's slick smooth-talking and sleazy silences. Though some (okay, a lot) of his boss's lack of filter irritated him, it was infinitely preferable to… to this.
After a moment's thought (the recollection of how he was trained to check bodies), he pulled out his hellphone, turned on the torch, and shone it right in Blitzø's face.
His boss's pupils flickered, his eyelids fluttered, and tears spilled out and down his cheeks. Blitzø's eyes were watering more than Moxxie would have expected for a catatonic or paralysed imp, and that was a slightly good sign, maybe? Or a bad one? He honestly didn't know what to make of it.
"He's in there," Moxxie murmured. "He's in there… but it's like he's shut down."
"Don't you think I fucking know that, dumbass?"
"Hey, watch it, Loona!" Millie snapped. "Do ya want Moxx's help or not?"
Moxxie ignored Loona's justifiable bark & bite, watching the tears track down Blitzø's face and how they highlighted the border between red skin and white scar tissue. Something jumped to the forefront of his mind; the memory of sitting alone in a dining room without anyone to help him cut his steak, too miserable and afraid to raise his voice and ask. The memory of curling up on a prison bed, alone and abandoned, ready to give up.
"It looks like grief."
"It looks like loneliness." Loona argued.
I don't know! Eventually everyone goes…
"Aren't they the same thing, in a way?" Moxxie's brain was racing a mile a minute, cursing himself for not spotting the tells of abandonment and loss earlier. Blitzø's clinginess and invasive, poorly-articulated fondness. His coddling of his adoptive daughter. How he'd never talked about his parents (just as Moxxie had never brought up his). How he'd never told the story about how he got his extensive discolourations.
He just didn't know that grief could get this bad.
A half-snarled, bitter laugh tore out of Loona's mouth. "Of course you'd be waxing poetic."
"I'm trying, Loona!" Moxxie burst out. "I'm doing my best - I'm not - fuck, I'm not a professional psychiatrist. And Satan knows Blitzø never said anything about what was going on in his head to us." He pinched the bridge of his nose, coaxing his thoughts through his emotions. "You're closer to him than we are. Has he ever talked to you about anything - were there any warning signs of this?"
"He hasn't… there wasn't - I…" Loona shrunk in on herself, ears pinned back, and Moxxie felt a pang of pity. Right now he understood her clear guilt all too well; he was blaming himself too for not being attentive, for dismissing Blitzø's inappropriate behaviour as character flaws, for only seeing the offensively clownish front he put on.
"Is there anything you can do?" the hellhound grit out in a pleading voice.
Moxxie was sure his silence spoke volumes. He didn't know. He looked away in shame.
One last time, he tried to get Blitzø's attention, shaking his leg though a part of him already knew it wouldn't work. "C'mon, sir. Please."
And as before, Blitzø didn't respond; his thousand-yard stare didn't change.
Moxxie sighed. Without taking his hand off his boss's lower thigh, he turned around and eased himself up onto the couch, right to Blitzø's left. His shoulder bumped Blitzø's, and their horns tapped against one another.
Tears sparkling in her eyes, Millie joined him. She sat on Moxxie's left, practically in his lap; and she reached across him to place her hand on Blitzø's leg. She didn't let go.
Loona looked ready to tear her fur out, her ears flat all the way against her head. She stood there pitifully for a long moment, clenching her paws into fists… and then finally, with a resigned whimper, she sat on Blitzø's right. She placed her paw on his leg, and ran her claw gently in a circle over his knee.
Time passed.
Millie remembered her grandfather, gone silent with grief after her mamaw was snatched up by a firenado. He hadn't lasted long without her.
She remembered her classmate who lost a parent to the Pain Games, who became an empty husk after that. The poor thing could never approach the amphitheatre fields with their blood-soaked soils again, and their passiveness had made them the target of derision. Millie never knew what happened to them after they finished school.
She remembered how Mama was subdued, dulled, for weeks after that stormy day when her older sister fell into a flooded ditch and never came out. Moxxie was right, Millie thought. This, Blitzø as dead-to-the-world as he was, looked like grief to her.
And it was so unsettling to see her boss, her friend, who she was so fond of for his spark and spunk and palpable infectious energy, lost to the same stupor.
"Who could he have lost?" she asked, after a long long while, to no one in particular.
The silence that followed lasted almost as long again.
"I never really noticed it before," Moxxie whispered, at last, "but that poster of him and his sister in the office – 'The Amazing Imp Twins' – could it be her?"
"Maybe," Millie whispered back, thinking of how she'd react if Sallie died. Or her parents - hell, the thought of losing her ma and pa made her heart ache. And made her wonder… "Or… what about his parents?"
Her husband shuddered, and in the back of her mind she remembered he'd never brought up his parents either. "Did it happen recently? Or did he just find out?"
The very idea brought a lump to her throat and fresh tears to Millie's eyes. Oh, poor Blitzø.
Moxxie squeezed his eyes shut and winced. "Crumbs, I don't wanna invade his privacy by reading his texts…"
"We – we might have to," she croaked.
A low, warning growl came from the other side of the couch.
"Only if there's no other option," Moxxie backpedaled delicately. "But, I mean, we're only speculating. If he has lost someone, we don't even know if they were a family member."
"A friend?" Millie ventured.
"He doesn't have any other friends," Loona monotoned.
"Wait, really?"
"Why else do you think he keeps following you two around?"
Moxxie opened his mouth and then shut it again, sobering at the realisation. Millie bit her lip to try and keep her tears from falling. Growing up in a full, busy house with zero privacy (everyone had walked in on everyone at some point) it hadn't bothered her nearly as much as it had Moxx' that Blitzø tried to insert himself into their married life. She couldn't imagine a life without family, without friends, and it didn't seem fair that Blitzø only had them and Loona and no one else.
No, wait. He did have someone else in his life; someone pretty significant no matter how he outwardly denied it. And shit, Millie hoped it wasn't him who Blitzø had lost; not in the least 'cause she shipped them hard. "What about the prince?"
"I think we'd know if Prince Stolas had died. His wife would be gloating about it in the tabloids," Moxxie grimaced, then shook his head. "We've gone too far down this train of thought. We don't even know for sure if someone he knows has died. "
Silence fell again.
"Playing a fucking guessing game," Loona scoffed. "Some help you are."
And Millie couldn't bring herself to argue. Loona was right. They really couldn't do anything to help, here and now, and she felt so powerless because of it.
What could they even do to help Blitzø?
Would they need to try and get him to a hospital? Would a hospital even help, when so many discriminated openly against imps or had chronically long wait lists? St An's down in Sloth was notorious for both.
They might need to cancel their anniversary plans at any rate – no, they would have to for sure. It felt wrong to celebrate when Blitzø was in need. She'd convince Moxxie that they could reschedule whatever he'd planned for tonight… he'd understand, she knew it. If she was okay with it, he would be okay with it too.
Blitzø's phone buzzed and wailed again, another missed text - likely from whichever client they had today.
Shit. I.M.P. Their jobs.
They needed to take care of the business - they needed to run I.M.P.. Satan knew none of them could afford to turn down work when they always needed the income. Especially with Blitzø out of action for who-knows-how-long.
"Moxx," Millie prompted when her husband didn't move. "Could you get that?"
"Okay… okay. Loona, what's the password for Blitz's phone?" Moxxie asked slowly, and Millie couldn't miss the way Loona slumped even more.
She unlocked Blitzø's phone for them, though (she insisted on doing it herself), and she gave Millie the keys to the IMP van too, while Moxxie put his professionalism to work soothing a very agitated client and promising a decent discount for the troubles. She mumbled instructions on how to use the grimoire to open a portal, which Moxxie studiously notated them on his phone.
"We will be back, Loona," Millie soothed, placing a hand over the hellhound's paw as she and Moxxie reluctantly stepped over the threshold. The job couldn't be put off any longer. Still, she spared one last glance at Blitzø's horns hooked over the back of the sofa. "Ah am sorry we couldn't do more…"
"Yeah, yeah," Loona muttered as she shut the door in their faces.
"...crumbs. Oh, crumbs."
"Ah know, Moxx. I don't think we could've done anymore… and oh, ah hate it."
"If he's still not alright after work, we go to a hospital. We'll make sure he gets better. We have to."
"We can come back later tonight, to see if he's any better - they're any better."
"What about our anniversary?"
"Moxx', ah wouldn't feel right celebratin' at a time like this. An' ah know you'd feel the same."
"…yeah, you're right… I'm sorry Millie. I was going to take you to Ozzie's - I'd been planning on it for a while–"
"Don't be, Moxx. This ain't your fault, and it ain't Blitz's either. He's our friend. You can hawk that reservation on Mammbay. There'll always be another year."
"...okay. We get this job done, we have a quick candlelit something at home. We bring the leftovers here afterwards, and… we'll get this figured out."
"Yeah. We'll figure this out."
Of course Fatty hadn't had the answers. Of course he hadn't been able to help. Why would he? Why would he want to?
She never should have asked him in the first place.
Loona stalked back and forth in the apartment kitchen. With a snarl and a yell, she kicked over the trash can. It hit the floor with a crash, and old rotting foodstuffs spilled onto the floor.
Guilt and shame instantly replaced anger; and that instinctive paranoia that this would be Blitzø's last straw and he would kick her out reared its ugly head again. She looked over to the couch, checking if the noise had got a response out of him… but nothing.
She allowed herself to whine a little louder, now that her co-workers had gone. It was a very pup-like sound; a sound and emotion she'd been fighting to keep repressed for hours, for years, perhaps even since she was a pup. And she was ashamed of it.
Loona pressed both her paws against her temples, hard enough to make her vision blur so she could pretend she wasn't about to cry, until she could think a little straighter. Being herself wasn't helping.
She was Blitzø's daughter, and she should act like it for once. Like the grown, functional, capable hellhound she was.
And so Loona righted the trash can, and cleaned up the mess she caused. The stains on the floorboards could join the motley collection of puke blotches and beer spills already there, but the food scraps and wrappers and crushed-up cans went back where they belonged.
She made a hot chocolate, spiked it with coffee and a little vodka, and brought it over to Blitzø. Remembering that he wouldn't be able to drink it on his own, she pried his jaw open and carefully poured a little into his mouth, trying not to spill any on his front and doing quite a good job at it too. She waited for him to swallow before tipping the mug again; repeating the process over and over until the mug was empty.
She took their scratched and well-worn DVD of Spirit, shoved it in the player, and flicked on the crappy old TV. She sat beside her father again, leaning into him now, for her own sake. The movie started, and she watched his face to see if his special interest was getting through to him.
But still nothing. Still nothing.
And as cowboys pursued a lone mustang through the twilight, up from the forest to the mountains, Loona dropped her face into her paws.
she missed her father blink, tilt his head, surface from his stupor for just a second before slipping back into it again.
When she lifted her head again, several minutes later, her eyes and cheeks were damp.
And there was a text from Moxxie.
Job finished. Any improvement in Blitz's condition? We can bring dinner over in a few hours.
She couldn't bear it. Sitting here, unable to do anything, trying futilely to repress her emotions and her learned trauma while her father withered. She couldn't admit to Moxxie that Blitzø still wasn't getting better and she couldn't take whatever scathing judgement he'd pass on her for not trying hard enough.
Standing up, Loona found her paws leading her to Blitzø's room; still exactly the way she'd left it this morning. His bed, rumpled and unmade. His drawers, chronically stuffed with junk and unfolded shirts and socks and underwear.
Yellow and shaggy brown caught her eye, hung with surprising care on the jagged end of a broken pipe. It was the horse hoodie that had turned up a few months ago in the mail.
She picked it up, and sniffed it. It smelled unwashed - the strong lingering scent of Blitzø, and the faint odour of expensive preening shampoo and something avian and feathery.
He liked this hoodie a lot.
Loona carried it back out into the main room as two horses flirted in an autumnal valley on the screen. She debated trying to put the sweatshirt on him, but it seemed wrong to interrupt the movie, even though he wasn't really watching it.
So she laid it over him like a blanket.
Aside from a small inhale, he didn't respond to it at all. Not the texture, not the pungent unwashed smell of BO and bird (why the fuck did it smell of bird?), not even the fact it was his horsey hoodie.
A choked sob slipped out from Loona's muzzle and she scrubbed at her eyes aggressively.
She pulled out her phone and texted a terse reply to Moxxie.
no change
And she sent a message to Vortex as well.
sry tex can't make it 2nite
dad rly sick
rly sry
...
aw sry to hear girl! take care of ur dad-dude
there'll always bee another party, don't u worry
Would there, though?
Those words seemed meaningless, empty, to Loona.
She crumpled back on the couch. Stupid Blitzø. She might have had a shot at having an actual social life, at making new friends if he hadn't… if he hadn't…
…fuck, what was wrong with her? Why was she selfishly, stupidly angry at him over this?
"You asshole," she muttered, brokenly (to herself or to Blitzø? she wasn't quite sure), and she let herself fall sideways, head resting on Blitzø's lap. She would never have dared do this before, now it felt like the only thing she could do. Wanted to do.
She listened to his heartbeat, to the steady rhythm of him inhaling, then exhaling; her reminder that he was still alive. She breathed in the scent of his hoodie - his scent, and that birdy smell.
Fucks sake that preening oil smell was so strong, what could it possibly be?
Moxxie's words from earlier rang in Loona ears. "Crumbs, I don't wanna invade his privacy by reading his texts…"
Blitzø's hellphone.
His past life and personal life was well on the other side of a clearly marked boundary, same as it was with her. The 'I-won't-ask-if-you-don't's. But if anyone had to cross that boundary of his, at a time like now, it might as well be her. She was family, Moxxie wasn't.
And she needed answers, a clue, anything that was better than nothing.
Loona fished around for Blitzø's phone again. Since Moxxie last put it down, it had fallen into the gap between the coffee table and the sofa's armrest, and it had acquired another crack across the screen. She unlocked it for the second time that day, and let herself flop back down, resting her head against her father's side now.
She'd seen his messages already, when M&M made her bring up today's client's number. She knew there were no clues or any recent incidents there; nothing but his back-&-forth with his coworkers, his abundance of sappy messages sent to her, the clients who texted instead of calling I.M.P or showing up at the office in-person, and the better part of the millions of scammers who plagued all the rings of Hell.
His photo gallery, though. If nothing else she could at least find the cringiest sappiest pics he took of her and delete them (stare at them and regret not opening herself up to that affection just a little bit more, a little bit sooner).
She opened the gallery app.
And the very first photo she saw was a nighttime selfie. Blitzø lying in bed, a weary yet content look on his face. It was the most unguarded, normal, genuine expression she'd ever seen him wear. No clowning around, no Karen-smile crudely pasted on for anyone's benefit or detriment. Weary eyes accepting, if only for a moment, a little piece of respite.
And the figure spooned into his side was…
Holy fuck.
The prince.
The prince who her dad fucked once a month so they could get the book that got them to the human world, so I.M.P. could do their job, so she and Blitzø could keep this only-half-crummy apartment. The prince who Blitzø went on and on and on about how clingy and graphically sexual he was.
Frowning, she flicked further through his gallery; ignoring the blurry selfies, the pics of horse toys and Millie & Moxxie and accidental screenshots…
There. What must have been a saved photo, taken on a much better hellphone with a much better camera. It was that owl Goetia posing in his mirror, in a blue-wallpapered closet apparently as big as their whole-ass apartment, wearing the exact same yellow hoodie draped over Blitzø right now, just behind her head.
He'd sent the hoodie. Anyone who spent more than a few minutes with Blitz would find out about his horse obsession; but rather than ignore it this prince had chosen to encourage it; to show interest in it.
To show he was interested…
Oh.
Oh, shit.
That wasn't something that a sleazebag who was only DTF would ever do. That was something someone who cared would do. And the fact Blitzø had saved that particular photo to his hellphone - that wasn't something that someone who wasn't interested right back would do either. That was telling.
…
She needed to call that rich git.
Something in Loona's gut whispered that he had something to do with this. And it also whispered that he might be her last chance - Blitzø's only chance - at snapping out of this state. Loona knew, had seen first hand just weeks ago, that the Goetias wielded power and knowledge far beyond that of most demons. Possession, reanimation, necromancy…
It was frightening. And she was half sure that he might decline; that she'd get in deep shit for attempting to contact a royal. Or that she'd interpreted that photo wrong and the prince would just throw his broken boy toy away.
But…
Fuck.
Maybe there was a chance Stolas would know what to do.
" Mmm-hello? Hello, Blitzy?"
"It's not Blitz… it's Loona. His … daughter."
"Oh! I'm sorry, Loona… can I ask why are you calling from his phone?"
"... He needs help. He's been not moving, not talking, not responding all day. And he isn't getting better. I just - please. Before we try taking him to a hospital… please… can you come take a look at him?"
When Stolas received the call from Blitzø's daughter, his demonic heart froze.
His Blitzy was not well.
Spilt cereal, stained nightgown, and Hell-a-nova ignored, he threw on the first outfit he could find in his wardrobe (not sparing a thought for his messy feathers and unkempt appearance) and opened a portal to Blitzø's apartment.
He was no doctor, but he knew magic, and he knew herbology. Surely those could be of some help.
...
As soon as Stolas stepped through the portal, his head smacked into the low ceiling. Impish apartment, of course, he should have thought of that.
Shaking the pain off, he examined the apartment only briefly - it was so small. And he'd never thought too hard about that, the divide in living conditions between himself and the imps who were his staff, the imp who was his lover.
The apartment smelled of mold - stachybotrys, ulocladium, aureobasidium, his mind provided – those were hazards, health risks, why had the landlord not addressed such a glaring issue? Would he really have to pull rank and order that this building be inspected and renovated?
But that was not the immediate priority now. He could see Blitzø's horns over the back of the couch, and his hellhound daughter standing nearby in such a miserable, sorry state.
A new, urgent anxiety welling up in his throat, Stolas hurried to the sofa.
Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear, dear.
Blitzø, so usually full of life and sarcastic snark, of the fiery energy and passion he brought to the bedroom… was silent, lifeless, staring vacantly into the distance. For a moment he feared he was dead before he saw the imp's chest minutely rise and fall.
If Stolas's heart had frozen before, now it beat against his ribs like a desperate caged bird.
Oh Blitzy, what's happened to you?
Stolas knelt, his knees hitting rough unsanded flooring. He took Blitzø's hand gently, turned it over, and placed 2 talons against his wrist. (pulse slightly elevated). Then he reached up, pressed the palm of his hand to Blitzø's forehead (just slightly warm to the touch.)
He conjured a bright flame of starlight in his other hand and, moving it across the imp's field of vision, watched his eyes closely. They did not focus, they did not follow, they shrank only gradually in response to the light. And they watered, and wept; already red and puffy from shed tears, he could tell.
Blitzø had not responded to Stolas's touch either, and that wrenched his gut the most.
The Goetia took Blitzø's hand again, and lifted his arm up from where it limply hung. He rapped his knuckles against his biceps, his triceps, and his forearm.
"What are you doing?" Loona challenged.
"I'm testing his reflexes," Stolas assured her, mentally timing how long it took for Blitzø's arm to twitch in response. Next he applied pressure to Blitzø's palm. The imp's claws clutched at and tightened around his talons; blindly, automatically.
This was definitely catatonia, then. Hypokinetic, judging by the slow reflexes and lack of voluntary movement. Symptoms of high stress as well - and sadness, an overpowering impression of deep sadness in those red-rimmed watering eyes. What possibly could have caused this?
"Was there any indication that he was… unwell… in the past few days?" he asked the hellhound still standing behind him.
"No," she muttered, miserably. He couldn't blame her, the sinking feeling inside him might very well have been a black hole of despair. He'd assumed - hoped - that this was a mere illness with a simple cure that imps or hellhounds would not have known the answer to (could not afford, a part of his mind queried, the part that was still stuck on moldy tiny ill-maintained apartment).
"This kind of stupor shouldn't develop so quickly," Stolas ruminated, wracking his brain for causes of these most worrying symptoms, second-guessing his happy memories of full moons spent with his impish lover. He barely noticed the apartment door open, the two other imps who worked for his Blitzy's company gasp at his presence, the smell of cold trout amandine in plastic containers and the ornery exchange between the little male and Loona.
Catatonic depression. Could it get this bad?
He remembered the hopelessness he'd felt years ago, with the clock ticking down to his forced marriage and forced duty to procreate. The urge to just stop and slip the clutches of his woes by practically not existing had been strong… but he'd had no choice but to robotically perform the part he'd been given. His butler or his father made sure of it. The 'happy pills' he'd been prescribed had kept him buoyed up just barely enough to function, as they still did now.
And now to see the one who had made his life thrilling and new seemingly succumbing to the fate he'd wished on himself as a forlorn teenager… it was like a little blessed blade in the chest.
There wasn't any clear answer to this situation, not that he could immediately see.
But for his Blitzy, he had to try.
"Loona – or you two little ones –" He'd forgotten their names again, but that was hardly of most concern right now. " – could you please fetch the Grimoire from wherever Blitz usually keeps it? If the prophecies of the stars can offer any answers I would sorely like to see them."
Loona looked almost defeated at his request, as if she expected this wasn't going to work. Stolas tried to ignore it. There had to be something he could do for his lover.
There had to be.
Stolas portalled back to his library. Gathering books and tomes he had on medicine and psychiatry, he pored over their pages in record time, raced to his stores and raced back to Blitzø's apartment well before the two little imps returned with the grimoire - probably before they'd even made the drive to I.M.P's office.
It was only his first trip.
He tried benzos crystals, ground into a fine white powder and dissolved in water that he tried to tip gently into Blitzø's mouth. A quarter of it spilt down his front. Loona snatched the cup off Stolas with a glare and took over, and she had much more success getting more of the concoction past his lips.
They both waited with baited breath, but Blitzø's stupor did not subside.
Stolas then tried his magic, channeled through magnetite, gently massaging through Blitz's temples. Humans did not have magic, but they had some control over electricity and magnetism, and their efficacy of those elemental forces when applied to medicine and mental health treatment was supposed to be very high.
Not even so much as an eye twitch. And the sky was darkening outside.
He tried a dopamine agonist derived from ergot fungi, concentrated then diluted into a liquid form. With a spell from the Grimoire he'd never had the chance to use, he cast the formula straight into Blitzø's bloodstream.
Still nothing.
Stolas returned to his library, trying to see if he'd got something wrong in his earlier, hasty research. He considered more holistic treatments, and accordingly sought out books on medicinal plants, herbs, and lapidary medicine.
He tried ginseng picked from his garden and blended into a tonic, dripped onto Blitz's tongue with a pipette.
He tried channeling his magic through jasper, then obsidian, then bismuth.
He ground ginkgo bark and lavender into an incense that made Loona sneeze when lit. She tried to open a window, and the black-haired little imp (Millie, he recalled) tackled her to the floor.
Every avenue Stolas tried was fruitless.
Night had fallen, and now he took his grimoire to his balcony, nearly ripping the pages as he rifled to the relevant spell. Red eldritch magic tore a hole in the smoggy skies of the Pride Ring, revealing the stars in greater clarity.
The stellar portents of Blitzø's past and future were frustratingly circular, an Ouroboros of pain. A waxing moon in conjunction with Saturn. He couldn't make sense of it at all. And why was his horoscope there? Why were vague, wispy strands of his existence tied so closely to Blitzø's möbius loop?
Was this his fault, somehow?
He didn't dare look too closely. He wasn't supposed to scry his own future.
In desperation, as he stormed back inside, through the master bedroom and past his ensuite, he glanced at the bottle of 'happy pills' sitting beside the sink, and he considered trying those, to see if those would help Blitzø's condition.
The thought made Stolas recoil. No, how could he even entertain such a reckless idea?
But nothing else had worked…
You fool, you know all too well those generic antidepressants so hastily prescribed haven't truly helped you, let alone cured you. And they surely would not make any difference to a sudden case of extreme catatonia! What a useless, unbecoming Goetia you are, letting your emotions rule you.
He portalled back to Blitzø's apartment, exhausted and at his wits end, feathers very ruffled from the number of times he'd torn his talons through them.
And, for the first time, tired and burnt out as he was, his attention was drawn to the photos covering the whole left wall of the main room. He'd barely registered them before, preoccupied with Blitzø's condition… but now…
Photos of Blitzø. Blitzø with his co-workers. Blitzø with his daughter. Blitzø without the white patches on his face, with an imp who looked oh so similar to him.
And Blitzø had censored his face out in every last one. Old scribbles, no pungent smell of marker pen lingering. This wasn't a recent symptom; this was a chronic and lingering pattern that could have - must have - been going on for years.
This wasn't right. This wasn't like the fearless first friend he'd ever had; the bold suitor he'd come to know in the last year. This wasn't the Blitzø he knew.
This wasn't the Blitzø he thought he'd known.
Blitzy had been suffering, and he'd never noticed?
He fumbled for his phone and brought up his gallery of photos from their full moon nights and from the other dates they had been on.
For the first time, Stolas saw Blitzø in each one; frowning, averting his gaze; looking despondent and lost in thought. Obligated. Not the 'playing hard to get' he'd thought he'd remembered.
He felt his heart fracture.
For the first time, Stolas comprehended the gulf between him and the imp he loved. The vast difference in class. He was a Goetia, born into untold wealth, living in a palace, drinking fine wine and absinthe from vast cellars. Blitzø was an imp, born into a poor travelling circus, fighting his way through a world where the highest his species could climb on the social ladder was 'servants for demon royalty'.
Stolas may have been caged, but at least the cage was gilded. Blitzø's cage was rusted, full of spikes.
Blitzø had started up an ambitious assassination business that needed a unique selling point because imps didn't own businesses like that. He and his company needed access to the human world to succeed, to make ends meet. Asmodeus would never give his crystals to anyone but succubi, incubi, and other royalty - and the only other option were the portal spells found in grimoires like Stolas's.
And Stolas had been dangling that over his head, just out of reach, because he'd been so infatuated with the idea this was a romantic game right out of his saucy novels… when the truth was not that. Not that at all.
Favours for favours, he'd said, nearly one year ago exactly.
And the favours for him were a pleasurable luxury, whereas the favours for Blitzø were a necessity.
This was sexual coercion.
How could he? How could he how could he how could he…
Despair overtook him, and he drowned in it for an indeterminable stretch of time.
"C'mon, dumbass, what are you standing around staring at the wall for?" Loona grumped, her voice muffled and distant - as were what sounded like gasps and admonitions from the two littler imps.
Numbly, Stolas made his way back to Blitzø's side. He knelt once more by his side, and, against the tightening of his traitorous throat, began yet another diagnostic spell.
But he barely made it a few wobbly sentences in before he shattered.
"I'm s-sorry Blitz!" he sobbed, crashing to his knees and clutching the imp's rigid hand. "I'm sorry, I-I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Oh, darling…Blitzy…B-Blitz… I'm so sorry…"
Through his tears, Stolas heard paws padding up behind him, and he knew Blitzø's daughter was judging him. Here he was, a prince of the Ars Goetia with legions at his command a pathetic mess over an imp he'd coerced into an unhealthy relationship. His father would be ashamed, for many many reasons. He knew he was more ashamed of himself right now than his father ever could be, but he doubted that his distress and self-loathing could even compare to Loona's.
"I'm sorry, Loona, I truly am, I – this must be my fault, I-I know I should be capable of more, and I've let you and your father and your - your father's company down… I-I've been s-so selfish…"
He looked up, expecting the anger he knew he deserved.
But the hellhound stared at him, eyes wet and… full of understanding? Wonder? Realisation?
"You really do care," she whispered.
Stolas stared back at her.
"I always thought you were a clingy rich sex maniac," Loona carried on. "He did, too." She flicked her head in Blitz's direction, and Stolas felt his heart break a little bit more. "Guess that's why he kept fucking going on about you two being 'transactional'. So he wouldn't catch feelings."
Stolas's breath hitched and trembled. He tried to swallow back his tears, swallow back the grief and the gutpunch and that tiny foolish bit of hope still left in the debris of his aching, aching chest.
"But look," Loona said. And she crouched down, unlocked Blitzø's phone, swiped the screen a few times, and flipped it around to show him.
On the screen was the most beautiful photo he had ever seen. Him in bed with Blitzø, fast asleep, feathers shed and scattered around them on the sheets, like rose petals that shone silver in the moonlight. Clearly not long after one of their monthly passionate rounds of fornication.
And Blitzy was smiling. A tired smile, but there it was. Affection. Contentedness. Relief.
He saw an expression that encapsulated the exact way he'd felt as the afterglow waned on those full moon nights, when joy and excitement turned into companionable, sleepy silence tinged bittersweet by the reality that soon Blitzy would be gone again for another month and he'd be left to Stella's insults and cruelty.
Love. Unmasked, unguarded, unhidden love, soft and frail, vulnerability in the briefest of times and places when it felt safe to be vulnerable.
Blitzø had feelings for him after all?
And it was Blitzø who hadn't thought that Stolas truly loved him? Who felt that he couldn't trust him enough to profess his own love – for good reason?
Oh - oh - oh -
Stolas's shattered heart tried to put itself back together; its shards still stabbing into his very soul.
He sobbed even harder.
Even as tears poured from all four of his eyes and completely blurred his vision, he couldn't take his eyes off the photo. He couldn't.
Blitzø. Blitzø.
Stolas wailed.
He felt hesitant little hands rubbing his back as he gasped for air through his weeping and blubbering.
"I think we have to leave it for tonight," said Moxxie in a choked-up voice. "We'll take him to St Ans in the morning, Your Highness."
"You did what you could," Loona murmured, hovering somewhere in front of him. "At least you'll probably have the clout to get Blitzø taken seriously down there."
She lifted Blitzø from the couch oh so easily, and started to carry him to one of the two doors that must lead to one of two bedrooms.
This was supposed to be the point where he left. The unspoken dismissal, the understood 'you-are-not-needed-here-anymore.'
But Stolas didn't want to go. He didn't want to go. He couldn't bear the idea of being parted from Blitzø, not like this, not when the imp was still in this state. The little voice at the back of his mind hooting a warning about not going back to his mansion was only a minute part of it; Blitzø's wellbeing was far higher priority right now.
"Can I… can I watch over him?" he croaked hoarsely, not caring any longer what they thought of him. Already he had received more compassion than he deserved from these three near-strangers, all stopped to stare at him now; the only bond they shared through knowing this emotionally wounded survivor, this inspirational hero of a demon.
They had the right to tell him no, to tell him to go away. But for Blitzø's sake, and to at least try to make it up to his little found family unit.
"Sure." Loona's somber assent reminded him so much of his dear Via right now. Oh, how similar they were. Him and Octavia. Blitzø and Loona. What they could… could have been, in a kinder world.
Loona started moving again, gingerly opening the door with the crude horse doodles stuck all over it.
And Stolas followed her, into a dingy and messy room so far removed from the ruggedly romantic bedchambers he had up until hours ago assumed Blitzø would sleep in. He whacked his head on the doorframe, then on the light fixture; and he stumbled his way to the corner of the room with the least mess and the best view over both bed and door.
Loona laid Blitzø gently in bed, pulling the blankets over his still body.
Stolas sat, awkwardly, folding and contorting his long legs in a way he knew would bring aches and stiffness soon enough. But he didn't care about that. He had to keep watch over Blitzy, like he had when Via caught her first flu and Stella refused to interrupt her social schedule to care for their daughter.
And yet…. the two littler imps seemed to be making a nest on the couch for the night, right outside Blitzø's door. And Blitzø's hellhound daughter was here, too, tucking him in with extra care.
This was not like it was with Stella. Not at all.
Loona lingered, patting her father's head idly for seconds that drew out into minutes. Stolas thought he saw a little awareness in Blitzø's's gaze, sparkling in the dark, as the hellhound brushed her paw over his forehead, up to the base of his horns.
Unbidden, he found he was shakily humming a few bars of the lullaby he used to sing to Via whenever she had nightmares.
And Blitzø's eyelids gradually drooped closed.
Still Loona stayed there, for just a little longer. She backed out of the room, keeping her eyes on her father as long as she could. When she was almost out the door, she seemed to change her mind, and curled up on the floor, face pointed right at the bed; tail wrapped tightly around her.
"You better be fucking awake tomorrow, Dad," Stolas heard her sniffle.
And in the dark, he echoed that sentiment, in a silent accursed prayer to whatever fates, stars, or eldritch abominations might be out there and listening and willing to intervene. Over and over and over again.
Please, wake up, Blitz. Please, wake up, Blitz.
That was Stolas's very last thought that night before fatigue and sleep took him too.
When Blitzø woke the next morning, back in his right mind and back in his right body and not suffering from half a year trapped on the same day, he was very surprised to find Stolas fitfully dozing in a long-legged folded-over heap in the corner of his room.
He was even more surprised when he was assaulted with a massive hug from Millie and Moxxie as soon as he stepped out the door and tripped over a hellhound-sized huddle on the floor. He was amazed when Loonie, his daughter, joined the hug without question or complaint, despite the fact he had nearly fallen on her.
And he was stunned when he was lifted from behind and held close to Stolas's floofy chest, and peppered with pecks/kisses on his forehead and cheeks.
It frightened him. The unquestioning compassion, the sudden fulfilment of his wishes to have a family just like this. The fact that he didn't know what he'd done to deserve this. The knowledge that he would just fuck up this good thing again at some point down the road.
And he wanted to push it away. To remind them (and himself) to keep their distance. To remind them (and himself) that he was a dangerous beast, a toxic puddle of demon sludge who poisoned, who burned all who he touched, all who touched him. Verosika. Barbie. Fizz. Mom.
He had to remind himself that he shouldn't have this, because he could never have this. Loona, Moxxie, Millie, Stolas… he would hurt them too, one day, and that was inevitable. He would ruin a good thing; better to ruin it knowingly so it would hurt a little less.
But a lingering shade of some vague memory stopped his urge to leave, to guard himself against closeness and that ever present spectre of heartbreak. Faint dreamlike images of dates gone wrong, of time hopelessly stalled, of Stolas limp in his arms and a howl tearing through his throat. Of death, death, death; over and over and over again.
Memories that weren't his, and yet were.
Something had happened. And the family he knew he annoyed and heckled and held at arm's length (yet clung to nonetheless) had come and cared for him.
Had they seen who he was underneath the mask, the clownish makeup, the burn scars? Had they seen the repulsive ugliness of his very being, and decided to stay with him despite that?
Had they seen Blitzø, with the O, and still chosen to love him?
...
It made him want to try to be better.
