SIXTY-EIGHT

Blitzø tried to push past the grey guarddog lesbian at the hotel doors, only to get a literal harpoon jabbed in his face. She growled something vaguely prejudiced towards imps. Usually that would've been the cue for him to go full Karen, but Blitzø was here at this ridiculous redemption rehab resort with an actual mission, and he wasn't leaving until he'd fulfilled it.

Good thing that the Princess had a knack for timely appearances. And a too-soft heart. And her moth girlfriend in the palm of her hand. And that Blitzø came with the bribe of a donation (a good chunk of his own savings), which by the dumbfounded-hopeful expression on her porcelain face was sorely needed.

Charlie Magne, daughter of the one-&-only Lucifer, was just as nervous and inexperienced in the flesh as she had been on TV - but she was also earnest, genuine, unguarded in a way his regular shrink wasn't.

It was surprisingly straightforward to open up to her.

Now obviously Blitzø wasn't naming any names, but the gist of it - his lost family, his breakups, his current crisis - he conveyed. And she listened intently, nodded; picked up where he trailed off with words that came from a place of empathy instead of a manual. She spoke of closure and closeness, and of trusting the deepest little spark within you. She saw him off with a gentle smile, a handshake, and almost-infectious optimism.

(He'd almost told her about the time loops - he was tempted. But he'd suspected Daddy Apple wouldn't've passed all his knowledge down to his soft-hearted offspring just yet.)

Closure. It's more of a slammed door than the Princess made it out to be.

He'd tried DMing Fizz. Got insta-blocked. But could you blame the jester for hating his once-best-friend whose actions had led to the loss of his limbs? Blitzø hadn't forgiven himself either.

Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe this was all the closure he could get.

A jeer snapped Blitzø out of his disassociation. Oh yeah, he was loitering round the back of Ozzie's, and there was Verosika glaring daggers at him from the loading bay. She snarled her usual volley of bitter, mostly-justified insults at him – for showing his face, for the Spring Break fiasco.

Blitzø didn't respond in kind. Instead he apologized.

Verosika was stunned, then confused, then agitated. She still distrusted him, as if Blitzø were merely trying to crawl back to her.

He wasn't. He really wasn't. Blitzø didn't feel what he once felt for her, but he had done Verosika wrong towards the end of their fling. He did push those close to him away until they deeply, deeply resented him.

She'd deserved better, and he said just that.

She snarked an agreement, but the sourness didn't quite reach her eyes. She could clearly tell that this was very out-of-character for Blitzø. The distance between them remained, but it was no longer scorched and burning.

He awkwardly wished Verosika the best, and departed amidst their awkward, sad silence. When he looked back, she'd vanished.

SEVENTY

Astronomy. Stolas did space shit as part of whatever his Goetia job was, and the interior of his mansion was resplendent in starry patterns and designs. The lining of his coat was its own silken galaxy.

Blitzø found an empty hilltop somewhere in Envy, packed food and wine and binoculars, and together he and Stolas gazed at the incredible constellations above with covetous wonder.

When they drove back to the mansion there was the glint of a rifle behind the gates Blitzø swerved the van just so, putting himself between Stolas and the oncoming bullet –

SEVENTY-ONE

He woke up kicking himself; he needed to be sure that Striker was the one who died first that night.

SEVENTY-FOUR

Plants. Stolas could go on for ages about growing and tending to a range of vegetation (and not smoking any of it).

Blitzø asked Millie if there were any fancy for-looking-at-only gardens in Wrath. There were; out on the volcanic ranges and black rock plains where crops couldn't cling on.

Stolas oohed and aahed at the cacti; the hardy moss; the snaking lavavine that glowed incandescent in the dark. He pecked Blitzø's cheek, and the imp flushed.

The poisonous seed pod Blitzø swiped from the gardens came in handy that night, back at the mansion. He lobbed it at Striker as they wrestled, and toxic juices splattered them both.

They were both goners, but Striker rattled his last breath first, and Blitzø grinned despite the onset of rigor mortis and Stolas's tears.

He'd done it. He'd kept Stolas alive.

SEVENTY-FIVE

Naturally, there was some celebrating and rubbing in someone's face he had to do today. Fuck you, owl bitch. I can kill your assassin now. I can save your husband, who I care about more than you.

Whaddaya think of that, huh? Turn me into stone, go on, you can't stop me, cu-

SEVENTY-SIX

Okay, maybe enough getting killed.

An anonymous tip to Stolas's butler, and the suggestion of putting those bear traps to their intended use (or something closer to it).

Striker struggled as Stolas's eyes glowed with stilling (sexy) crimson power.

Why hadn't Blitzø thought of this before?

SEVENTY-SEVEN

It still didn't break the loop, though. Damn.

EIGHTY-ONE

Clothes. All of Stolas's outfits; the fancy getup in his endless wardrobe, the collection of corny Dad shirts, the themed costumes he took great joy in putting on for the full moons. The homely tweed jacket, turtleneck & scarf he wore for stargazing. The light khakis he wore to the gardens.

Yet somehow, Stolas had nothing Goth to wear. Time to introduce him to Stylish Occult.

…oh fuck, wow. Wow. In ripped pants, eyeshadow, and a leather bolero, Stolas was smoking hot. Hotter.

Wow.

Much later; clothes thrown aside, the bedsheets rumpled, the stone figure of Striker bracketed in a bear trap out on the balcony, they were smoking their customary post-coital cigarettes when Stolas sadly mentioned that Octavia liked Stylish Occult, that he wondered what she'd think of his new getup. If they'd see each other again.

A sometimes-shunned father himself, Blitzø felt a pang of sympathy pass through him.

EIGHTY-TWO

When he rose, when his claws finished shredding his blanket because yesterday had actually went well for fucks sake, he'd started to hope again… Blitzø remembered that last conversation, and he remembered his long-estranged sister.

At least Barbie was willing to talk to him through the partition, even if it were all variations on "fuck you" and "you basically killed Mom" and "why do you care now, bastard."

But they were still brother and sister at the end of it all, and when the rehab warden came to eject Blitzø, the siblings were sitting back to back, eyes closed; mirroring the other through the glass.

Asking Stolas about Octavia was apparently enough to unbalance the rhythm they danced to last night. Stolas was downcast for the rest of their date. They didn't fuck that night, and the silence they lay in was furtive, guilty.

NINTY-THREE

Striker appeared through the curtains and Blitzø realized with a jolt that he'd forgotten to tip off the butler tonight.

He pretended to be asleep until the telltale click of a loaded bullet reached his ears, then pulled a hatchet out of hammerspace and flung it. Striker's severed hand fell and the imp yelped.

Blitzø flew from the bed like he hadn't been cocooned by Stolas a moment before, and without hesitation took up the hatchet again and hacked away wildly at Striker's limbs, face, torso. Hacked and swung and chopped until there was an unrecognizable pile of flesh at his feet, and then some more.

It was Stolas's voice that snapped him out of the berserker rage. Softly curious, skittish, a little turned on. Blitzø knew he'd been far, far too invested in that kill.

He tried to play it off, play into Stolas's bloodlust.

It half-worked, but the carnal throes all felt wrong.

ONE HUNDRED & FOUR

Back to stargazing in Envy. The skies were less brilliant to him now. Blitzø envied those able to experience this for the first time.

ONE HUNDRED & EIGHTEEN

Back to Ozzie's. He stood up to Fizz's accusation this time, and next moment they were brawling, and then after that the bouncer manhandled him all the way to the inter-ring elevators; bloody-faced and bruised.

Stolas rang at midnight, to let him know that the assassin had been dealt with and to thank Blitzø for what time they did spend together that night. Millie called not long after, asking if he was okay. Blitzø couldn't say much through the aches in his jaw.

As Loona patched him up, he slumped against her and fell asleep.

ONE HUNDRED & TWENTY-SIX

Striker will meet his end anywhere in the mansion. If he comes via the balcony; there are bear traps. If he slinks through the halls, there are tripwires and invisible nets. If he gets past all of those, there's Blitzø's flintlock, hatchet, fists.

Blitzø heard a distant choking this night – the greenhouse corridor, probably – but he didn't smile.

ONE HUNDRED & THIRTY

Woke up. Mission. Botanic gardens with Stolas. Back to the mansion. Striker caught in bear trap. Fell asleep.

ONE HUNDRED & THIRTY-SEVEN

Woke up. Mission. Lu-Lu World with Stolas. Back to the mansion. Striker burnt to crisp in plasma fountain. Fell asleep.

ONE HUNDRED & FORTY-ONE

Woke up. Mission. Drinks with Stolas in a firefly-lit field. Back to the mansion. Striker baked into a pie. Fell asleep.

ONE HUNDRED & FORTY-NINE

Woke up. Mission. Took shaky breaths in a bathroom for thirteen minutes. Tangoed with Stolas in an empty ballroom. Striker flung out between dimensions. Fell asleep, eventually.

ONE HUNDRED & FIFTY-TWO

Woke up. Same day.

ONE HUNDRED & FIFTY-FIVE

Woke up. Same day. Same secret tears.

ONE HUNDRED & SIXTY

Woke up.

…

He didn't want to.

…

Yes he did. He had to. He needed to.

Why?

…

He couldn't/wouldn't say it.

ONE HUNDRED & SEVENTY

He slipped up. He got so caught up trying to replicate any feeling of excitement that he wasn't watching Moxxie's back, and suddenly there was a shotgun blast through Moxxie's shoulder and a frantic effort to get him back through the portal, mission aborted.

Millie's betrayed scowl hurt almost as much as Blitzø's internal self-flagellation; he'd ruined their anniversary.

That night he didn't take Stolas out, but he did go over to the mansion, half-drunk, and they did have sex – desperate, furious sex. It was something of a release, but it didn't quell his heart.

ONE HUNDRED & SEVENTY-THREE

Somehow, somehow he said something that gave Stolas the impression that he didn't want sexual relations anymore. Their deal was over; but they could still perhaps be friends? And Stolas was willing to remain I.M.P's patron.

Big whoop. Stupid respectful misinterpreting Stolas. Stupid Blitzø.

Back at the apartment, he drank himself into a stupor. He barely registered Loona carrying him to his bed.

ONE HUNDRED & SEVENTY-FIVE

Today Millie got injured – bits of tree imbedded in her leg after Blitzø decided that he wanted the chainsaw today. Once through the portal he fled the building in shame and found refuge between two dumpsters.

The rambling apology of a text he sent to M&M was answered, but Blitzø's brain couldn't process their forgiveness.

ONE HUNDRED & SEVENTY-SEVEN

Not Loona. Not Loona, not her knocked out by a tree falling through a portal opened too close to her desk.

Blitzø took her straight home and refused to leave her unconscious side all day, all evening, all night.

ONE HUNDRED & SEVENTY-NINE

Gunshot. Burst of pain. The hard marble floor. Warm wet trailed down his back & front.

Striker slipped his mind again, though the imp doesn't elude Stolas's immobilising glare.

Dying in Stolas's downy arms, Blitzø couldn't think of anything but his mistake(s).

ONE HUNDRED & EIGHTY

Blitzø took it upon himself to position the bear traps on the balcony tonight, for maximum coverage and for his own assurance.

He missed the fact that this gave Striker advance warning.

At midnight there was glass shattering from above, and frantic disentangling of blankets and sheets.

They scuffled, all three of them in close combat, until Striker petrified and disintegrated into dust.

Blitzø didn't notice Stolas was shot until the red of his eyes faded and the owl collapsed from his final effort.

The imp clung to the prince's body, shook his limp shoulders, felt his own voice ascend to someplace hysterical. Wake up, you dumb feathery husband-of-a-bitch. Come on, shrug it off. You're not fucking double-dead. Wake the shit up.

I need you. I want you.

…

I think I love you.

I think you love me too.

…

Please.

ONE HUNDRED & EIGHTY-ONE

He stirred, and yet he was stuck. His claws shuddered too much to even grip the blankets. His room blurred and spun, and his senses evaporated.

All he could think of was Stolas, at the top of a golden staircase that he kept slipping down. Stolas, bleeding out. Stolas, delighted. Stolas, heartbroken.

Stolas, far too good for a screw-up of an imp.

Somewhere distant, a door opened. Paws lifted him into a sitting position, wrapped him in a blanket. Someone whispered into a phone.

Now he was on the couch. There was one larger body to his right and two smaller ones to his left. Claws running circles over his knee. A shoulder pressed into his. Voices but no words.

Two left, one remained. A warm, sweet drink was poured past his lips; he swallowed on reflex. He could hear the thundering of galloping horses – was he hallucinating? Was someone playing a movie?

He blinked and it had turned dark. He was being carried again. He was in bed again. A paw patted his head and horns gently.

He drifted off.

(If he'd stayed awake a moment longer, he might have noticed four shadowed red eyes watching over him protectively.)

ONE HUNDRED & EIGHTY-TWO

Blitzø rose; and though he was clear-headed, steady-handed, and in control once more… it still was a struggle to just get out of bed.

On a compulsion that eluded his memory, he bought and brought Loona, Millie, & Moxxie extra-large cups of their favourite coffees that morning.

After the mission, before the evening, he went to the old circus ruins; to the patch of slightly lumpy grass only he knew was a grave.

He stood before his mother. He found nothing to say. So he took off the little skull choker that was once hers, laid it down on the ground for her as an offering of apology.

After another moment, he left.

When he took Stolas to Ozzie's once more Blitzø was running on autopilot. Blindly went through the motions of the evening, following the script.

He wanted to mean it when he accepted Stolas's invitation in, he really did. But he's so numb inside. Hopeless. Desperate. Empty. Full. Unbearably paradoxical.

Stolas noticed.

Stolas was watching him. Stolas was putting a cautious arm around him; handing him a glass of wine; taking it away when he hadn't taken a sip in probably half an hour. Stolas was gently guiding his chin upwards, looking into his eyes, noting the look of an old traumatized soul beyond Blitzø's actual years.

Stolas's eyes were the same shade of red as his mother's choker, and they held the same unfiltered caring as Tilla's once had. He asked a single question in a tone so familiar and authentic it turned Blitzø young and vulnerable again.

Are you alright, Blitz?

Blitzø tumbled over the edge, clutched Stolas's waist and bawled.

And with the tears, out came everything.

The time loop. That he'd killed himself and it hadn't worked. That he'd watched Stolas die again and again and again, and hurt his friends in different ways. That he'd been trying so many things to get out, to make the evening better for himself, for Stolas, for everyone involved. That he wasn't even sure anyone would believe him, but it has been half a year

and he was so fucking tired and he just wanted to get to tomorrow or for it to end, it didn't have to be a happy ending he just needed this to stop please –

Gentle talons cradled him, pulled Blitzo down on a couch or bed.

Stolas's voice was thick, but his words were full of belief, grief, reassurance. How could he still talk like there would be a tomorrow? Like Blitzø wasn't a failure? Like Blitzø was worth loving for trying and fucking up so goddamn much, like he was grateful for it? How –

And then Stolas sang.

It always seems so quiet in the dark.

It always seems so stark.

And Blitzø couldn't help but surrender to the trembling melody, to the tranquility of the words, to the blurring of his reality and the shining stars that began to swirl around them.

You will be okay.

In that moment, maybe Blitzø could believe it.

Upon the last day,

You will be okay.