Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first day was bad.

It was dawn. The stringy darkness was slowly sucked into the window as the hellsun rose, clinging and sticking only to the lone gangly figure on the couch. Feathers lay in exhausted disarray. One hand trailed to the floor, fingers frozen caressing a bottle of absinthe.

It had been a nightmare, surely, the figure thought. Light filtered through his eyelids at last. The memories of the previous day were beginning to come back to him, carving their way through his insides as nausea rose in his throat.

‘Stolas’, he heard faintly.

Stolas. It was a name, he thought dimly. His name - supposedly. A collection of sounds, meant to refer to him.

"Mother," he remembered asking, in what felt like another lifetime. "Why did you choose to name me Stolas? Does it have some significance?"

  Soft laughter had sounded, and a tired hand had stroked his downy feathers. "I didn't choose it, sweetheart. It was written in the stars, long before your birth, or indeed mine. That a son would be born, under a sun in Cancer and a moon in Pisces, as Libra rose above the Earth’s horizon and Venus circled Saturn - and that he shall be named Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia, as is his destiny."

"So - is my future there, as well?" He'd asked in wonder. He could barely remember now, having a sense of wonder. "Written in the stars?"

"I don't know," the voice had said softly. "Prophecy is not a gift I possess. But it may well be the gift given to you."

  "Be careful. It is not always wise to know what one's own future may hold, Stolas."

Soft feathers rubbed against his own with a gentle hoot. The young prince had cooed in response. "Do not be afraid. Your future will be bright, my little starfire. I look forward to seeing the man you become."

"Stolas," a voice - very different from his mother’s, male and rough - repeated more insistently. The bird groaned.

If he was an optimist, he may have found some solace in the fact that once upon a time he had been deemed important enough for a name. But he was not. Nor had the name ever really been his.

There were other names he'd been given. Ones he'd earned and ones he had tarnished.

Lover.

Husband.

... Dad.

Each and every one of them felt like a scrape against his skin; each a name gifted to him that he had then thrown away.

An alarm clock blared. Stolas squeezed his pillow until his muscles ached and whimpered.

A calloused hand softly touched his feathers as he curled into the couch. The voice became softer.

"Stols?"

There was no answer. The owl felt a weight shift, and heard the creak of the springs.

"Stols, can we... talk?"

Blitzø squirmed, trying to find a space to sit between Stolas and the edge of the pillow.

"Look. I - yesterday was hard. I get that. I mean - well, no, of course I don't - " He sighed.

"We don't have to talk about it all yet, I just... I just need to know why you didn't tell me you needed these." A soft shaking sound followed, reminding him of Octavia's rattle. The voice was soft, softer than Stolas deserved. "I could've gotten some for you. You didn't have to -"

"No, you couldn't have," the bird laughed dryly. His throat felt parched, and his claws dug into the fabric.

"Why not?"

Finally, Stolas looked up, squinting his eyes at the sun. "Because they cost a fortune." He smiled in a way that made Blitzø's heart drop. "Only meant for noble-grade depression, you see, for self-absorbed, exorbitantly wealthy, egotistical narcissists unhappy with their privileged lot."

"Stolas -"

"I don't need them anymore," Stolas snapped. "I've got everything I ever wanted, haven't I?"

A silence hung between them like a curtain of vines. Blitzø opened the bottle, shook two pills onto his palm, and held it out towards Stolas. “It’s not a choice, Stolas. You’re taking them.”

Blitzø expected many things. Silent refusal, crying, yelling. What he didn't expect was laughter, and it made his blood curdle.

"Oh, Blitzy,” drawled Stolas, his fingers curling in a yawn. “My dear darling Blitzy. You really think two is enough?"

The imp took a deep breath. This was not the time. “Then what’s your fucking dosage?” His voice trembled like a tightly-pinched guitar string. Stolas didn't need a mess to deal with. Not another.

The bird shrugged and rotated his head back towards the back of the couch.

"If I take the rest of that bottle - that might be enough."

Blitzø's fingers closed over the pills in his palm, his breath hitching. "That's not funny, Stolas."

The bird buried his head in the pillow once more. The message was clear: leave me alone.

After a minute, there was a quiet, gentle sound. A soft whisper as the pills were poured from Blitzø’ trembling fingers back into the bottle. It reminded Stolas of the sound of sand in an hourglass.

He slept for the rest of the day.

The second day was worse.

Stolas woke to a clatter - the banging of dishes and pots as the smell of cooking oil wafted towards him. It was nauseating and loud. With a groan he drew the blanket - had someone draped one over him? - over his head.

"Morning, Stols!" Came an enthusiastic shout, accompanied by the bang of a kitchen cabinet. "Got something special for ya today, birdie!" 

Two minutes later, a plate was set on the coffee table before him. He lifted his head just a little, observing what Blitz had prepared - pancakes, with rats' tails poking out from the sides, the entire thing soggy and drenched in something called Beelzebub’s Breakfast Banger.

"Thought it would be up your alley," Blitzø grinned. "Ya know, because the rats were caught right up mine."

Blitzø winked. Stolas didn’t.

"There's chocolate chips?" Blitzø added hopefully. "And we've got whipped cream and everything."

"Thank you, Blitzø," the owl forced out softly. "I'm not hungry."

He heard a sigh that squeezed his insides. "It's not about that,” said the imp. “Ya gotta eat something, feathers. Doesn't have to be all of it. Just - half a pancake, glass of water and your meds." Blitzø smiled weakly, punishing the plate and glass towards him along with two pills on a napkin, the bottle now in his pocket.

Like he didn't trust Stolas to hold it.

"And then we can watch hellanovela on the couch if that's what you want. Nothing else, I promise. Loonie's out for a few days. How does that sound, Stols? We got a deal?"

"I don't do deals anymore,," Stolas said quietly.

"...Okay. Do me a favor then. Favor for a.... for me."

Stolas screwed up his eyes, digging into the merciful darkness of the couch cushions.

"Stolas -"

"You're trying," the bird mumbled. "I know you are, Blitzø. I appreciate it, truly. But right now, I want to be left alone, please."

"Too bad, feathers."

"Why?" Suddenly Stolas sat up, his eyes blazing. "Why, Blitzø? Why after everything can't you leave me alone for one single moment to wallow in my own misery to my heart's fucking desire?"

The imp's hands clenched. "You wanna know why? Because you were doing better," he said tensely. "You were. And you - we - we were getting somewhere. So what's all this, Stols? Ya gonna starve yourself to death?"

Maybe, said a voice in Stolas’ head.

Blitzø sharply inhaled air, and his voice softened. "Stolas," he said softly. "Octavia wouldn't want -"

The owl rose sharply, the horse blanket dropping to the floor in a heap. A moment later, the door to the bathroom banged, nearly dropping off its hinges. Blitzø heard the faucet running, failing to mask guttural, desperate sobbing.

The imp knew not to say her name after that.

“Stolas.”

It had been a month. A month, since Sinsmas, since the owl had been left sobbing in the snow by his own daughter.

Red fingers curled underneath his chin, bringing his face upwards. The white of his face had turned a pale ashen grey, framed by unkempt molting feathers. His beak was cracked and thin from dehydration, no matter how many glasses of water Blitzø pushed into his hands. His eyes were empty, unseeing red orbs, white pupils immobile as if suspended by a thread.

Slowly, they moved to meet the imp’s gaze. The owl said nothing. He knew this tone - and hated it. The I just want to help tone, the could you please take your medication today tone, the you’re scaring me, Stolas, and I don’t know how to help you tone.

Stolas hated it, because it was one more way in which Blitz pretended like he was worth caring about.

“Yes, Blitzø?” The owl asked, tired and quiet.

A weak smile was his reply - but Blitzø’ eyes were not happy. Sad, perhaps? Something else? He looked - determined, and stubborn.

“Get dressed. We’re going for a drive.”

The avian raised an eyebrow. “How very informative. Where are we going?”

“Just - put on something you like, birdie. Loony’s sweater, the one that’s fluffy as fuck.”

The imp seemed set on a course of action, and yet also agitated. Stolas felt guilt churning deep in his stomach. He didn’t deserve to have someone worry about him. He didn’t deserve any care from the man he abandoned his daughter for.

Slowly, he rose. The red sweater draped over him, hiding the edges of his bones that had gotten sharper. He inhaled. His old clothing had smelled of preening oils - this sweater, despite having been his for months, still smelled like a mix of Demonique and Blasphemy 666 from the Stylish Occult discount rack. The owl’s talon caught on a stray sequin, picking at it like a scab.

He missed his Via. Was that a crime? He tried - he really did. Some days he almost felt like the demon he’d been in early December - not healthy, far from it, but functioning and learning to thrive, little by little. He’d learned to do laundry, to answer the phone, even to sort out recyclables after one passionate speech from Moxxie.

And now - everything reminded him of Octavia. Every guitar chord in a stranger’s ringtone, every beanie drawn too low over the eyes, every ping of Loona’s phone.

He wondered what she was doing, at this very moment. Was she out with friends? Studying magic? Strumming a song, perhaps, or even doing something as mundane as getting a glass of water?

He’d never know. For a hundred years, he’d never know what his daughter was doing, or thinking, or dreaming. He could only hope that - no matter where she was - she’d never feel the way he did now. The thought nearly brought the little he’d been able to swallow of breakfast back up his throat.

His hands moved mechanically. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering to entertain whatever Blitzø’ new idea to cheer him up would turn out to be. Any fleeting moment of happiness did nothing but make it hurt more when he remembered what he had done. He walked outside behind Blitzø, waiting as the imp fought the ignition to go who-knows-where. Sometimes Blitzø tried to surprise him - a visit to the library, or tickets to a show. It had been nice, once in a while. But now, he feared even that, because he knew he’d pay for it after.

How can you smile? The voice would snarl. How dare you feel anything besides the guilt for what you’ve done to her?

It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Maybe it had always been there.

You worthless, pathetic excuse for a -

“FUCK!” Stolas squawked, eyes watering at a sudden sharp pain to his forehead.

“Car’s not getting any smaller, feathers. Door’s right where it’s always been.”

“You’re one to talk,” Stolas groaned, rubbing his head as he leaned further down, squeezing his head and limbs into the cramped, imp-sized vehicle. “You do not have to compress yourself into a conical singularity simply to enter a vehicle or dwelling.”

“Nope,” Blitzø said, jamming his keys in the ignition until a few stray sparks finally woke up the engine. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

He glanced over at the bird. “Would love to hear about conical what’s-it’s, though. Sounds rad.”

Stolas leaned his head against the window as much as the space would allow, and sighed as the van began making its way down the road.

“Where are we going, Blitzø?” He asked after a long silence. Blitzø’s hands tightened on the wheel.

“Look - I’m sorry, okay?”

Stolas blinked with a soft hoot, turning to look at him. An apology was not what he’d expected. “You’re - sorry?”

“Yeah,” said the imp. Stolas could feel the tension rising, and it made him curl a little inward despite himself. “I’m also not, because I can’t fucking watch you like this anymore. But I guess I’m sorry I’m not giving you a choice.”

Ah.

Well, it had only been a matter of time, he supposed. Stolas’ heart sank.

“Oh,” the bird said, softly. “I - I understand.” He thought to ask to return - to gather his things - and then remembered that he no longer owned anything that wasn’t a gift he didn’t deserve.

“You’re not mad?” Blitzø almost looked - relieved. “I didn’t mean to… spring it in you, like this. I guess. Could’ve had a whole talk about feelings and shit, but I just - I want to help. It helped me, yeah? And you’re - this is scaring the shit out of me. So just - I just need ya to try.”

“It helped?” Stolas asked, now frowning. He knew Blitzø’ family, too, had thrown him out - but had never heard the imp talk about it with anything but pain in his voice. Certainly not with appreciation.

“Yeah - yeah, it did. I mean, you’ve seen it. We talk now.” Blitzø gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Or - well, I talk at you mostly - but it helped us too, that time you came with, remember? With the flowers? I decoded all your floral bullshit and then we - I thought it helped us not be so… far apart anymore.”

Now Stolas was thoroughly confused. “The flowers?”

The car skidded to a halt, and then everything clicked into place.

“Blitzø,” Stolas said tensely, a hint of his former upbringing making itself known. “I am not  -“

He straightened up too fast, banging his head hard against the roof of the car with an undignified squawk. Blitzø rubbed his arm in sympathy.

“Sorry, birdie. You are going to therapy.”

Chapter Text

Stolas had met Dr. Smith before - had joined sessions before, in fact, several times. But it had been different. Therapy was something Stolas supported, wholeheartedly, as long as it focused on Blitz and not on him. The supportive partner, willing to improve his communication for the sake of their relationship, was a role that he knew how to play - even if he had to be taught that flowers should not be a primary method of communication.

He knew what the person before him could do. He knew that although his mind would not be explored without permission, his emotions would be as plain to the doctor as the color of the sky, and something about that terrified the ex-prince.

He sat in his usual chair, poised and smiling in that tight, practiced way he’d perfected for Goetia parties, his heart thumping in his chest. He knew it would do absolutely nothing to hide his feelings - not in this room, not to this being - and yet he couldn’t stop himself from trying it regardless.

Composure was something Stolas was proud of, even as his fingers trembled, wishing they were grasping a cigarette.

“Good morning, Dr. Smith,” he said, calmly and with a polite nod of his head. “I do apologize for my - unkempt attire. I’m afraid I left the house today unaware of my destination.” The last words were forced out through a smile so tight his beak appeared a solid line.

The therapist raised an eyebrow, taking in Stolas’ rumpled pajama pants, disarrayed primaries, and the smudged remains of week-old makeup. At no time would the Stolas they knew - the one from Blitz’s stories, and the one that accompanied him to sessions - leave the house without a feather out of place, let alone as he currently was. They noted the red-rimmed eyes; the tobacco-stained fingers; the effort it seemed to take Stolas to sit upright.

“What do you mean by that, Stolas?” They asked softly. Working with Stolas, on his own, was bound to be a different experience than seeing him together with Blitz. It nearly always was, in such cases.

The bird let out a small little laugh. “Ah, well. I suppose I’ve been - slightly sullen as of late, and Blitz, meaning well, I’m sure, has brought me here to talk to you. I’m very touched he cares, of course, but I must apologize for this waste of your precious time. I am sure you have clients that need attending.”

It unsettled him, the way Dr Smith’s eyes reflected the red of his own. His hands clasped and unclasped of their own volition.

“I see,” said the doctor. “And you don’t believe this to be the right course of action?”

“Of course not.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I am not depressed,” said Stolas with a casual wave of his hand.

The clock ticked, the sound feeling like it was filling the room. The owl blinked irritably, squinting. His talons scratched at the arm of his sweater, piercing in places through the weave of the wool and the gaps in his plumage, scratching the skin underneath.

“I see,” said Dr Smith simply.

“You see, the DSM-5 – “

As Stolas began to go on about the diagnostic criteria for depression, Dr Smith watched him curiously.  His sunken gaze, the lack of energy to his usual gestures. Blitz may have redirected fear into anger, but Stolas - Stolas would simply prefer an intellectual challenge to an emotional one.

Stolas said that liked words. The truth was that Stolas liked to hide in them.  

As the owl’s monologues finally ebbed, an uneasy silence filled the room.

“I see,” said Dr Smith. “In that case I have two questions for you, Stolas.” The bird simply nodded.

“Do you believe only those who are clinically depressed are worthy of help?” 

Stolas’ heartbeat quickened. “I - no,” he said, quieter. “Of course not. I simply meant - “

“Are you struggling, Stolas?”

“Is that the second question?” The bird snapped.

“It is a follow-up to the first.”

“I am fine.”

“Blitzø does not seem to think so.”

“Blitzø is well-meaning and mistaken.”

“So he does not know you well, then?” The doctor asked, leaning forward. “Or do you believe him generally to be a bad judge of character? Is he prone to overreaction, to being overly cautious in regard to the safety and well-being of others?”

Stolas thought about Blitzø - knowing the brand of his favorite preening oils, adopting the most perfect daughter on sight at the pound, and shrugging off scrapes and sometimes bullets embedded in flesh like it was a bee sting and nothing more. “No,” He sighed.

“So why then do you believe Blitzø believes you to be struggling?”

Tick. Tock. Tick.

One of his talons broke the skin on his arm - a tiny pinprick of pain grounding him in the moment.

“I do not know,” Stolas said. His accent became stronger, and his back a little stiffer. “I cannot - unlike you - read people’s minds. I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“Alright,” the therapist said, letting it go – for now. If he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready. “Then I have a second question, Stolas. Why did you bring up depression, specifically?”

Stolas blinked. “Well, I would have thought that would be rather obvious.”

“Why would that be?”

“It’s what Blitzø said, isn’t it?” Stolas sighed. “He’s been talking in sessions about me, hasn’t he?”

“I cannot discuss that,” they said, softer. “You know that.”

“No, that’s not what I – it’s fine – it’s fine if he does,” Stolas said in a voice that betrayed how painful that idea was. “That’s – you know. I don’t want to get in the way of – of him getting better.” Stolas smiled, weakly. “You know, Blitzø has really – we’re communicating a lot better now. It’s very rewarding. The other day -”

“Stolas Goetia,” came a gentle but firm reply. The dark eyes met his. “You’re avoiding the question.”

The bird’s knees drew together, arms folded over his chest. Despite being over nine feet tall, it was as if the demon was subconsciously making himself as small as possible. There were no words now – only their absence – and it made his insides squirm.

“During an earlier session,” Dr Smith continued calmly, “With Blitzø, you said you were prescribed medication after a previous diagnosis, for major depression and generalized anxiety. Is that the case?”

A nod.

“And do you have access to those medications now?”

A hesitation, and then a smaller nod.

There was silence. The doctor’s eyebrows raised in silent question, though they knew the answer. The waves of anxiety rolling off of Stolas were palpable even to the non-psychically gifted.

Stolas inhaled a breath, sharper than he intended. Be gracious, my little owlet, his mother’s voice reminded him. No matter what, always be gracious.

He stood brusquely and offered a curt bow. “Thank you. I understand you are fulfilling your professional duties, and I thank you for that,” said Stolas, with all the refinement of Goetia training – even as his beak quivered.

“But this is not what I need,” he said quietly. “I need my daughter back.”

The door closed. At least it was softer than when Blitzø slammed it.

Stolas sighed in relief, feeling the nicotine coating his tongue. The bottle of absinthe – or was it two? – standing next to him as he leaned over the railing helped, too.

Blitzø had tried to talk to him. On the ride home, and after. But Stolas had ridden in silence, avoiding the imp’s gaze, stopping only to grab another pack of cigarettes and the green bottle his fingers have been itching for before walking out onto the fire escape, closing the door firmly behind him.

He knew. He knew, deep down, that Blitzø cared, and that Stolas wasn’t being fair. That he was simply doing what any good partner would. But what Blitzø failed to see, to recognize, was that Stolas wasn’t worth that - wasn’t even worthy of the comfort of a couch underneath him as he slept – not after what he’d done to the one person he’d sworn undying loyalty to.

Have a good fucking life with him, dad.

He looked out onto Imp city. It was still noisy, below, as the sky began to dim and the streetlights began to flicker to life. His fingers wrapped around the railing, feeling the breeze ruffle his feathers. The sweat trapped within them made it feel a little cooler. He watched a group of young imps, stumbling out of a bar – Mixxie’s Tricksies – below, laughing with their arms around one another. Despite him, his eyes began to water.

Where was Octavia? Was she out there somewhere in the growing dark, arms around friends he’s never met? Was she laughing – was she happy? Or was she curled up in her closet, the way she did when she was little, drowning her pain – the pain he’d caused – in a bottle of her own? Is that what he had taught her?

The owl demon’s gaze drifted as a broken sob yanked at his beak. Down; down; further down still. He leaned his cheek against the cold railing.

Numbers had always come naturally to him – had filled his mind when words could not. He found them calming, reassuring. Numbers would always, one way or another, add up – there were no surprise variables. As long as one could solve what was on the page, it would all be okay.

Thirty meters, he estimated idly. Perhaps thirty-one if one included the height of the railing. A terminal velocity is 9.81 meters per second squared, which would amount to about three seconds of free-fall, but of course, he would not reach that speed. There was air resistance to consider, and the acceleration –

“Hey,” Came a voice behind him, interrupting his train of thought. In his absinthe-induced haze, his head whipped round, expecting that voice to be Octavia’s – but finding Loona instead.

“Scooch your feathered ass,” she said simply.

Stolas obeyed before his brain had processed the request. She plopped down next to him, threading her legs through the railing. Loona dug a cigarette out of her pack and reached it out towards him, and after a moment’s hesitation, Stolas lit it from his own.

The hellhound smiled. “Y’know, back in LA, your daughter lit it from just her finger.”

Stolas nearly choked, coughing out feathers and ash. “Via smokes?” He asked in a sudden panic.

“Nah. Just me, being a bad influence. She’s a good kid.”

“No,” Stolas sighed. “I’m sure you are an excellent influence on Octavia. She could dearly use a friend, I’m sure.” He glanced at Loona’s phone, wondering if there were texts from his daughter there, but did not pry. She had his number. She could… if she wanted… text him herself.

“And you?” Loona asked, blowing smoke into the breeze. “You need a friend?”

The bird gave her a sad smile. “Blitzø – “

“Not a lover, birdbrain, a friend.”

“That’s – very kind of you, my dear,” The bird sighed, looking back towards the city. “Please forgive me. I don’t think I’m very good company tonight.”

For a while they sat, in silence. But unlike the silence in the van, it wasn’t tense, somehow. It was – companionable,Stolas thought. Yes. Companionable silence.

“I know what it’s like, you know,” Loona said, after a long while. “To feel like you’re not worth anyone giving a shit about you.”

Stolas looked over to her. His eyes had begun to water again, of his own accord.

“It’s just miserable. Day in, day out. People pretending to care then throwing you away when they get to know you. Even the people who are meant to love you – even when you try your best – it’s not enough. And after years and years, you begin to believe it’s you, you know? That you’re the problem.”

“I’m – I’m sorry you feel that way, Loona,” Stolas said, earnestly. But the hellhound smiled.

“I don’t. Not anymore. I used to, and it was real shitty.”

“And… and then what happened?” The bird asked, quietly. Loona lay down on the concrete, staring up into the night sky.

“Blitzø happened,” the girl said with a soft smile. Then she sat up and glanced over to him. “And therapy. Therapy also fucking happened. And it sucked ass, but you know what? Gave it a shot. And I wanna live my life now.”

Stolas swallowed the bile that rose up in his throat. “You’re a – very insightful young woman, Loona,” he said quietly. “You remind me of someone I love very dearly, you know.”

“I know,” Loona smiled. “You know what else we have in common?”

Stolas shook his head.

“We’re strong as shit,” The hellhound told him, looking him straight in the eyes. “No matter what. And no matter how much everything sucks – eventually – eventually we get there.” She put her cigarette out on the railing. “And we learn to trust again.”  

“She shouldn’t have to be strong,” Stolas muttered. He put his cigarette out on his knee, barely flinching at the scorching embers.

“Maybe I remind you of her,” Loona said, softly plucking the cigarette from his fingers. She tossed it over the railing, and it fell to the street below as the Goetia’s red eyes traced the arc of the fall.

One, counted Stolas in the back of his mind. Two, three, four -   

“But she reminds me of you, Stolas. You’re stronger than you think, too. You’re just – taking a while, that’s it.”

The hellhound stood back up to her feet. “Come on. I’m not leaving you out here.”

It took a minute, but slowly, the Goetia raised his arm, allowing Loona to pull him to his feet. He stumbled into the apartment, vision hazy with alcohol, and with a sigh nearly collapsed into the couch.

He was surprised to feel a tail, curling around his knee, and a bundle of warm imp climbing up to his chest.

I’m sorry, he wanted to say. But, unusually for Stolas, the words wouldn’t come.

Blitzø rested his head in the fluffy feathers on the bird’s chest. Against hard horn, Stolas could feel his own heartbeat. “I know,” Blitzø whispered. He’d sounded like he’d been crying. “It’s okay, Stols. Me too.” Stolas sighed, and wrapped his arm around the imp’s midsection, managing a little squeeze.

It had not been a good day.

But maybe he was willing to try.

***

The van pulled to a slow, hesitant stop.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Blitzø asked, his hand reaching out to brush Stolas’.

“No,” The bird sighed, feeling more nauseous than he usually did from Blitzø’s driving. “I think I have to do this alone.”

One drunken conversation on a fire escape could not fix what a lifetime had broken, but something had sparked within Stolas – even if it was very little. He could tell himself it was Loona’s encouragement, but he knew the truth deeper inside himself.

He wanted to sit and talk like that, with Octavia. And a goal, no matter how vague, was better than a death wish.

The next morning, he’d forced down two spoonful’s of something Blitzø had dubbed oatmeal, not missing the way the imp’s eyes lit up when he picked up the spoon. His body had positively refused a third, but Blitzø reassured him it was alright.

“It’s progress,” The imp had said, covering his bowl with a plate for later and jamming it into the fridge behind a half-open jar of sardines and last year’s mayonnaise. “It’s fucking progress, feathers.”

A cup of water had been held out to Stolas next, Blitzø’s tail twitching with nervous hope. Stolas took a few sips before pushing it away. After a moment’s hesitation, Blitzø had set the pill bottle next to it, looking up hopefully at Stolas.

“One more sip, birdie?”

Stolas had looked up at Blitz’ wide, hopeful eyes. He hadn’t seen the imp look like this in a while. With his face tight he nodded, shaking one of the Happy Pills into his palm before tipping it into his mouth, following it with a sip of water. He was rewarded as he felt the imp wrap his arms around him tightly.

And if he spat it out into his hand the moment Blitzø looked away, no one had to know.

“Stolas,” A gentle voice said, pulling him into the present. Stolas straightened up with an audible crack of his spine, flushing as if he were a down nestling caught slacking off by his tutors.

“What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Stolas said, shaking out his feathers. “Just – this morning. The conversation I had, with Blitzø, about – about this.” He rearranged his features into those of an attentive but restrained student. Stolas had always been the best in his class – though not least because his class had consisted of only himself. “Please continue.”

“As I was saying,” His therapist continued, “I am very glad you have back to seek out help. This will be different from the sessions in which I’ve seen you and Blitzø together. In those, we have focused on your relationship and communication with one another. Here, we will focus solely on you.”

The doctor’s voice softened. “Stolas – I think I can help you, quite a bit, based on what you’ve told me. But some of this work will be difficult, and painful, emotionally speaking. We must confront our feelings to work through them – do you understand?”

Shakily, Stolas nodded.

“And that means, we don’t leave when those emotions get bigger and harder to handle,” Dr Smith continued. “We sit with it, in this space, and we process it. Sometimes, we will talk about it. Sometimes, I will teach you techniques to manage your emotions. And other times, we’re going to learn to sit with things that are uncomfortable or painful, so that your body learns, over time, that there is nothing to fear.” The dark eyes glanced up at him. Despite towering over the practitioner, Stolas always felt like he was much younger in this room. “But I cannot help you, if you walk out. Whatever your feelings towards our discussions, this is the place to discuss them. Alright?”

Another nod – a little curter this time.

“Alright,” said the doctor. “In that case, we’re going to start with some charts.”

Stolas lit up in a way that, despite the situation, seemed almost comical. “Charts?”

The windowpanes turned suddenly an opaque white, creating a whiteboard where there previously were none. Stolas gave a delighted little hoot. As they uncapped a black marker, the doctor couldn’t help but imagine what Blitzø’s response would have been to this approach. Likely some remark witty enough to add to the quote book, followed by filling said whiteboard with horse doodles. They really are incredibly different.

“Now. This is called the CBT model, and it is a – crude and inaccurate, but psychologically useful, representation of how the brain works.”

The marker squeaked against the board. “We can start off with thoughts. Thoughts then cause us to feel certain feelings,” they said, drawing a line and writing feelings at the end of the arrow in block letters. “Feelings, in turn, usually cause us to act a certain way.” Another arrow connected feelings to behavior. “And – this one is often less intuitive – our behaviors can affect our thoughts.” The triangle connected, the therapist looked back at Stolas.

“This is the case for everyone. But sometimes, we enter a maladaptive spiral. We think negative thoughts, which cause negative feelings, and unhelpful behaviors, that in turn fuel more negative thoughts. Have you ever felt like you were in a spiral like that?”

Stolas nodded. Really, he didn’t remember the last time he didn’t.

“So, the trick is this. The loop can be affected at any of these three points,” Dr Smith indicated with their marker. “Feelings are very hard to change by force of will – you cannot simply will yourself to be happier, after all – Stolas? “ 

Stolas was listening, and just for a second, his eyes glistened. He quickly nodded. “Yes. Please continue.”  

He hadn’t actually known that.

Dr Smith could feel the depth of Stolas’ emotions in response to their words and filed the knowledge away for later. Stolas, emotionally speaking, was a chick beginning to learn how to flap its wings. It wouldn’t do to throw him out of the nest too quickly.

“As I said – it’s hard to control your feelings. But you can affect your feelings by changing your thoughts and your behaviors. As the latter may require more energy, I think we should start with thoughts.”

Stolas nodded, slowly. “I think I understand – this.” He gestured at the board. “What I don’t understand is how one changes their thoughts.”

“Many thoughts can be misleading,” the doctor explained. “We will discuss in what ways in our next session, and work on changing some of the thoughts causing these spirals for you. For now, however, I think we should start by just introducing some good thoughts into the mix.”

Stolas automatically took the paper held out to him. Dr Smith hadn’t even tried printouts with   Blitzø, but Stolas immediately clung onto the paper like a lifeline.

“I’d like you to read those, out loud,” Dr Smith said softly. “Slowly, and without rushing. Give those words the weight and the time they deserve.”

Stolas glanced at the page, his talons tensing slightly on the paper. His cheeks flushed pink. “Um – does it have to be out loud?”

The doctor smiled. “Oh, I’m afraid so.”

“And won’t – “

“The door is closed and soundproofed, Stolas.”

He squirmed a bit, his insides moving uneasily. He lay the paper down on his knees, smoothing it out. Picked it up again. Adjusted his hands. Glanced out the window, forgetting the view was obscured by the diagrams, and then at the door, before his eyes finally, nervously, landed back on the page, and he took a deep breath.

“I… am a good…. person.” It was choked-out and quiet, like he was being forced to consume the expired Sunshine Mint-flavored poptarts from Blitzø’s freezer.

“Good,” Came the soft praise. Stolas’ feathers fluffed up, just a little. “Let’s try that once again, a little louder.”

“I am – a g-good – person.”

“Very good. Next line.”

Stolas took a deep breath. “I am… worthy of people’s time.”

“Good. Again.”

“I – “But he could not. The bird fell silent, hands squeezing the paper so hard it was a miracle it wasn’t tearing.

His heart was pounding against his ribcage. Why? Why was reading a few silly words off a page so difficult?

“Talk to me, Stolas,” came a gentle reminder, and he let out a shaky breath, staring at the floor.

“It’s hard.”

“I can see that. Why is it hard for you to read that sentence?”

“It’s not true.”

“Is there such a thing as objective truth?” The therapist asked, distracting Stolas out of his downward spiral. “It seems that statement is more so a matter of opinion.”

“I don’t believe it,” He amended, grinding his beak. “I don’t believe it to be true.”

“Look at me.”

Slowly, the red eyes met the black.

“It’s okay,” Dr Smith said, their voice somehow softer. “It’s okay not to believe it at first. I am not asking you to believe it. I am asking you simply to read it, and to think it. We are learning how to affect your thoughts, and that in turn, over time, will affect your feelings.”

“Copy me – deep breaths. Just like that. Once more.”

Stolas exhaled, his fingers relaxing ever so slightly.

“Do you think you can try again?”

The bird looked down at the sheet in front of him.

“I am worthy of people’s time.” It was a little rushed, but he’d gotten through it.

“One more. You’re doing so well.”

“I am a good partner.”

“Very good, Stolas. One more. Deep breaths.”

“I am u-useful.” His breath hitched a little on that.

“Last one,” Came the gentle encouragement. “You can do it.”

Stolas took a deep breath. “I d– “

The silence hung as Stolas’ shoulders trembled. “I can’t,” He mumbled, weakly. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He could feel his eyes welling up, and the hot shame of embarrassment at crying in front of someone else – especially over something so stupid.

“That’s alright,” said the doctor, gently. “That’s alright. You did very well, and you were brave.”

“It’s not brave to read sentences off a piece of paper,” sniffled Stolas. He rapidly tried to wipe the tears with his fingers, until he was handed a tissue.

“It is,” Dr Smith said simply, “Because you were scared. Because being kind to yourself frightens you. And we can – and will – discuss why. But for this week, I’d like you to practice those sentences – to the mirror, or to Blitzø – once a day. And to be proud of yourself, whether or not you succeed, as long as you make an effort.”

“Blitzø never got homework,” Stolas managed between what had become small hiccupping sobs.

“You think he would have done it?” Dr Smith chuckled. 

“No,” Stolas smiled despite himself, his eyes glancing up. “Not a damn chance.”

Blitzø didn’t really keep much in the medicine cabinet – it was Loona’s, and Stolas’, various creams and shampoos and oils taking up the entirety of the small space. The only thing he kept in these himself was a small box of Q-Tip’s, which he used exclusively for the purpose of shoving as far up his ears as the things would go. As he reached for the box, however, he noticed a piece of paper, taped up to the inside – perhaps forgotten – in Stolas’ neat, flowing script.

I am a good person.

I am worthy of people’s time.

I am a good partner.

I am useful.

Blitzø looked over at the sleeping bird on the couch and smiled for what felt like the first time in weeks.

I deserve to be loved.

Chapter Text

Blitzø had taken enthusiastically to helping Stolas with his therapy homework.

Perhaps too enthusiastically.

“Blitzø,” Stolas called into the living room the next morning, eyes hazy somewhere between awake and asleep. “Where did you put my slippers?”

“What slippers,” Blitzø said, not even trying to hide the pink fluffy slipper socks behind his back.

Stolas crossed his arms. “Give them back.”

“I will,” Blitzø grinned. “But you’ve got to pay the toll, birdie.”

“The toll?”

Blitzø handed him the sticky note Stolas had left forgotten in the bathroom, and the owl groaned. “I’m sorry. I did not mean for you to see that.”

“Well, what’s done is done,” Blitzø said, with the air of a general having sent a troop to war. “So pay up if you want your slippers, feathers.”

Stolas blinked, looking at the note in his hand. “I – do not understand.”

“Read one,” Blitzø explained simply with his impish little smile, “And get a slipper back.”

The owl stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m not. I’m Blitzø.”  The avian demon audibly groaned. “Read.”

Stolas rolled his eyes. “I am a good person,” He recited faintly, without truly meaning it. But Blitzø beamed at him nonetheless and handed him single fluffy shoe.

It started out that way – mildly embarrassing, but wholesome. It had brought a little warmth to Stolas’ chest, knowing someone cared enough to make sure his homework got done. And over time, it became a little tradition – paying, even if struggling, with self-compliments for a fork, a cup of tea, or a hug, and every time it made Blitzø smile.

The problem with Blitzø was … sometimes he didn’t know when to stop.

“Really?” Groaned Stolas in irritation. He’d finally let Millie drag him out to an outing and had returned late, mildly intoxicated and wrapped in a pink feathery boa, only to find the living room boarded up nearly completely by cardboard boxes and couch cushions. A few were decorated to look like turrets, or castle windows. The makeshift artillery was staffed by some of Blitzø’s most prized horse plushies, and the front of the cardboard box was a narrow gate that looked like it lowered on a small pulley system. The main problem for Stolas was that the structure surrounded the couch, where he had been looking forward to collapsing.

“Password,” came a muffled voice from somewhere within the structure.

Stolas leaned his mouth to a window. “Blitzø Buckzo,” he sighed in exhaustion, slurring his words, “I am a kind, useful, fucking beautiful being, fully deserving of your love and affection, and if you do not let me in immediately you will fucking regret it.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the door was indeed opened, lowering down upon a makeshift bridge just wide enough for Stolas to crawl though. Blitzø beamed, gesturing eagerly for him to climb in. With a roll of his eyes and a mental chiding that Goetia should find better ways to occupy their time, the owl got on his knees, crawling after Blitzø into the structure.

The imp sat at the foot of the couch, blankets draped over their heads, supported by a mess of cushions, cardboard and chairs.

“What is this,” Stolas sighed.

“A blanket fort,” Blitzø responded with a grin.

“Why would we need a fort built out of blankets? That does not seem very secure.”

“No – Stols – “ The imp paused. “You’ve built a blanket fort before, right?”

“I… never thought to,” he said, sounding confused. “It does not seem like a very practical material for fort-building. But I have of course had lessons on military strategy and defense of the Goetia parliament.”

“Parli – oh, never mind,” Blitzø muttered. “No – it’s – it’s something you do for fun. As kids. It’s cozy.” He slid a bag of popcorn – Eggsorcist Explosion flavor - over to Stolas, balancing his phone on a cushion. “Then you watch movies and shit,” He explained, already booting up Black Beauty.

“Impractical fort-building for fun,” Repeated Stolas, trying to wrap himself around the concept. But after a moment’s hesitation, he curled up on the floor next to Blitzø. At least the floor supported his back better than the sunken-in couch cushions. He popped a kernel of popcorn into his mouth and coughed through the inexplicable taste of yolk, blueberry glaze, and bacon.

He felt the imp’s fingers comb softly through his head-feathers. The soft haze in his head was starting to fade, and as it did, he felt his sober thoughts returning, sharp and insistent, and a growing pain behind his eyes.

“You had a fun night out, Stols?”

“I did. Millie was very kind to invite me.”

Stolas shifted unconsciously, his head sliding into Blitzø’s lap. It was fun - in an abstract way. It was a night he knew Millie had enjoyed, that most people would have enjoyed. Nothing went wrong. It just –

He didn’t know how to tell Blitzø that it had been a month since he’d really enjoyed anything at all. 

Blitzø tugged on the boa slightly. “Sure looks like you had fun. Feathers on feathers, that’s a new look.”

“Feathers squared,” mumbled Stolas sleepily.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” The bird closed his eyes against a pounding headache. “Do we have any rat skewers?” He mumbled into Blitzø’s pajamas.

“We might,” the imp said playfully. “Want me to go and check?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright,” Blitzø grinned, leaning down to place a small kiss on Stolas’ temple. “Pay up first, birdie.”

Stolas just groaned. The evening had been long. Millie had meant well, he knew that, and it felt nice to be included, even if he knew it was a pity invite. Even if the act of celebrating Millie’s ex-roommate’s cousin’s birthday reminded him of his own mortality, and the candles had almost set the bar on fire, and some drunken bride-to-be had been there singing Fuck You Dad’s entire album into the karaoke mic, and Millie had stopped him after his fifth shot, not letting him have even that.

“Come on, pretty bird,” He heard gently above him. The fingers ran through his feathers once more. “What are you?”

“Hungry,” Stolas muttered.

Blitzø made a sound like the buzzer from The Spice is Right, Hell’s new premiere talk show involving guessing the body count of particularly prolific sinners. “Nope, try again.”

“I am tired.”

“Not that either,” The imp said with enthusiasm.

“Stop it, Blitzø.”

“Come on. I deserve love. Can you say – “

“I said stop,” Stolas snapped. He sat up, his head beginning to spin from a night of attempting to drown his sorrows in alcohol while playing the polite party guest. “I do understand you mean well, Blitzø. But this – this is infantilizing.”

“They’re just words, birdie,” Blitzø said, softer. “You love words.”

“Not right now.”

Anxiety pooled in Blitzø’s stomach. “For me,” He tried one last time, quietly. “Please – “

“I am not a fucking circus monkey to perform on command!”

The imp stared at him. Stolas regretted the words almost as soon as they’d left his mouth.

“No,” Stolas sighed, digging his talons into the carpet. “No, Blitzø, I didn’t mean – “

Blitzø took a deep breath, struggling against the anger in his chest as his fists closed and reopened.

“Let’s talk in the morning,” he said instead, his words shaky and tense. “Go to sleep, Stolas.”

Stolas felt himself being picked up, and a soft blanket being tucked around his gangly limbs. He glanced up. Above him was a cardboard sky, with stars drawn in Sharpie – above his feet, the moons of UR-A-PA and above his head, the constellation of Pieseas.

His fingers traced the outline of the stars, wishing they were real. Wishing they would, like they did before, tell him what to do, as he fell into an uneasy, drunken sleep.

When the morning came there was no time to talk. Blitzø had gotten carried away enough with the blanket fort that he’d neglected to set his alarm, leading to Stolas being woken with a startled squawk as the crash of spoons against pots came from the kitchen. The hellsun shone so brightly as to nearly blind him. He looked around, disorientated, and pulled the blanket over his head as he felt his heart rate spike. If he pretended to be asleep –  

“BUCKZOOOOOO HOUSEHOOOOLD!” Blitzø shouted, slamming the coffee maker on the counter and ringing a bell kept specifically for this situation like a medieval harold. “TIME TO GO MURDEEEEER SOME LITTLE GANGLY SHITS FOR MONEEEEEEY!”

“Is the fort under attack?” Came the weak reply from the Avian prince.

The blanket was pulled away from him and a pair of pants were thrown at his head. Stolas instinctively ducked, but Blitzø, currently tipping what seemed like the entire coffee maker into his mouth, didn’t notice. The toaster dinged and Stolas jumped, tripping over the blanket tangled around his feet and face-planting into the remains of their defensive structure.

 A slice of toast was thrust into the ex-prince’s beak by a passing Loona. He gulped as he swallowed it whole, struggling to free himself from the mess of cushions and knotted skipping-rope while also zipping up the front of his jeans over galaxy-themed briefs. “Where are we going?”

“Dad’s going to the office before the clients riot and M&M think he’s caused another traffic accident,” Loona responded without looking up from her phone. “I’m driving you to your appointment.”

Stolas looked around him as he buttoned his shirt, and his face sank as he remembered the previous day’s conversation. But there was no time to talk, to apologize, to sort things out with Blitzø. Only a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach he’d have to carry around with him that day.

He had to do better, if he wanted Blitzø to forgive him for saying something like that. He had to, if he wanted Blitzø to stay. The imp threw the van keys to Loona and stepped into the glimmering portal, and Stolas meekly followed the hellhound downstairs, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the doorframe again.  

He glanced back at the spot on the living room floor where Blitzø had just been standing.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

“Today’s session is going to be all about words,” Dr Smith said encouragingly. “You love words.”

Stolas winced slightly, hearing Blitzø’s voice from last night instead. “I suppose so.”

“How did last week’s practice go?”

“Fine,” The owl sighed, leaning back in the chair as his nails dug into the worn fabric. As Dr Smith’s only patient to fit this chair, it had more or less become his anyway. His head hurt and his eyes felt heavy. “It was fucking fine.”

“It sounds like it was not fine.”

Stolas groaned, rubbing at his temples. “I’ve listed more positive attributes about my person than ever in my entire fucking life at my boyfriend’s incessant insistence. So that’s fine, isn’t it? What else do you want?”

The doctor frowned and then stood suddenly.

“I have an idea that may make you more comfortable,” they said, gently. “May I?”

Surprised a bit, Stolas nodded. The doctor stepped to the window, pulling down thick, dark shades. The flick of a switch sounded, and suddenly the room was bathed in a deep darkness. The bird blinked, and with a start realized that the pain was nearly gone.

“Better?” Dr Smith asked, returning to their chair. Stolas nodded, suddenly at a loss for words.

“You look down when you feel overwhelmed – away from the light,” they explained. “As a strigine demon, I expect you can see perfectly well in the dark, perhaps feel more comfortable at nighttime – would that be correct in your case?”

Stolas sat, frozen.

“Stolas?” The doctor called softly.

“Yes,” Stolas murmured. “Yes, sorry. I…” He could feel his upper eyes adjusting to the darkness, the pounding headache receding to a faint hum as his shoulders relaxed. It was like putting his feathers under a cool shower after a sweltering day. “I never… never considered that.”

“You haven’t?”

“No.”

They sat for a moment. Stolas felt his thoughts begin to race, one after the other. All this time – people who were meant to care for him, to protect him, everyone from his father to his servants to Stella - never thinking to consider that the owl did not do well with bright lights. Neither had he – he hadn’t even considered it with his daughter. He’d simply… assumed… that frequent headaches were an unavoidable part of being a Goetia, the exact reason unimportant.

“But – then you cannot see,” Stolas said suddenly. “That cannot be comfortable.”

“I can assure you I can. It really is no issue. I can see in the darkness about as well as you. If it is more comfortable for you this way, there is no reason we cannot hold our sessions in the dark."

Meekly, Stolas nodded. It would take… some time to process. So would the idea of something being changed from how it normally was to accommodate him.

“Now let me ask you again, now that you feel better. How did last week’s practice go?”

Stolas sighed. “It was… alright. It felt – silly, if I’m honest. Embarrassed. Blitzø asked me to practice it often, and it became – a source of frustration, more than anything else.”

“I see. And what about it felt embarrassing?”

Stolas looked down. “Well – I do apologize for phrasing it this way – but it is the sort of exercise one might give to a child.”

“How so?”

“It’s what I did with my daughter, Octavia. When she was small.” He shrugged. “Sometimes she would doubt herself, as all children do. She’d think she was unintelligent if she failed in her lessons that day, or cowardly if she was scared of a bad dream, or ugly if her mother had scolded her.” His voice betrayed a hint of anger. “And so, I would remind her, in a somewhat similar way, that she was brilliant, and brave, and beautiful.”

“But you find it embarrassing to say such things about yourself?”

“I find it embarrassing to – to appear as if I need help regulating something so simple as my own feelings,” Stolas muttered. “I’m a grown adult. I shouldn’t need to be parented like that, like I am incapable and broken.”

“That’s not what I see at all, Stolas.”

“What do you see?”

“A man teaching his daughter to love herself the way no one taught him,” Doctor Smith said simply. “Because you don’t want her to feel the way you do.”

There was a pause. “I want you to imagine something, Stolas, when you speak those words. Imagine yourself, at the age your daughter was when you began teaching her to value herself above the words of others. And perhaps it is difficult to say those words to yourself – it may always be. But I’d like you to say them to him, to the owlet you were, like your parents should have.”

One of them did, Stolas thought faintly. But he didn’t want to think about her, or what she may say to him now. He shoved that thought back down, far away where it belonged.

“Can you do that?”

“I can try,” he said simply. He did not have the energy to promise much of anything today.  But he was rewarded with a smile.

“That’s all I can ask for. Now, you ready for today’s lesson plan?”

Stolas nodded. He did want to get better – especially today, of all days. It was what Blitzø wanted, and after last night – Stolas wanted to make it up to him.

Dr Smith reached behind them and pulled out a black notebook – though even in the darkness, Stolas could make out that it had a slight purple sheen – and handed it to Stolas.

Recognizing Cognitive Distortions: A CBT Workbook.

Stolas ran his hand down the smooth, unbent spine, breathing in the smell of freshly inked pages. His fingers felt the ridges of the thick, soft corners. A book made it feel more real – the weight in his hand, the embossed lettering. Books had always felt like a guide to Stolas in whatever task or skill he was trying to hone – like a warm hand holding his, telling him where to step.

“So last week, we talked about thoughts. How negative thoughts can contribute to negative feelings and maladaptive behaviors, and positive thoughts can do the opposite. Now, this is the key to today’s lesson.” Stolas perked up like an eager student, simply by reflex. “Thoughts are not truth. They are subjective. And because they are subjective, they can be wrong. In fact, thoughts can lie.”

Stolas frowned. “How so? A thought does not have – its own agency. It’s simply – a linguistic expression of my mind.”

“It is a metaphor, somewhat,” Dr Smith admitted. “Of course, a thought cannot literally lie. But the brain is not a whole, Stolas. Different parts are responsible for different tasks – have different primary functions to prioritize. Sometimes at the cost of the whole.” They considered how best to explain this.

“Like a plant,” supplied Stolas, unbidden.

Dr Smith looked at him curiously. “Could you explain?”

Stolas was looking into the darkness at something that wasn’t there. “The roots,” He said, tracing a line upwards with his fingers in the air. “The stem. The leaves.” Hands traced outlines of buds, veins, branches. “Flowers. The roots are responsible for feeding the plant, keeping it nourished; the leaves for absorbing light in the form of photons from the sun, to convert it into energy; and the flowers for reproduction, namely attracting pollinators that carry pollen in-between stamen and stigma. But one part can overestimate its role. In a drought, the plant’s roots can grow so long it stops to produce leaves or flowers and dies from a lack of sunlight instead. Or, if a plant is dying, it may choose to make larger and richer flowers as a last-bid attempt to pass on its genes, killing itself in the process.”

“Precisely. Yes.” Stolas smiled, however faintly, at the praise. “The brain – your brain – has different functions.” The doctor brought the lights up just a touch, and then drew a simple illustration of an avian brain on the board.

“This part – your cerebellum – is responsible for tasks like balance, and movement. This here – in the human world called Broca’s area, and Wernicke’s area, are responsible for the synthesis and comprehension of speech. There are many others, but we will focus on two today.”

“In the front here is your frontal lobe. This is what you use when you are actively thinking, or problem-solving – in other words, it performs higher-level reasoning tasks. When you solve a math problem, or think about what to cook for dinner, or how to approach a conversation, for instance, you are using your frontal lobe.”

“By contrast, there is this area here. Emotions are processed by a whole network of neurons, but we can focus on the limbic system – the amygdala. Here.” Stolas was unconsciously touching his hand to his own head, as if hoping to trace the outlines of the diagram along his own skull.

“Just like the parts of a plant – they have different goals. The frontal lobe wants to solve problems in a logical, clear, and correct manner. But that’s not what the limbic system wants. The only purpose of the limbic system is to keep you alive.”

Stolas looked up with alarm. “Forgive me – but that seems rather important.”

“Well, yes. And no.”

The owl demon looked understandably confused. Dr Smith continued.

“The ancestors of the Ars Goetia – like many hellborn demons - were angels, Stolas. Angels that fell from Heaven and adapted, through generations and generations, to live in hell. But Heaven is not as kind of a place as here,” They explained. “They fought in wars, for many millennia, until they were cast out. And that’s when that part of the brain was formed. Its purpose is to sense danger, to protect you at all costs, in an environment where death lies around every corner.”

“You are right – this is, ultimately, a good thing. These emotions – anxiety, panic, fear - protect you in times of real danger. But when your life is not being threatened, the limbic system doesn’t quite know what to focus on. And so, it begins to treat situations as life-threatening, even when they are not. For some people, to an unhelpful degree.”

The doctor looked up at the Goetia. “Your mind treats discomfort – someone being upset with you, an unpleasant memory, a quarrel – with the same panic as if it was a threat to your life. Those are the automatic thoughts that pop up in your brain. The frontal lobe is what we can use to counter that. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” said Stolas, after a moment’s consideration. “It’s only…”

“Yes?”

“It feels like an excuse,” the Goetia explained. “That if I want to avoid pain, I can tell myself that painful thoughts are irrational and shouldn’t be listened to, because it’s simpler. When really, I’m simply – avoiding responsibility.” The bird’s knees drew closer together. “Avoiding something I should be ashamed of, something I should fix. Isn’t that the purposeof shame? To improve ourselves?”

“And does that work for you, Stolas?” Dr Smith asked simply. The prince blinked in confusion. “Has shame,” the therapist clarified, “Led you to make positive changes in your life? Does it stop once you have? Could you give an example?”

Stolas opened his mouth to respond almost immediately and then paused. “… I’ve made changes in response to it,” he said softly, “But … that didn’t make it stop.”

“You are afraid of being non-objective,” Doctor Smith summarized, “But you don’t see that you already are – in the other direction. I’m not telling you to ignore any and all negative thoughts, Stolas. I’m asking you to evaluate, lucidly, if they have any merit. Are you familiar with the concept of a literature review?”

“Of course,” Stolas said, his feathers fluffing slightly at the implication he may not be.

“Suppose you hear something about a topic you know little about and want to decide for yourself if it’s true. How would you review literature to form an opinion?”

“Well – examine the books related to that subject,” he said, cocking his head. He was growing curious as to where this conversation was going. “Compile evidence for and against, then evaluate the merit of that evidence.”

“Lovely. So that’s what we’re going to do with your thoughts. Let’s work through an example.” Stolas felt faint-headed, just for a moment, as the dark eyes met his. It was an odd sensation – one of being seen, as though he was made of transparent glass.

“When you came in,” They said softly, “You said you were frustrated about a conversation you had with Blitzø.” Stolas hesitated, before nodding. He felt guilt rise in his chest at the memory. Blitzø was providing him with everything – support, love, a place to stay – and he was ungratefully focusing on his faults, instead.

“Just now – when I mentioned Blitzø, and your conversation,” Dr Smith said, as if reading his mind – which somewhat, Stolas knew, they were. “What were you thinking?”

“I… said something to him,” Stolas mumbled. “I said something while upset that I didn’t mean.”

“And why does that upset you?”

“Because – because it upset him. I keep upsetting him.”

“And what will happen, if you keep upsetting Blitzø?”

The bird shrugged.

“Words, Stolas,” came a soft encouragement.  

“He’s going to leave me.” His voice broke, just a little, on the word leave, like the hiccupping sound that might come from a small owlet. “He hates me.”

“Okay,” said Dr Smith with a shrug, picking up the whiteboard marker. “Then let’s decide if Blitzø hates you.”

Stolas’ eyes went wide. “Wait,” He stammered. “Aren’t you meant to tell me – I don’t know. That he doesn’t, that it’s not true?”

“No,” the being before him said calmly. “You’re intelligent, Stolas, both intellectually and emotionally. You also know Blitzø, yourself, and your relationship, better than I ever could. Dismissing your thoughts or doubts as invalid would be an insult to your knowledge of your partner.”

“I am not going to tell you if it’s true. You are going to decide, but with a part of your brain more capable of logic and rationality.”

They stepped away from the board. Across the top they had written Blitzø hates me. And underneath it, two columns: For and Against.

“Now,” they said calmly, as Stolas seemed to no longer know what to do with his hands. “On what evidence are you basing this thought?”

“I…” Stolas seemed slowly to regain his bearings. “Before… before we got together, properly… he internalized things I said, ways in which I unknowingly belittled him.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It led him to internalize that, the idea that I see him as lesser. And for a while, it… his anger about it… his disbelief I could care for him… ended our relationship.”

“And did he hate you then? Did he tell you so?”

“He didn’t explicitly – say that, no. But he called me a – “ he winced – “Pompous rich asshole.”

Dr Smith turned back to the board, and wrote similar comments caused a rift in the past under the For column. “Is that an accurate summary?”

“I suppose so.”

“Alright. What else?”

“He didn’t accept my apology after I’d said it.”

After a back-and-forth, they settled on needed some time to process. “What else?”

“This morning,” Stolas said quietly, “He didn’t talk to me, not even to say goodbye as he left for work.”

“And you think this is because you upset him last night?”

“I don’t know. I…. I suppose he was in a rush, as well.”

May have ignored me in anger joined the list. “Anything else?”

“… no,” Stolas was forced to admit, after a few minutes of thought. “I suppose that’s it.”

“Alright, now we move over here. What evidence is there to suggest Blitzø may not hate you, despite what you said?”

“He… he didn’t yell at me,” Stolas admitted. “He told me to sleep, and that we’d talk in the morning.”
Was willing to discuss incident, Dr Smith wrote underneath the against column. “You mentioned before how Blitzø reacted to things in the past,” they said gently. “What about the more recent past? Have there been any similar situations?”

“He… he tells me if I’ve said something hurtful,” Stolas said softly. “But he doesn’t insult me.”

“Does he break off your relationship, when that happens?”

“No.” Stolas’ fingers played with a stray string escaping from the arm of the chair, to avoid eye contact. “He… he asks me to do things differently.”

“And do you try your best to change your behavior, when he asks?”

Stolas nodded.  

Normally addresses hurtful comments in a constructive way, the marker squeaked out on the board.

“What else?”

“… he made me breakfast,” Stolas admitted. “He made three pieces of toast, even though he was running late.”

Cares about my needs was added to the column.

“He tucked me into bed, even after I’d insulted him.” Showed love and affection.

“Asked his daughter to drive me here, remembering even while running late.” Made me a priority.

“Okay,” Dr Smith said, capping the marker as Stolas fell silent. They gestured to the board as a whole. “Ignore what your anxiety tells you – it thinks it’s fighting a Holy war,” they said simply. “What can you logically conclude from this list?”

Stolas looked at it for a moment, then sighed. “That there is… more evidence to suggest he doesn’t hate me than to suggest he does.”

“Yes.” The therapist beamed at him. There was a joy, a palpable joy, when a client got something for the first time – even if they themselves didn’t quite realize yet what they had done.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” Stolas muttered.

“You made this list, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes – “

“And what have you been taught about manipulating the evidence to suit your conclusions?”

And finally – finally – Stolas smiled.

The moment the portal opened into the living room, Stolas rose to his feet. He’d been rehearsing, in his mind, for the past hour, his feathers in disarray from repeated fluffing and smoothing.

“Blitzø – “

“Stols,” The imp said gently, even as he wiped the blood off his hands onto the knees of his pants. For a moment they both looked at eachother.

The two men then spoke at the exact same time, producing an incomprehensible linguistic salad.

“I’m sorry – I shouldn’t – to say that to you – too far – “

Both voices dropped. Blitzø nodded, letting the bird speak first.

“I’m sorry,” Stolas repeated, softly. “I didn’t – mean to say that last night, and I did not mean it as an insult towards your background. Regardless of my intentions, however, it hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Blitzø sighed. “I’m sorry too,” He said, stepping closer to Stolas. The red, dirty hands took Stolas’ neat fingers in his own. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. You said no. I wish you’d used – different words. But I get it. You needed space.”

Stolas released a breath, squeezing Blitzø’s fingers. He was real; he was there; he wasn’t leaving him. Not yet.

“I’m trying, Blitzø,” Stolas mumbled. “I am. But it takes effort, and it felt… frustrating. I just wanted to be with you, not – “

“Not have to work for it,” Blitzø winced. “Or have to earn it. Yeah.”

He came closer, and put his arms around Stolas’ middle, burying his face in the soft feathers. “You never have to earn shit, birdie. Not with me. It’s just that – I’ve been scared, Stols. You were scaring me. And I know it’s getting better, a little, and you’re accepting help, and you’re taking your meds, and I’m proud of you, and it’s… it’s not your fault... but I just… I wanted to help.”

“You do help,” Stolas sighed. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on Blitzø’s head. “You help more than you can imagine, my dear.”

And they stayed like that, for a while. Blitzø knew he would stand there hugging Stolas for as long as he needed.

Chapter Text

Healing didn’t take place overnight, the way it did in Stolas’ romance novels. Instead, it was painful, and frustrating. Stolas felt like he was trying to drag himself up a vertical wall, and simply keeping himself from falling took all of his energy, most days – pulling himself upwards was a gargantuan task, one that left him drained and shaking.

But he did it when he could, nonetheless.

It took twenty-four hours and a few ruined pages in Stolas’ workbook for him to work up the courage to ask Blitzø if perhaps, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, to him or to Loona, it may be possible to occasionally close the blinds in the living room, but of course that would be ridiculously inconvenient and Blitzø should forget he asked.

Three hours, two traumatized cashiers at the hardware store, and one bandaged thumb later, Blitzø had finished installing dimmers on every switch in the house, leaving the living room a comfortable twilight that neither impeded his or Loona’s ability to use their home nor gave Stolas a splitting headache. Blackout curtains were hung over the living room window, to be drawn when needed, and a new coat rack stood in the entryway, holding the occupants’ coats, scarves, and shoes. The newly emptied closet was filled with comfortable, star-patterned blankets and soft down pillows, the cracks in the door sealed to give Stolas complete darkness whenever he needed it.

Stolas had promptly closed the door, burrowing into the soft blankets so no one would hear him cry. And for the first time in a long time, they were not tears of pain.

“How’s my favorite avian patient,” Joked Dr Smith as Stolas dropped himself into his usual chair. The Goetia raised an eyebrow.

“I imagine I am your only avian patient.”

“That may be true.”

A faint smile tugged at Stolas’ beak. He noticed that the lights were already off, and the windows curtained. It was like … like he was truly welcomed here.

“Is that new?” Stolas asked, looking at the corner of the room.

“Yes,” Dr Smith confirmed. “I was inspired slightly by our sessions, and so I decided to acquire a plant that glows in the dark.”

“Well, it’s not quite a plant,” Stolas corrected politely. “It’s a mushroom – a fungus. However, it’s a rather curious specimen. Its scientific name, omphalotus nidiformis –“

The next few minutes were spent with Stolas describing in great detail the mushroom’s habitat, medical uses, and toxicity. It had become tradition, after the first few weeks. It would take the first few minutes of the session for the bird to set aside the restrained mask of the Ars Goetia, deflect with the comfort of a favourite subject, and only then at last relax into himself, and Dr Smith had simply come to accept it. But they were getting to the five-minute mark, and it was time to push him.

“Stolas,” they said gently. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” Stolas lied easily.

“Let’s try that again, a little more honestly.”

The bird sighed, knowing that meant the courtesies were over and there was real emotional work he now needed to do.  

“I am…” Stolas struggled with his words for a moment. “… a little better.” He looked up hesitantly, like he needed external validation to confirm he was being truthful.

“Good. I am glad to hear it. Anything good in particular?”

“Blitzø and I made up,” he said softly. “And he’s been really… supportive, but less… overwhelming. He listens to me, to what I need.”

“And if he has something to listen to,” Said Dr Smith gently, “That means you’re asking for what you need, Stolas. That’s a big step. That’s wonderful.”

Stolas felt his feathers fluff up with praise. 

“And what hasn’t been as good?” Came the gentle prod, Dr Smith having allowed the moment for Stolas to feel joy.

The bird sighed. “I don’t know,” He admitted. “Things are improving, but it doesn’t feel that way. It doesn’t feel like any day… is any easier, or I’m getting any better.”

“What does that mean, for you?” The Sinner asked. “To feel better?”

Stolas thought about it for a moment. “If I was better,” he said simply, “I could be useful. I could – repay Blitzø for all his kindness. Be the fun partner he signed up for, instead of this mess,” He mumbled. “Have the energy to go places… to do things… “ He sighed. “Stop frightening him.”

“…Stolas,” Doctor Smith said, after a moment. They waited until the avian demon made eye contact.

“Everything you’ve just told me,” They said softly, “Has to do with making Blitzø happy, and not yourself.”

“Yes,” Stolas said simply, like this was the most obvious thing.

The therapist took a deep breath.

“Your own happiness does not matter to you?”

Stolas then understood and squirmed uneasily. “Of course it does.”

“Stolas Goetia,” the Sinner said quietly. “I can tell when you lie.”

The room cloaked in a shaky silence. Stolas’ arms wrapped around his torso.

“I’ll be happy,” the owl answered, staring at the carpet, “When I’m not a burden to everyone anymore.”

The clock ticked.

“And what do we do with thoughts like that?”

Stolas sighed after a long moment, with a slight groan. “We put them on the board.”

Dr Smith handed him a marker.

He took a moment, but he stood up, grasping the marker in his left hand. He drew a neat line across the middle of the board, dividing the columns into for and against, and writing I am a burden to everyone across the top. His practiced Goetian penmanship demanded a flourish on the capital I and the lowercase y.

The owl sat down, capping the marker with his beak, and met Dr Smith’s eyes. “It’s okay,” Dr Smith reassured, “To have thoughts like that. Thoughts are not right or wrong. They are simply thoughts, and you’re allowed to express anything you feel here. Do you remember the point of this exercise?”

“To decide which part of my brain it originates from,” The bird recited softly, “And whether it’s rational and worth consideration.”

“Exactly right. Now. Why do you think you’re a burden?”

“I don’t contribute, around the house. I don’t know how to clean or cook. I have no job and can’t contribute financially.”

“Why else?”

“I take up Blitzø’s time. He has to take care of me.”

“There is a difference between someone choosing to take care of you and you being a burden, Stolas. Do you think Blitzø views you that way?”

He wanted to say yes, because it satisfied something dark in his chest. But he couldn’t. Not the way that Blitzø treated him, every single day, like he was worth the world – going far beyond Stolas’ basic needs and making him part of their home.

“No,” He admitted. Dr Smith handed the marker back to him, and he reluctantly added it to the board.

“What else?”

“It’s hard to have a – relationship with me when I don’t have the energy,” Stolas sighed. “He doesn’t get anything in return.”

“So, love,” Dr Smith said softly, “To you, is a transaction?”

The bird suddenly froze. He felt tears in the corner of his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, putting his hand with the marker down. “No,” He murmured. “No. Never. Never again.”

“If Blitzø were ill, or upset,” The Sinner led him gently, “Would you view it as burdensome to take care of him?”  

“No,” Stolas admitted. “But I’m not ill. I’m just – “

He waved his arm around, trying to explain without explaining.

“Words, Stolas.”

His beak trembled. “Pathetic,” He whispered at last.

Dr Smith smiled weakly as they passed Stolas a tissue.

“You are not pathetic, Stolas.”

The bird snorted, blowing his nose into the tissue as tears welled up in his eyes. “Aren’t we supposed to do another chart about that?”

“No. That is a simple fact. Do you want to know why?”

Stolas nodded.

“Because no one is pathetic,” Dr Smith told him quietly. “Only struggling. And I believe that, whole-heartedly.”

Stolas had never been allowed to cry, not even as a little nestling. And when he did – past the age of thirteen, at the very least – it was in private, in the dark, in the quiet. Where no one would see – no one would know. But here, there was nowhere to go. And Stolas instead simply buried his face in his lap, arms wrapping around his knees tightly to shield it from view, and sobbed.

“Sorry,” He gasped out, as soon as he exhausted himself out and managed to speak. “Sorry – “

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Came the soft response. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Stolas sniffled. He picked up a few tissues, trying rapidly to clean up his face, to return himself to some semblance of respectability. He turned his face upwards as if willing the tears to pour back into him like a vessel, delicate fingers dabbing at his under-eye to remove the smudged makeup. It took a few deep, gasping breaths for the Goetia to compose himself.

“Are you able to continue?” The demon nodded.

“First of all, tears are natural, Stolas. Especially in therapy. You are working through things that are hard, and painful. Emotion is an inevitable part of that. I would encourage you to be proud of the work you are doing.”

“Second… I would like you to start taking your medication again.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Stolas sniffled, wiping his tears away with the underside of his right sleeve. For the first time, he felt a hand on his, and when he looked up, he saw the doctor touching his arm.

“I understand you are yourself not sure why you’re not taking it,” they said gently. “But I can tell you why.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason that you’ve been writing with your left hand, despite being right-handed.”

That hadn’t been what Stolas expected, pulling his hands back with a start, his eyes wide. “How did you – “

“You used your right when you relaxed. Am I wrong?”

Stolas had always been complimented for his penmanship, it was true. But he remembered well his tutor bending his wrist until it hurt, forcing him to properly hold a pen in a way unnatural to him. He remembered pulling back his sleeve to receive slaps from a ruler. He remembered being told the left hand was that of the Devil, and thus the only one proper for a Goetia.

And it had been so long, he had stopped noticing.

“I would like to address a pattern I’ve noticed in your thoughts,” said the Sinner. “When thoughts lie in a predictable way, we call those cognitive distortions. I will teach you about those next session. Now, given your background, it is not particularly surprising – but one I notice consistently in your thoughts is a deep sense of obligation.”

Stolas nodded, as there was no other real response. “But I don’t see why that’s wrong,” the bird simply.

“You have an obligation or duty to contribute to the home, and pay back Blitzø for his kindness?”

“Yes.”

“To not take up anyone’s time?”

“Yes.”

“To not cry in front of others?”

“Yes.”

“A duty to whom?”

And suddenly, Stolas faltered.

“Well…” He tried to shape the idea into a word and came up empty. His family, whose opinion he did not value? To Blitzø, who has told him many times, and very earnestly, that Stolas owed him nothing? To Satan, who took away his powers and his daughter?

“It’s just – “ Stolas stammered.

“You have, in the past, been told such things, I know,” they said softly. “Your parents?”

No. 

Stolas seemed to retreat inside himself. “I’m sorry,” He said, faintly. “I can’t.”

The therapist sighed. Some things… took a while.

“That’s alright. Thank you for your work today and your honesty, Stolas. Let’s leave it for next session, then.”

“How was therapy?” Blitzø asked, lying his head in Stolas’ lap. They were curled up in the closet – a room Blitzø had already affectionately nicknamed the owl nest – watching reruns of Hellanovela on Stolas’ phone. Loona out for the afternoon, the pair were curled up with snacks – Blitzø with American Ranch-flavored Doritos and Stolas with two bags of Hoot Loops: The Snack that Screeches Back (Midnight Mouse and Roadkill Raspberry flavor, now with more sugar).

Fine, Stolas was about to say. But he paused instead. At the very least, he owed Blitzø not to outright lie to him.

“Today was hard,” he said softly.

The imp looked up, reaching up his hand, and stroking it gently through the feathers. “I’m proud of you, then,” he murmured. “I’m so proud of you, birdie.”

“Oh?” Stolas smiled playfully, popping a crunchy mouse ear into his mouth. “Have I perhaps… earned a reward?”

Blitzø’s eyes lit up. Not because he had been desperate for intimacy – although, that too – but because after months, it finally sounded like Stolas.

"You sure that's what you want?" 

Stolas blushed, and then nodded. "Yes, Blitzy," He whispered, the corner of his beak turning upwards.

“Mmm,” Blitzø grinned, trailing a claw down Stolas’ chest. “Then I think that can be arranged. I can make it up to you for last week… if you wait here a moment.”

A minute later, Blitz returned, hiding his hand in his pocket. “Ooh,” Stolas smiled. “A mystery.” Blitzø leaned in, his hot breath on Stolas’ neck bringing a blush to the bird’s cheeks.

"I made you talk too much last week, birdie," whispered Blitzø into Stolas' ear. "And you’ve done a lot of talking today. Quite enough. So now you're gonna be quiet and listen."

Stolas shivered, his eyes dark and hungry. "Yes, Blitzø," he gasped. "Please."

The imp growled, but his eyes were mischievous. "What did I say about talking, Stolas?  Seems like if you can't restrain yourself, I’ll have to do it for you."

Blitzø then revealed the contents of his pocket, and Stolas moaned as the familiar gag slid in place, immobilizing his beak.

Blitzø picked up Stolas' hand, placing it on his thigh. "Two taps yes, one tap no, squeeze and everything stops," he reminded gently. "Got it?"

Stolas tapped his fingers gently twice. Blitzø smiled. "Good bird," he purred, bringing a pink sheen to Stolas' cheeks.

"Now all I want from you, feathers, is to not make a damn sound," Blitz whispered before smirking. "And I’m gonna make that real hard for you, you gorgeous thing."

Blitzø' hand then slid between Stolas' legs, into the waistband of his heart-patterned pyjamas. Fingers danced, teasing, around the entrance, sliding in just enough to give Stolas sensation without purchase. The bird responded by grinding his hips down onto Blitzø's hands, trying for friction. Blitzø grinned and pulled his hand back, trailing a single moist finger over Stolas' most sensitive nerve bundles. The bird let out a little whine.

"Quiet, Stolas," Blitzø murmured. "Or else I’ll have to keep you in line, and you don’t want that, do you?"

Oh, Stolas very much wanted that. But he looked up innocently at Blitzø, like he was going to be the best-behaved bird in Hell from now on. The imp knew better than to believe those eyes.

Blitzø pulled the soft pants to Stolas' ankles and then pushed Stolas' legs apart with his knees. Stolas could feel a cool breeze across his nether regions, sensitive and long left untouched. Blitzø placed his hands on Stolas' inner thighs, dragging his sharp nails through the feathers as Stolas squirmed.

"Keep still for me," Blitzø whispered. "There's a pretty bird. My pretty bird..."

His hand moved closer.

"Hey beautiful... you ready?"

Two taps on his thigh, a little too eager. Blitzø grinned.  "Impatient pretty bird..."

A finger slipped into Stolas as he sucked in a breath.

"You're wonderful... you're brilliant..."

Blitzø added a second finger and curved them inwards the way he knew Stolas liked, beginning to move in and out.

"Sexy as shit," The imp murmured, with a sly smile.

And Stolas...

Stolas felt the same sensations as always. Blitzø' fingers did what they always did. The muscles of his cloaca reacted like they always did, clamping down on the imp's fingers in a rhythmic pattern as Blitzø went faster and faster. His hips ground themselves into the mattress the way they always had.

But this time, it felt different. There was no warmth, rising in his chest... suddenly no more desire to be playful, or naughty. His hand reached idly down before remembering they were in the closet, and the box was under the couch. The box of toys Stolas pulled out, sometimes, when he was at home alone and wanted something intense enough that he'd feel something... anything...

Blitz' hand smacked his ass, digging in his nails as his other hand thrust into Stolas and the bird gasped. This wasn't fair. The imp was doing everything he could to make him happy. It was Stolas, once again, who was the problem. And Blitzø deserved to feel wanted... his Blitzy...

And Stolas...

Stolas was good at pretending.

And so, Stolas moaned against the gag. He squirmed, squeezing fistfuls of cushion in his talons as Blitzø' hand moved faster and faster. He threw his head back, pushing a strangled little noise out of his throat. He pushed his hips up to the base of Blitz' fingers, arching his back, even as the resulting sudden stretch burned -

For him, Stolas repeated in his head. His toes curled from pain as he kept thrusting, drier by the second, against Blitz' hand, breathing shallow as he squeezed his eyes closed. He let out a rising cry, simulating a building crescendo. 

And then abruptly, it stopped. Blitzø' hand pulled out of him, like he'd been electrocuted. Stolas felt fingers quickly undoing the gag in his mouth, dropping it to the floor. The weight on top of him shifted away. Stolas opened his eyes and saw Blitzø with his hands up against his chest and away from the bird.

"Stolas," he choked, looking at him with horrified eyes. "What the fuck?"

The bird felt guilt pool in his core. "Wait, no - I'm sorry, Blitzy -" he gave a weak little laugh. "I can do better. I promise. Maybe from behind -"

"Stolas - fuck  - I’m not going to fuck you - you're crying -"

Only then did Stolas notice the tears coating his cheeks. There was silence as the bird processed this and the imp looked on with a mix of guilt and horror.

"T-that’s okay," Stolas said weakly. "I've cried during our full moons before -"

Blitzø shook his head. "That - that was different. I was spanking you, we were checking in, it was consensual. You were crying but you liked it and wanted that and made it clear to me. This is not that, Stolas. You're - shit, feathers, I’m so sorry, I should've noticed - why didn’t you signal -"

"I did like it, Blitzy," Stolas lied easily. "We can keep -"

"Bullshit."

The smile fell, and Stolas felt his heart speed up.

Blitzø looked on the verge of tears himself. "Fuck - Stols - you don’t owe - you think I want to do that so bad I don’t care if you want to?"

Stolas simply shrugged, and Blitz felt his heart shatter.

"It’s not fair," the bird said softly, "to you, if I -"

"Who taught you that?" Blitzø asked, his voice suddenly soft and yet trembling with anger. His hands were shaking. "Who the fuck taught you that, Stolas? Tell me, because I’m going to fucking murder them."

Stolas stared at the couch in silence.

"Was it Stella?" Blitzø whispered. His voice could cut glass.

Stolas felt suddenly like he was about to throw up.

"Stolas, did Stella -"

"I'm going for a walk," Stolas said, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat. He stood up abruptly, grabbing a pile of clothes from the beanbag chair in the living room, stepped into the bathroom to change, and slammed the door.

Chapter Text

Someone was knocking on the bathroom door. Stolas curled into a ball, wedged between the tub and the wall.

“Stolas?” He heard a voice, faintly. It felt fuzzy, as if through a receiver. “Stolas, please open the door – “

“OPEN THE DOOR, STOLAS!”

The bird hugged the little girl in his arms closer to his chest.

“Why is mummy mad?” Came a small, scared voice. Stolas forced a smile. “She’s just a little – upset, darling. It’s not your fault, I promise. How about we play a little game, hmm?”

“A game?”

“STOLAS, OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR OR I WILL – “

Blitzø began to bang against the door in a panic. “Stols – it’s been ten minutes – I’m worried Stolas, please – “

‘HOW DARE YOU TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY DAUGHER – “

Octavia raised her head. “Hide and seek?”

“Yes,” Stolas said, holding her close to his chest. “Sometimes your mummy and I… we play hide and seek. You like that game, don’t you?”

“STOLS – listen, please – I need to know you’re okay. Alright? Just open the door, birdie, come on, please – “

The voices blended, crashing into one another like waves in the sand, one after the other, quickening, distorting. Shadows loomed from impossible corners; Via clung to his chest as the room grew l̶̗̓á̸̡ṛ̶̐ḡ̶̺e̶̱̎r̵̬̈, then smaller, then l̵̟͂a̶͙̎r̴̩̀g̵̘̓e̴̗̽r̴͖͆ ̶̬̐a̷͓̽ḡ̵͔ả̵̧i̸̞̓n̵͔͆ ̶̗̏

Voices, lifting from beneath the earth, between the years, from present and future, from the darkness that birthed him and was back to claim its due.

S̶̥̦̯̰̹̠̙̼̺͖̖̎̋͠ḥ̴͓̱̞̞͉̀͒̉̎̏̈́̽͑̿̇̄͜ͅę̵̢͙̝͚̞̲̮̆̑̒͋͋̃̔̑͝’̴̪̟͋͂̌̈́̏́̕͘͝ͅs̶̰̟͉̥̼͍̻͆̆̍̽̽́̄͋ ̸̧͚̩̹̇̋̆͒̈̈́̂͜͝a̴̠̰̜͛̆ ̶̡͕͚̻̬̤͚̰͖̈́G̴̢̧̻̖͔̼̻͗͛̈́̇̄̚͠͝ȏ̵̢͈͇̗̔̃̉̀͘̕͘̚͜e̷̼̖̳̬̔̇̄̽̾͒ţ̷̞͐͒̂͘i̵̮͎̠͚͈̞̖̳̘̜̾̋̑̊̾̇̉͆̎̑ą̷͙͖̮̋̉̒͋̒͌̕̕, a screech sounded in his ear. S̸̮͎̟̗̉̔̏̏̇h̵̼͉̺̰̼̒̓͛͛͘͘ȅ̴̩̲̣͍̺̖́̊̐̚ ̷̯͕̏͑̍͑̚w̸̢͓͎͎̔̈́̒ǐ̸̬̭̉͛̍̔l̸͚̝͛́̋̇̚͝ļ̵̧͈̼̩͕̇̈̾̂ ̶̨̭̘͔̤̚m̸̯̯̹̟̉͋̚ä̷̩̠̳͉͉̞́͌̍͑͝r̶̘̙̜͖͊r̷̨͇̬̬̼̬̒̆̀̚ÿ̷̪̥̪́̀̆̀̎͜ ̷̫̖̣̈́̚ẅ̵̡̛̫̦̤̬̮́̇̀͝h̶̰̅͗̽̾͝͝ȩ̷͈̉̿͋̚t̴̺̄̏̄̓͘h̴̤͕̥̹́͊̐̂̚͜͜͝e̷͎̪̟͊̑̕r̵̨̹͖̺̆̈́͜ ̴̧̭̓̍̍́ș̶͈͕̺̻̗̑̊̀͂̉h̶̡̰͉̮̺̺̀̓͘e̸̖̍͗̌͌̍̄ͅ ̸̬̪͆̄w̸̳̣͙̿̄à̴̺̐̌̽ṉ̶̮͔̒͗̚͜t̸̢̗̳͛̏s̷̛̪͕̞͔̘̒͛ͅ ̵̮̤͙̤̂t̶̼̾̽̓̀ó̸͈̪̬̭̿̉̿͛̕ ̵͔͓͑̽̓̐̊̾o̷͕̲͎͔͌̚r̴̦͒͠

Stolas!  

Y̴͙͌ò̵͕ú̶͖ ̶͇̒w̸̟͝ă̸̧n̷͇̈́t̷͕̽ ̷̣͋ḣ̶͎e̴͉̾r̸̦͐ ̵̬͌t̵̘͂ō̸̻ ̸̩̚ḡ̵̥r̷̥̿o̶̩͘w̷̳̉ ̴̧́u̵̧͠p̷̳̌ ̴̜͆l̴̳͊i̴̧͒k̷͖͒ȅ̴̤ ̶̹̈́ỵ̷̓o̸̼̒ù̴͖,̵̘̓ ̸̫̂. S̷̡̢̢̨̛͇̖̤͍̻͓̱̦̹̀̇̀́̂͛̀̍́͑̉͌̈́͛̏̚̚͜͝͝ͅͅt̵̰͙̩̖͚͖̣̮̽́̈́̈̅̅̽̔͊̓͂̓̚͝o̷̻͚̞̬̥̣̗̲̲͇̤͍̣͈̹̩͚͎͎͒̄͒̌l̷̛̛̛͓̙̰͖̬͙͍̥͉͎̜̣͍̀͐́͛͑̅̓̔̀̐̈͐̓͛̀̆͒͗̀̉̓̃̏̀̊̈̕̕͜͝͝͝͝a̶͍̣̱̠̎̍͛͗͆͋̌̌̂s̶̡̨̛̼͙͔̘͙̱͔̥̞͚̫̟͔̯̟̭͗? Alone and p̷̺̺̫̭̤̦̳̋̋̃̿̌̂͊̓͋̅̚͝ạ̴̧̢̪̞͈̪̥̩͙̣̹̞͎̟̟̖͓͎͎̝̩͕͍͇̗̱̭͈̻́̏̔̂͜ṭ̴̈́̈͊͗̓͛̓͂̀̕͘͝h̶̨̢̛͖̦̺́̓̊͋̋̑̅̿̈̍̀̈̎̉̉̅͐͗͒̿͆̃̕̕̕͘͜ͅę̵̡̰͍͔̦͉͍͔̬̫̯̩̤̘̙͎͕͖̗̘̻̋͂̄̑̈́̀͛̓̋̍̓̈́̓͆̈́̔͌͊͆̕͘͜͝͠ͅţ̵̨̡̤̤̞̪̫̹͓͓͇͖̫̮̩͍̱̱̞͙̰͈̳̮̮͖͖̥̲͐͗̽͊̽͋̀̅̿̀͛̄̾̀̐̀̊̆̑͘i̷̢̡̦̭̘̞̮̤̝̣̱͈̦͓̼͓̠̩̻͎̱͖̫̘͉̫͇̩͍͐̿̒̇̌͛͋̾̑̄̀̄̈́̑̄͗̀͊͑̊͗̂̇̏̐̏̅̆̉̍̀͘͜͝͝č̵͓͊̆̈́͒̑̈́̔̈́̋̉̈́̎́͌

         c̷̟̠͓͔͕̘̟̤̰̪̀̒͒̿͘a̸̘̟̼͕͚̙̦̪͚͒̃͐͜͜ͅn̵̢̨͚̣̗̮͌́̀̉̈́̋͘͜’̴̳͂̄t̴͓͆̈́̿̆͐̈́̅ ̵̧̻͎͋̇̈́͗̂͆̽͘b̸̨̢͉̭̼̤͈̝͍͉̜̟͖̀̓́́̅͜͝é̷̡̨̩̼͉̖̞̲̖̣̦͈̦̉͗̒̓̎̂́͂̚͘͘͠ḻ̵̨̡̘͓͙̩̞̩͕͔͔̒̓͐̔̈́̑̆̂̕i̸͚̬̣̗̥̺̥̝̗̝̲̣̫̳̓͑̄̈̆́͒̇̍͑͛̈́̉̕e̶̪̳̟̪̳͑v̴̨̖̰͝ȩ̴̖͈͔̬̓͐̽̔͑̒͛̂͒̿ ̷̛̝̯͒͛̇́́̏̎́̏͆͠I̴̛̛̗̟̅̅͛̇͛͐͐̉̾̊̚ ̷̺͈͎͌̓̍̀̾̈́̇̓̈̓̕͘͝͝s̷̭̬̥͈͚̪̼̗̅u̸̡̢̢̗͍̤͔̘͕̗͑̄͋͆̍͂̈́̚͝f̸̛̛̩̱̟͍͒̀̃́͌̒̋̇͒́̚f̸̧̥͛͆͒̈̕e̶͉̻͉̹̠̰͊̐̀͋͆͋ͅr̴̛̠̪̫͍͎͕̩͚̺̜͂͜ͅe̶͎͔̮̹͚̮̤̮̤̩͇̱͆̓̉̅̅̊̓̃̐͘͘͝͠ḑ̷̞̖͕̘͙͓̜̯̠̱͐̏̊̑͂͋͆̆̅͆̒͜ ̷͖̻̬̓̐͊́̈́̐̈́͝ţ̶̬͓̬̫̫̰͙̈̅̉̉̊̾͌́͊̿́̊̒ͅh̸̰̠͗́̈̈́͊̌̉̚̚͠ṟ̸̢̯̦̘̰̑̄͆̈́ǫ̷̢̡̟̗̩͓̭̱̹͖̲͈͒̈̐́̌̆͌̕͘͜u̸̙͈͇̩̣̘̙͍̭̫͗͛̅̽̑͊̿̊̚ͅg̵̡͕̞̹̰̫̞̝̘͔̣͕͚͂̒̆̒ḧ̵̳̬̖̖̼͙̰̱͒͘ ̵̛̦̣ș̵̢̲̠̙̺̞͖̭̹̗̹͇̀̐̅̍̉̈́̚ͅe̴̫̼̩̞̳͓͚̱̟̭͚̦̖͕̿̽̈̑̑̌̂̽͝x̴̗͍̲̮̱͉̻̮͖̝͕̼͎̉̕ ̴͙̑̀͂̂́͊͒̓̇́̕̚w̸̟͈̦̖͈̥̓̀̽͆̅̍̈̚͠i̷̼̮̻͎̜̞̐͊̐͐̋ͅt̷̞̜͔͇͐ḥ̶̡̌ ̶̤̪̬̍͝ý̵̟͖̠̗̎̀̿̀̔̽͒̕͝͠͠o̴̧̫̪̟͎̣͙̤͔͓͑͐̃̈́́́͌̒̐̆̍̌̽͝ư̷̡̹̰͈̳̜̞̋̔̇ ̴̢̛͉͎͍̮̥̮̩͗͑͐̿̏j̶̨̣̙̖̥͒ů̴̡̙̟̭̑̓̈́̀͛̔́̅́̅̉̀͘ș̵̳̃̐̏̅̿̕̚͝ͅt̴̩̳̻̽͜ ̵̢̡̰͖̦̑͐͐͋͑̐͂̕f̶͎̯͖͉͖̤̣̦̋̎̉͊̐́͝o̵̖̼̦̳̪̽r̴͉̫̬͝ ̶̢̲͙̳̪̤̗̮̓̋̑͝ẗ̶̨͖̥́͊̑̂̈͆̽͂͛̄͜ẖ̸͉̠̰̥̯̺͉̆̇̌a̵̧̺̲̫͈̅t̸̻̩̹̮͙̝͉̝̀͜͜

̴̰̭̆̽͌͆a̵͙̣̞̜̟̞͚̓̐͋͋̿̋͘͘ń̴̨̢̬̖̤̖̞̘̗̊̈́̾̌̈́̈́͠͠y̴̬̤̳͈̹͋̌͐̃͒́̉̀͂̐̇̾̈́͝ ̸̛̼̠̑͌̓̀̓̃̎͊̾́̑̕͜ö̷̝̦͖̋̔̏̋̉́̌̿̏́͆̈́̐ṯ̸̢̹̟̼̹̭̑̋͆̌̈̑͐̆̔̃̔̆̉ḩ̵̼̙̮̮̤̮̣̤̩̘̀́̅̇̆̎̂̉̒̉̿̒͘ȩ̵̘̤̣͉̠͙̪̓͆̽̉͛̐̈́̒̽͛̋̓̚͝r̸̢̨͉̻̙̦̞͕̠̟̭̖͈͓̈́ ̸̤̟̼̭͓̭̫̣͍͈̳͇̂̎̔̎̾͋̍̈́̈́͂̅̈́͘̚͜m̴̡̧̗̦̫̖̦̘̝͕̳̈́̀̏̓̈́̾̀̆̏̈̎͘a̷̤͎̤͚̜͉̗̘̪̟̱̒́̐̊̓̽͘͠ͅñ̴̬̰̠̺̤͙̃̅̏̎̊͐̈̚

Stols, please ą̸̦̪̺̭͎̰͙͚͎̹̅̂̽͑̃̂̌̿͑͂̽͛͋͘͜͜n̷̡͓͙̖͉͚̣̘̗̗̙̪̫̖̘̥̟̲͚̯̊̏̌̎̑͌̑̀̎̀̾̏͑̈́́̊͌͗̆́́̏̈́̚͜͝͠ͅy̵̭̟̺̞̳͕͈͊͋͌̽̈́̅͒̑̋̿̂̿͗̏̍͂̑͛̊͐̐̅̐̄̕͘͝ ̸̳̍̇̇̍̓̉̊̕̕̚͠o̵̢̨͚͇̤̝͇̭̦̦͕͈͈̹̥̽͆͗͊̅̾͗̂̀͑͘͝t̷͔͚̣̹̫̙̖̤̱̼̯̬͓͙͖̞̰͙͕͙̱͈͈͔̠̫̝̉̍̑̑̀̒̚̕͜͠͝h̴̺͇̳̗̼̗̳̣̰̯̥͙̰̦̠̀̅̓͆̏̉̊̋̄̈̀̊̄͑̓̋̐̊̾̋͆̉̑͑̓̎̽͛̐̚͜͝ͅͅͅę̶̡̡̡̛̛͍̦̙̗̯͇̫̭̮͈̫͔̠̮̥͈͓͙͙̖̱͎̆͋̅̅̒̇͑̍̅̍̉̒̏̇͐̉̽̇̾̉̉͛͘͘͠ṟ̸̨̡̢̠͕͎͙͔̘͈̲̰͖̠̳̞̔̀́̂̍̈́̒͋̾̌̏̀͘͝͝ ̶̧̨̢̥̬̖̤̜͕̼̖̪̱̮̺̣͚̯̺̣̍̈́͂̊͂̔͒̑̾̅͛͆̈́̈́̔̀̇̚͜͠͠͝m̶̧̟͇͕͎̻̓͆̿͆̈́̈́̌̈́̆́ą̴̧̨̢̡̛̪̯̥͍͓͍͖̭̫̜̳̈̿̋̈͌̽̎̽̆̐̽͘ͅņ̷̢̰͖̗̼̗͓͙̬̫̼̝̪̗̟̙̘̟̟̯̒̈́͒̀͒̓̈́̀̕͜͝͠͝ ̸̡͇̣̪̩̥̠̣̼̥̙͈͓͉̥͎̤̣͈͇̹̺͕͚̳͇̪͈̝̈̈́̄͜w̸̢̨̧͉̠͔̮̼̜̯͇͔̦̤̫̼̗̳̤͙̖͓̫̙͕̳̘͆̈̏͛̈͗̕͜ͅo̸̧͓̬̮͕͇̥̮̣̠̺͖̭̮̝̓͛̈̃̓̉̓́̀̃̑̚͝͝͝u̵̧̧̨̗͖͓̙̳͍̜͚̠̥̫̱̘̘̦̇̌̈́̿́̕͝͝ľ̶̛͎̳̬̻͔̜̜͚̹̬͖͙̖͔͕̗͇͎̯̻̞̲̲̒͆̆͑̑̔̈̐͂̿̈͐́̄́̉͐̅̇̈͗͂̈́́̕̚̚͘͝͝d̶̡̝̟͓̹̥̥̦͚̞͔̱̭̽͋͋̆̉̋̌͋͛̓ͅ ̸̧̡̛̬̣̦͇̤̠͕͙̖͇̱̪̜͉̳͇̉͊̆͌̅̿̔̋͋̎͑̀̓̈́̒̀͑̓͌͗̓̈́̕͘͝ͅb̴̹͎͈̻͂̓͌̈́̎̽̄̈́̌̇̒̂̄ͅę̴̡͚̟̗͈̥̩̜̪͍̮̘̤̘͔͙̞̳̫͙̰͛́̑͋̏͘͜ͅ ̵̛̛͈̞̙͈̹̰̪̻̲̺̥̜͆͋͛̈̋̌̃̊́̒̏̆̈́̎̋̃͐̃̾̕̕͘͝͝͝ḅ̶̨̧̛̳͔̙̜̻̫̱͚̣̭̎̇̑͒̿̃̊̄̊̏́̀͒̕̚͘͝͝e̶͎͙̖͕̗̬͖̲̞͈̎̎͂̆͑̂̑͘̚̚͜͝ģ̵̧̨̢̨̨̛̻̥̟͇̤̝̰̞͖͎̬̹͈͕̥̹̦̬̳̜̳̝̱̤̱͖͐̅͗̒͌̌́̽̏͝͝ͅg̷̛̥͍̗̦̯̩̙͔̯̪̱̟̝͙̪̖̙̯̈́͐̃ͅi̴̪̺̪͖͐ņ̷̧̨̨͕̮͉͈͙͙̺̦̩̤̗̺̳̺̲͕̻̬͕͙̞̖͉̜͇̻̥̟͛̐̉́͆̐͂͊̅̅̃́̍͌̋̓̂̈́̂̏͘͜͝g̴̨̢̛̝̱̻͖͓̞̬͔̯͍͕̽̈́̿̋̾͆͌̍͒̂͑̚ͅ ̷̨̡̛̛̝̯̩͎͎̬͉̪̥̟̣̞̜̰͈̫̙̐̍̏̽̿̀̈́̋̐͂͆̅̌͆̃̑́͒̍̾̆̈́͊̑͛̕͠͠͝͠͝t̴̯͚̥̲͓̱͔͓̱̳̒́̀̇̀ơ̸̡̡̝̹͙̮̫̜̭̬͉̜͒͊͌̈́̐̌͑̅̍̈́̓̆̾̍͂̆̓͂́̃̅̚̕̕̕͜ ̷̢͍̳͇̪̘͈̪̤͕̮͍̞̥͓͔̦̤̼̝͚̱̣̲̜̤͓̫̓͐͗̊̑̀̍̅͠ͅf̶̮͕̙̍́̄̉͗̍̊ų̵̧̞̞̻̣͇͍̙̺͕̗̦̦͎͕̖̜̫̖̫̆̏̀͐̿͛̕͜ͅc̵̛͎̪͈̩͙̩̲͓̦̖̳̠̫͆̄̃̂͗̋̿̀͝͠͝ͅk̸̫͖͍̣̣̼͕͎̰̏̈́̿͒͊͐̃̏̊̆̌͊̃͋̍̿̒̾̇̾̽͒̌̈́̅̇̕̕̚ birdie, I’m gonna open the door, okay

̴̬̙̪̩͈̯̥̺̠̲̱̝͚͔̫̮̤̤͕̖̩̼̙̮̘̖̈́̏̔̊̃͗̅̔̑̈́̌̐ ̴̢̨̠̱̗̤̦͉̻̯͔͔̤͔̭͚̗̮̝̩͎̩̝̥̳͎͖͇̲̳̯̣͉̫̣̖̝̠̻̞͆̋̅̐̾͋́͆̀̾̆̓̀̈̐̓̍̈́͌̈̓̊̃̍̿͋͆͌͛͑͜͜͝ͅ ̷̧̧̪̫̽̄́͛͐́̋͂̆͆͒̐̆ ̴̛̗̯̮̻̜̣̰̪̭̲̖̦͈͋̎̄͠ ̶̛̛̭̼̾̊̍̓̈̉͗͋̑̍̾ ̷̢̢̢̢̛̦̠̜̺͓̼̪̣̩͇̳͎̩̖̦͇̟̘̭̙̗̺͔̺̦̟̠̟̜̮̤̻̰̠͙̘̥͛͗̄̂̉̍̀͐̇͗̑̐̋̾̚̕͘͘͘͘ ̵̡̡̢̢̧̝̟̲͔̘̞̮͕̻͇̹̩̬͚̞̖̙̥͇͎̝̥̞̘̰̱̹͚͓͖̼̳̤͎̟̞̮̰̈̇̿̾͗̽̄̆̉̉̃̀̆̓́̅́̐̈́͘̕͠ͅͅ ̶̡̢̢̡̠̖̞̫͕̳̮̠̳͇͕͔̟̟͛̈́͊͒̀͆͗̏̆͑̈́̅͛̃̅̅́̄̈́̎͋̈́͌̃̌̃̃̂̎̅̈́̾̔̃͘̕̕͠͠͝͠͝ ̵̢̢̡̨̨̻͔̣͎͕̟̮̲̰̜̘̲͍͔͕͇̹͍͎͇̟͉̯͑̈́͆͑̈́̋͗̾͌̀͗͜͜͜͝ ̴̧̨̻̝̖̦̥̫̭͍̲̜͈͕͎̗̣̗̰̭̹̺̣͓̗̗̹̹̖͔͉̼̜̙̰̝̤͔͇͚̈́͜ͅ ̸̧̩͖̲̪͙̭͔͎̮͋͛̓̒͗̀̇͆̋̄͌͊̃̈́̑́̄̏̿̅̒͌́̕̚̚͠͠͝͝͠͝ ̶̨̡̡̯͓͎̗̦̲̝̻͕̬̩͔̰̹̙̺̳̣̠̙͉̤̯̙̖͔̤̞̞̬̣̼̖̼̳͙̓́̆͋̄̀̀̐͌̿̽͛͑̏̆̈́̓͊͌̓̒̇̉̃̓͂̄͒́̇̕͘̚̕͜͜͝͝ͅ ̶̧̨̛͉̣͖͍̲̲͖͈͎͕̩̺͖̦̩̠͇͚͎̯̻̼̫̙̱̬̠͎̱̩̪̺̟̼̣͕̊̈͋̾̎̐͐͐͆̓̋͒̀͑͛̃̊̎̀͋̍̈͋̈́́̍͗̔̚̕̚͜͝͝͠͝͠ͅ ̷̻̖̪͙́̈̽͐̈́͆͑̈́́͒̿̎͘͠ ̴̢̡̨̧̢̳̠̬͍̫͔̩̬̭̲͓̤̣̜̖̇̿͛̕ͅy̵̧̢̳̖͎̱̭̺̩͚͇͇̮̞̥̥̳͈̳̪̙̬͉̪̬͙͉̿̓͌͌̍͛̈́̇̀͗̐̽̋̒̓͋̐͛͋͊̃͊͒̔̈́͘͝ͅơ̷̢̢̡͍̫̲̗͙͈̝̭͖̗͉͉͍̻̩̞̳̯̘͚̍̽̂̎͑͒́̓̔͂̆̍͒̀͊͑͑͛̅̽͌̑͋̒̔̀̈͐̈̓͑̒͛̏̍́́̌̕̕̕͜͜͠ͅú̶̧͈͙̳͚̩̥̮̠͖̺̘͙̖̹̝̯̲͚̯̝͍͎̮̹̍̈́͑͐͗̊͌͐̓̅͗̆̋́̎̑̍̑̉̾̈́̾́͊̀̋̅̔̈́ ̵̧̡̨̧̧̛͈̱̫̘͈̩̟̥͖̤̤̞̲̭͈͚̘̫͇͈̙̻͕̦͙̤̗͉͎̝͍̘̠̞͓̞̐̔̈́͊̀͒̿̆̄̕͜͝͠͝ͅf̶̡̡̡̢̛̛̼͚̲̭̼͕̰̤̥̯͕̼̳͖̲̫̖͍̮̩̱̣̲̪̜̬̆̑͒̎̎̎͛̋̽͒͗̅̈́̑̈̂̓̊͊̓̈́͌̋͌̅̄͛̉͋̊̂̏̏͛͒̑̎̚̕̚͘͘͜͠͝͝ͅų̸̢̛̞̜͔͓̖̭̭̘͇̰̲̦̩͉͓̰̭̻̳͓͇̭̘͖͍̳̮͕̫͈̩̯͇̱͎͇̥͙͓̹̖̔͒͌͋̍̔̑̀̉̐̈́̅̇̉͒̿̍͋̐̈̀̕͜͝͝ͅͅç̵̢̧̩͖̥̟̗̟̼͖̮̝̺͈̙̝̰͇͎̠͎̬̩̯̯̼̣̺̗̯͓̯͈̟̹͕̄̑̀͂̊̓͛͜ķ̷̡̢̢̨͖̤̙̠̹̗̳̪͎̫͖͎̤̳̱͍̟̞͕̫̲̖̜̼̦̼̳̙̏̊͂̓̅͛̇̚ͅͅi̶̢̢̢̡̡̡̡͓̭̖̫̱̺̰͎̭̪̬͍̹̙̭̮̜̦̤͔͔̹̯̱̳̦͍͙̦̝͂͋̀̉̔̑̀̂̊͗̆͒͛͋̐̔̂̿̿͆͐͘͜͝͠͠ͅͅņ̷̢̣͍̳͔̺̥̣̠̳̣̳͔͈̤͇̘̟̦͍̳̩̞̜̯̫͖̞̹̮̩̭̪̯̙͌̓͜͜g̶̡̧̡̛͉̠̱̩̲̹̼̯̠̩̩̦͙̣̘͕͚͚͔͚͙̹̭̖̗̜̯̩̠̤̪͔̰͍̗͇̈͊͌̌͑͗͝ͅ ̸̛͕̱͔͍͈̼̒̋̌̔͑͂̈́̒̇̍̈́̂͛͗̀͒͂̆̊̏̄͐̿̔̆͐̆̓̂́̅̑̈́̒̀̃̏̇̇̚͝͝͝d̸̡̢̡̢̗̠͈̬͖̥̺͖̺̻͕̫̻̰̹̙̪̜͔̰͙̯̹̯̱̟͚͖̔̀̍̉͗̏͛̉̓͊̔́͒̓͊̎̓̊̆̀̅̎͛̓͆̆̐̎̎̈́̈́͘͜͝͝͠͝į̸̧̨̨̢̡̧̧̛̛̝̲̼̣̖̰̙̰̦̹̼͎̰̖̯̘̪͕̖̤̩͎͔͎͍̪͙͖̫̬̮̤́̌̐̆̈́̀̉͋̑̃͑͋͂̿͐́̔̆̍̓̎̈́̓̆͋̄̽͆̈́͌͊͐̈́͑̎̃́͐͘̚͜͝͝ͅs̵̢̢̢̡͉͍̗͈̼̘͙̤͎̺̝̼̯̘͖͎̙̳̮͕͚̣͙͕̜̥͉̝͇͇̻̠̜̲͋̋̈͘͜g̶̨̛̭̦̻̠̗͙̙̘̠̃̊̃̄̊̒̿̇̒͗͗̔̆̊̇̌͋̈́͐̓͊̒͗͊̌̀͘̚̕͘͝͝r̴̨̢̨̭̩̰̮̱̻̝̮̼̠̮̖͈͚̟̥̓͐̌̕͜͝͝͠ą̷̢̗͚̩̯͉̞̝̱̫̰̘̝̯͙͍̙͖̭̳̜̲͓̠̜̥͔̫̺̥͔̝̦̺̭͂͆́̊͜͜ͅć̴̖̥̌̒͆͒͆́͘͠e̶̛̤̖̞͚̹̥͙̥̼̘͕͓̼̩̫͉͇͍̮̪̰͋̐̏̏̂̍̓͋͛̉̏͊͂̋̊̋͒̌̎̀̏̒̄̅̋̓̅̐̍̈́̐̕͝͝͝,̷̡̨̧̥͓̬̯̣̩̝̼̲̝͚̖͚̐̍̐̑̈́̓́̈́̀̀̌͒͊͊́͐̀̈̾͛̓̌́̂̽̅̚͜͜͝͠͝͠͝ ̴̧̧̧̢̛̬͓̟̭̬̬͚̬̱̦͍͎͉̰̲̙̯̪̱̤̞̰̪̯̹̹̰̪͗̉̌̂̔͐͌̉̀̐̿̓̈͊͊̾̀́̉̈́̀̅͂̎͗̏͒̓̃̊̅̉͘͘͘̚̕̕ͅy̶̢̨̢̰̹͕̣͖̳̲̯̹̞̰̤͚̬̬̝̰̥͖̯͕̹̺̼̻̪̜̮̣̰͉̼͖͔̳͇̞̞͈͇̣̲̋̐̽͂̾́́͆͋̀̈́̐́̎̄̌͊͊͂̏̚͝ͅͅő̷̧̧̝͎̫̪̳͎̰͖̝͇͖̣̝̝̻̙̫̣̫̥͖͖͖̈͑̓̍̅̑̈͛ư̸̧̛̼̥̯͍̥͆̀̓̈́̅̎̄̈͊͂̄̉̅̀̀̓͛̽̍͌͒̂̈́̈́̍̅̂̎̅̐̕̚͝ ̷̡̡̧̡̢̡̧͉͖͙̦͕̗̗̼͚̠͉͇̗͚͖̻̲͌̈́̆͂̓̂̆̄̽̂̍̐̒̈́̽̿̓͆̿͛͗̚̚c̵̡̨̧̙̟̫̳̣̘̠̫̖͍̘̱͈͈͈̥͙͇̥̟͍̺̼̟̾͌͒̆̀̋͒͂͛͂̇̃̌̉̏̌͊͒̑̃̿́̆̊̾̄̈́̅͘̕͜͝͝͝ọ̸̧̨̧̧̡̢̥̦̭̼̞͙̹̙̻̗̫̮̗̞̳͔̲̰̱͔͔͙̫̺͍̪͚̳̖̦̮̠̦̪̈́̽̈́̉̋̆̋̿̊̌ͅư̷̧̧͍̬̱͍͔̝̫̱̪̠̮̠͉̣̻͉̹̦̼̥̫̝̜̱̰̑͑̽́̏̀̈́̏̾̊͛͋̅̊̄̓͗̽̽͊̿̂̈́̅͊̈́̌̌̍́̕͠͠ͅl̶̡̟̭͈͉̱͈̫̠͍̪̖͍̬̹͖̬͖͙̻͈͔̉̃̈̃̎̓̿̓̐͐̈̉̌̓̄̓̔͐̏̾͑͑͊̃̈́̿͆͌͐͗̀̅̾̊̈́̕̕̕͝͝ͅd̷̢̪͎͙̹̭̺̲̘̤́̅͌͊͑̅̑́̍̌̃̈́̓̆̒̍̈́̿̊̑̾̑̂̆͆͋́̃͌̄̅̐͋͗̇̊̓̽̀̂̀̐͘̕͝͠ ̷̨̥̹̬̙̹̎̄͗̀̈́̅̐̏̊̈́̍̌̊̀̎̔̀͋̿̓̆̀̚͘a̷̛̲̹̻̯͙͎͓͈̤̹̰̝͙̭̹͇̝͖̠͕͕̪͎̹̬̼̝̼̰͋̋̃̐͊̊̎̎̂͌̑̂̓̍̽̀̂̏̚͝͠ͅt̷̛̛͇̔͛̀̓͑̏̂͑͋̒̿̔͊̾͊̅̄̿̌̒̏̎̽̔̒̒͗͘̚͘͘̚ ̸̡̧̡̫͙̣̗͈̞͇̱͔̝̩͔̙̠̺̠̳̬̩̮̱̮͖̞̭̞̮̜̬̈́̄̈̒̆͂̊̾̉͐̀̂̊̀̈̈́̽̕͘͜l̷̡̨̛̫͔̬̺͔̦̮̗̣̬̟͖̘͇̼̭͎̥̥̇̍͋̉̓̇͑̚e̸̡͙̠͋͛̐̿͗́̒̈̓͗̓̆̎̏̃̀̌̀̕̕̕͝a̵̢̡̢̙̤͓͎̠̹͍̼̰̩̻̣̥̘̗̙̳̣͉̻̠͚͈̻̖̺̩̲̮̼͎̬͍͍̣̘̝̗̰̻̐͛̍́̔̓̆̽̎́͆͗̌̈̐̉̽͑̂͋̅̌̀̅̉́̀͘̚͠ͅͅs̷̡̧̢̧̧̜̦̹͍̘͍̯̹̦͕̫̰̗̩̻̭͚͖͈͖͓̜͙͕̈͒̽́̈͑͠ͅt̸̥̖̦̪͖͗̿̿̒́̈́͊͐̀̚͠ ̸̧̨̤̬͇͎̦̬̩̳̞̻̗̲̩͔̯̣̼͎̫̹̉̃̈́̾͊̋́̓͊̉̈́̿̊̌̊̋̋̒̆́̿̅͆̌̈́̀͆͑̊̏̾͐̉̐͒̋̔͐͂̑͋͘͘͠͝p̵̛̖̝̹͕̺̜̖̭̝̻̦̉̄͛̽̂̏͗̔̿̾̌̎͆̈̓̆͌̎͐̊͆̽̉͗̄͆̔̃͌͋̀́̾̐͂́͑̚͘͘̕̚͜͜͠͝ͅr̵̨̢̧̢̥̩͎̤̯͇͈̭̱͍̫̦̣̗̦̮͍͉̯̣̱̱̭̦̳̹̗̪̟̜͖͇̯͈̪̐̀̃̐͆͋̄̓͑̉͒̌̓͆̌͜͝͝͝͝ę̵̡̢̧̢̖̭̥̩͇̩̗̠͔̯̺͓̙̞͖͙̻̬̘̹̠͕̜͙͍̹̗̭̙̳̊̌̇͒̒̾̉̄̎̌͑̒͛̑̃́͛̐̊͘̕͠ͅť̸̡̡̙̘̻̳͔̦̥̱͈̫̟͙͈͇̮̣̬̻̟̻͈͈̀́̍͊ȩ̷̧̨̨̧̢͓̥̬͕͙̳̤̫̭̘̫̞̙̞͉̞͇̭͍̞͐͜͜͝ǹ̷̢̨̙͍̞͈͈̦̰̹̥̼̜̬̼̣̞͚̝̮̺̝̉̈́ͅd̴̢̢̨͍̩̠̘̳̗̗̝̮̳̟͙̖̙̻̦̯̗͈̥͎̳̫̖̀̔̄ ̵̧̧̨̛̞̜̝͉̦͕̮̼͔̭̙̮͈̲͕̥͍͉̬̤͔̗̱͚̟̣͍̍̀̚͜͜͝ͅͅţ̷̨̡͈͎̩̗͇͓̙͚̝͕̬̘̜͙̣̗̤͎̘͉̩̼̞̠̻͍͕̭͕̗̳̳͓̜̜͔͕̗͈̳̯͒͐̍̐̐͋̈́͆̅͌͐̐̈́́́͋̅͐̽͋̋̉̾̚̚͘̕͝ͅo̴̡̧̧̤̬̙̝̩͚̘͔͖͖̭̖̭͈̙͔̣͇̜͚͇̝̭͇̯̦̦͔̥̣̗̜̳̰͛̿̿̀̏̃͐̇̍̐̑̍͑̄̇͒̽̅̽̊̄͝͝ͅͅͅ ̸̛̭͎͇̈́̂̃͊͋͛̈̐͂͒̿́̓͊̆̿̓̏̂̈̑͆͆͌̓͌̈́̈̃͂̌͆̀̓͑̀̈̔͋͋́͘̕͘͠͝ȩ̷̡̦̩̘͎̺͍̳̥̦̠͇͎̩͖͇̳̤͈̰̼͇̓̎͑̑̈́̒̀̄́̉̈́̒̓̈́̈́̔̌͌̈̄͒̕͘̚͝ṉ̶̢̱̖͈̭̝̻̭̗̟̜̟̻͖̰̤͗̇̽͌̀̊̑̽̆̈͒̎͋͌̔̐̄̂͂́͂͑̑̌̒͂͊͌̂͆́̀̇̀̉͂͂̍̚͝j̷̨̨̢̨̧͉̦̻̜͙͚͉̤͓̹̼͖͍̫̬͈͈͇̯̟̹̄̂̈̿̅̌̂̀̀͊̍̈́̌͂̈́̔͗̀̃̒̇̈́̅̈́͗̊͋̓͆̆̏̎̕̚̚̕͜͜͝ȯ̶̧̳̬̯̼̜̞̜͠y̶̨̲̻̠̰͎͎̦̥͒̌̈́͑

Fuck – what are you –

g̶͖̪̍͂̋͗͑͘i̷̧̧͍̜͕̙͇̺̳͈̅̀̽̏́͊͋̓͝v̷̢̡̜̬̟͓̭͈̩̭͚͇͉̈́̆͑̆͗̾͆̃̃̚͜e̶̤͚̋̈͂̆̓͌͂̏̆̚͝ ̷̡̢̢͎̳̬͉̱̮͉̭̮̻͍̳̊͆̆̐̌́͜m̵̟̜̫̏̒̄̓͂̌̎͆̌̉̄̕̚̚ẹ̸̞̙̮͍͚͔̪̩̟̳̋̐̂̃͝ ̵͇̺̠̩͓̭̖̘̩̠̤̞̱̮͋̽͒͋́͑͘͘y̷̡̥̪̩̹̩̺̋̒́̇ơ̵̧̢̛͙̺̥͈̰͚̂̊̑̈́͒͑̑̚͝u̸̧͎͉͗͊͗͗̂́̀͒̈́̃͝r̵͖̣̫͚̭̭͉̫̮͔̞͕͐̿͋̆́̋̑̌̓̀̉͑̿͐͝ ̶̛̖̟͇̰̦̙͎̹̞͒̉͛̾̆͂̚͝u̷̧̢̗͉̝͍̞͉̞̣̫̇̌̓͋̑͗̚̕ģ̴̪̪̰̭͖͇͋̒̑̈́ļ̶̡̛̭̝͉͚̓̀̔͂͝͝y̸̞̮̖̲̓̊̊ ̸̟̠̣̦̘̪̼̫͈̙͉͔̑͆̓͑̒̒̈̕͘m̶̡̛͇͈̺͕̩͍͖̞̳̉̔̐͒̾̒̑̀ǔ̸̬͈̺̺̠̻͂̎͒̇̄̚g̴̨͇̫̻̟͇͚̪͇̺̏̊̂̎̽͆̉̊̓̊́͝͠ ̷̢̛̛̞̥̳̱̣̙̖͉̱̤̗̹͇͙́͛ͅo̶̳̜̙̤̿͐̊̒̇̋̀̎͊͝f̴̡̡̪͚͈̯̥̭̭̲̜̱̝͈̌̋͜͜ ̸̢͔̘̗͇́͗͋̈̋͑̉̔̊ă̶̩͇̻͚̰̝͎̎̋ ̴͉͙̥̱̜̏͐̈́̌̓͌͆̒̓́́̈͠ͅf̷̢̟̞̩̗̯̃̑̿̐͆̔̄̉̔̿̈́͠ä̸̢̠̻̺̞̽̾͗̾̄̉̇̿͌͛̏̾̋̚c̵̼̍̄̊̐ȩ̵̜̰̺̥̺̟̩̦̤̘͈͉́̍̆͐̓͋̓̂͋̽,̴̡̛̲̣͇͈̦̫̟͖̱̾͐̏͂̀̉͂̉ ̷̨̛̠̝̜͎̰͉͕̿̒̆͌̀͛ͅĮ̶̦̣͍̣̇͋̍́̊͝ ̸͕͓̠͔̘͓͙̏̒͜c̴̯̤̬̳̟͔̲̲͇̜̥̣̥̺͍̔ä̴̦̫̬̘͖͔́͌̒̈͘̕ņ̷̨̹̙͎̦̹̱͉̠̳̜̩̪͉̇̈́͊͋̈́̍͛͘ͅ ̷͇͉̙̑̃̆̊̀͊̐̌̅̌̆̆̅̂͠͝m̴̡͖̞͇̫͚̥̬̝͔̹̙̄̒͜ͅa̶̢̨̠͉̻̬̱̭̬̳̳͒̎̃͐̈̎̾k̷͓͉̭̬̹̝͍͓̖̪̾̒ͅe̸̢̳̳̙̬̯͊͗̒̑̈́̓̃̇̽͘̕͝͠͠͝ ̶̦͎̼̣͔̺̳̑͋͊̀̈́́̍̿̅̂̈́̎͑̏͝ỉ̷̧̢͕̱͓̙͚̬̺͕̜̔̎̍͛͑̏̓̎̋̓͠t̶̥̝͇̥͕̘̯͈̞̥͓̯̲͑̃̾̊̋͛̾͌̽́ ̴̡̡͚͇̥͕̮͚̣̯̭͆͐̓̔̑̿͌̂̊̉̕ͅs̵̢̨̫̦̘̙͐͒͐̽͌̆̔͋̀̚͠͠͠o̷̧͚̱̠͈͙̠͕̼̟̦̻̓͌͌̎̀̑̓̽͐̈́̿͆̆͘̚͝ͅ ̵̢̙͖͉̩̻̞͔͎̬̖̃̎̾͛̈̀̑͝ń̶̫͙͎̿o̶͉͈̫̱̽̀͑͑̽̅͊̈́̽̃̔͊̑͝ ̴̩̬̣͙͚̤̠͖̤̻͎̏͆̌̆͂͂͐̈́̇̆͘ȯ̶̖̺̹̹̳̦̹͖̥̝̥̣̣͙̤͌̽̎͒̆͠ņ̵̛͇͖̯̪͚̲͕͕̬͈̝̀͆̎͝ę̴̡̨̮͖͙̟̫̮͔̭̥̥̿͊̊̋͂̃̒̀̚͘ ̴̜͎̾̔̌͊w̷̙̏̇̄̀̅́̈́̊͗̂̋ĩ̸̧̛̞̙̖̝̹̯̫͕̗̂̒͗̽̎̐͌̒̆̉ĺ̷̢̡̮̬͚̻̹͒͋͌ĺ̸͓̱̗̻̬͔̼͓͔̳̳̬͓̰́̂́̍̆̀̽̉̃̕ ̴̤͙̜͖̳̞̬̘̮̩̙̱̪͙̞̭̎̎͝t̴̻͊͒̾̏͌̓̐̅̔̕̕ǫ̵̱̩͛̾ũ̵̩̩̯̜͈͍̗̉͗͌͐̿͑̋͊͘̚c̵͇̮̝̜̱̝͓̠̮̻͉͋̑͐̂̄̾͛̅̈́̇̊ḩ̴̯̮̰̳̙̀ ̵̨̛̮̗̣̜̱͔͈̮̬͓͆̈́̀̆̀͐̅̐̒̉̈́ÿ̵̨̢̲͎͈̳̱̲̱̗̱͎͈̟̺͜ó̶̧̼̳̞͉̇̾̇͜͠ư̶̻͉̣̪̤̑̽̈́͂́͌͘ͅ Stolas stop, stop

̴̮̊

Ṣ̸̢͔̟̤̃̈̎̑ͅ ̴̙̲̘͎͖̺̇̽͂́̊ͅT̴̳̺̱̖͈̫̽̀͂́̓̀̈́ ̸͙̉̌̋̾̆̕͠Ö̵̧͕̗͓̝̣̟́͊ ̵͖̻̦̱̺̝͎̈́̽̃͘Ľ̶̢̮̳̲͔̗̱̳̙ ̸͙̹̿̔́̿͊̃͝A̵͈̭͚̪͓̋̉ ̶̪̠̇͛̾̑̍͌̀͘S̸͚͂

Stolas breathe

Y̵̡̨̡̨̡̞͓̦̝̹̩̩̺̖̖̜͍̺̺̙̠̠͈̼̟̥͇̼̩͖̳̪͊̏̇͐͜O̷͈̱̖̻̣̜̣̖̞͚͍̻̹̯̳͈̣̹̺̐͛̎̈́̍̋̓͋̃̐̐̎͋̆̏̄̓̈́͗̉͐͛̑͐̈́̆͌̕͝͝͝Ư̵̢̥͔͓̙̙̮͕̹̈́͂̓̃͂͐̆̏̇͒͒̐͌̐̓͂̽́͂̈́̏͘̕̕͘͠ ̵̨̩͉̞̟̥̳͎̹͖̠̝̗͕̘̳̼͇̭̞̟̯̗̳̲͈̗̘̰̗̖̠̎̑̄̈͌̄͐̊̋͊̍̀̊͘͝M̵̡̨̡̛͍̰̟͓͖͈͈̳̫̦̻̹̦̲̣͇̭͉̅̈̍͂̏͗̑́̎̽̾͑̍̄̓̆͛̕͘͜͝͝I̴̧̨̨͚̯̭͙̟̮̯͇̫̳̳͖̪̟̩̤͉̹̳̠̘̠͉̖̮͎̗̦̱͑̾͛̇̌̀͐̔̾́̾̃̉͂́̈́̈̾͝͝͝Ș̶̨̛̙̩̞͚̭̳̦̞͇͇̲̲̓́͐́̿̒́̈̌̈͛̇̅̂͂͋̐̉̈́͂̾̈́̈́̋̂̓͂̐̍͛̕͝͠E̴̢̥̠̟̤̱̜͔̤͙̣͔̲̫̖̳͇̯̱͆͘͜Ȓ̷̨̨̗̗̱͓͕̯̪̜͕͖͕̫͚͓̲̼̘̗̹̩̝̐̒̾́̆͗̀̓̀̔͊̌̅̊̊̈̾̄̔̆͊̾̔̊́͌́̅͜͝A̵̧̧̛̛̻̖̝͉̺̥̤͔̖̲͙̬̱̜̦͔͖̙̺͍͒̈́͆̓͛́̆̄̈́̈́̂̈́̏́́̈́̈͊̽̈́͂͆̄͊͜͝͠B̷̡̨̨̮̮̺̞̹̝͕̘͚͙̣̬̐̈̔͗̅͝͝L̵̯̫̖͙͖̤̍̅͌̏͜Ë̴̡͎̪͖͈͇̳̱͓̲́̊͑̒̾̏̓̄̓̒̃͌͊̂͋͒̀̍̈́́͐͛̆͘͠͠ ̸̡̢̟̭̗͈̝͖͓̻͒̓̂̿̅̂̾͛̍͌̏̅̀̌̿́̄̑̋̄̓̓̾̚͝
̸̢̡̟͙̦̗̱̮̹̜̹͓̮͕̫̮̤̜̑͘͜ͅ

“Not Via, please,"The bird gasped out, holding her close to his chest. "Please, not Via – “

“Satan’s fuck, Stols, how many feathers – 

Ņ̴̡̛̛̳̟̹̳͙͎̝̻̜̱̝̙̖̻͔̺̖̱̩̣̲̩̟͓͓̜͎̭̹̓͐̑̅͌̈̒͛̋̇̈́̈̽̿̽͂͛͒̀͑̈́͌͆̎́̀͐̾̉́̋̎̿̚͜͝͠͝Ớ̸̧̭͖̙͓͖̰̪͚̞̮̙̉͗͂̊̍̍̔͆́̓̂̄̂̉̅͋̽̔́̄̀̂͐͑̃͊̿̄̈̎̌̒̏̏̾͗̓̍̂̈́́͛̚͘͘͜͜͠͠͠T̷̢̫̗̝̱͚̲̮̪̭̫̞̠̦̯̣̭̰̝̹̹̺̣̮̱͎̘͚͔̜̱̝̝̰̲͙͔̐͆̌̈́́͌͊̔̈́͐͊̿̎̓̊͗̅̂̋͂̐̍͋̑́͋̎́̾̃̈́̒̚̕͜͜͝͝͝͠ͅ ̵̛̙͍̯̮̱̰͔͓͕̭̩̲͂̅̆̓̓̂͑̌̏̅̓͛͊̏͊̏͐̅͛͊̐͋̉̓̅̃̀̀́̒͛̀̿͊̓͘̚͝ͅͅV̵̨̩̫̳̪̭̳̰̻̦̳̜̻͒͝I̴̤̲̰̪̍̉̓͗̀͑͆̄͐̇́̋̀͆͗́̕͝͝͝À̶̛̜̗̄̂͆͌͊̔̓̈͗̇

“Okay – okay.” He felt a touch on his arm, and he jerked again, banging his knee on the tub. He felt a presence, stabilizing his shoulders. “Stolas. It’s okay. It’s me. You need to breathe, okay? L-let’s – sloooow breaths. Copy me. In….”

“Out… that’s it, one more… ”

"Not my Octavia," Stolas sobbed. "I'll do what you want..." 

“Good birdie,” Blitzø said softly as Stolas hugged the bundle of towels in his arms tighter, sobbing. A gentle hand ran through his feathers. “One more for me, there we go. In…”

“Hold… and out…”

Stolas felt his head pounding, something sticky at the nape of his neck. He did his best to obey the voice, mostly because nothing else made any sense. 

“There you go," A soft voice said. Someone was holding him steady. He felt the cold of the tile against his talons. "It's alright." 

With a shudder, his eyes opened. Stolas looked down at the bundle of towels he was clutching to his chest like they were a lifeline, carefully unfolding them. No Octavia. 

"What - what happened," The bird groaned. He made to stand only to slip on the somehow-wet tile, strong arms catching him before his head hit the edge of the tub and easing him back down to the floor. 

Blitzø took a deep breath. "I don't know," He admitted, and his voice was shaking. "I don't know, but you're - you're okay." It was unclear which of them he was trying to convince. 

Stolas felt a cup of water being placed in his hands and drank it without a second thought. He felt the cool liquid soothe his parched throat, a lump or two rolling over his tongue as he swallowed. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, the world seemed to come back into focus. The hoof-print shower curtain, the fluffy rug, the feathers on the floor - 

Stolas looked quickly at himself, and found that his forearms were missing patches just the size of the width of his palm. Before he could open his beak to comment on this fact, he felt Blitzø carefully spin him around, and then a sharp pain at the back of his head, making him let out a little screech. 

Blitzø winced. "Sorry, should've warned ya. It'll sting just for a second, alright? Stay still - there's a good birdie - " Stolas sucked in a breath through his beak, releasing when Blitzø put down the antiseptic bottle.

Stolas stared at it. "What... am I injured?" He murmured, speaking at last. 

"You... you slammed your head into the edge of the bathtub," Came the reply from behind him. He felt fingers shaking as they applied bandages to the back of his head - the softer kind that wouldn't pull so much at his feathers. "A few times." 

Blitz then crawled over to his front, taking his left wrist in his lap like it was something precious, and carefully wiping down the places on Stolas' arm that resembled a grocery store chicken skin more than they did the arm of a Goetian prince. 

"I think you had a panic attack, or a flashback," Blitzø said without meeting Stolas' eyes. 

"How - how did you - " 

"I've had them before." 

Blitzø's arm wrapped around Stolas' waist and stood the bird up, carefully, leading him over to the couch. "Now you just - sit here a sec," The imp muttered, pulling out a broom and a dustpan to clean up the feathers. 

Stolas spent the next hour curled up in a blanket, sitting next to Blitz on the couch, staring at the screen. He knew it was the sixth season of Hellanovela – the one where Gabriella finds out Alejandro was the mastermind behind the volcanic eruption that killed her sister after all - but all that reached Stolas’ mind were flashing lights and the sound of Blitzø not making any sound at all against his side. He felt nauseous, like the room was still spinning.

The season ended with the two leads kissing one another beneath a Hellish sunrise, and finally, after seemingly interminable credits, the television fell silent.

Stolas swallowed. He knew he had to be the one to speak first. The problem was, he really did not want to.

“I…” He managed, quietly, after a few moments of deliberation – “I’m sorry, Blitzø.”

The imp turned his head to meet his eyes. “You’re – sorry?”

Stolas nodded, glancing down at his nervously twiddling hands. “I… I never meant for you… to see me that way,” He admitted weakly. “To have to deal with…”

“So it’s happened before?” Blitzø asked simply. After a few seconds, the bird nodded.

“It’s been happening,” He mumbled. “Since I was – ten or eleven, I believe. Though it didn’t matter much, until once at a family function…” He winced at the memory, unable to shape it into words. “That’s when they took me to see someone.”

“You saw a therapist as a child?” Blitzø said a bit surprised.

The owl laughed faintly. “Satan, no. Of course not. My family physician just – gave me a prescription so it wouldn’t happen again – so at least I could keep myself together well enough to put up a show in public, which was the only part anyone cared about.”

“Is that… the pills you take?” The imp asked softly. The Goetia nodded, his face flushed. And then – to his surprise – Blitzø sighed and looked a little relieved.

“Well – that’s good, then, at least you’ve got a solution. Clearly if it’s no longer enough, maybe we need to get your dosage adjusted, but it helped – get you out of that – pretty quick, didn’t it?”

Stolas blinked. “What do you mean?”

“It said on your prescription – take daily or as needed,” Blitzø explained, a little sheepish. “Well – I felt that fell under as needed, birdie. And I could tell – when it kicked in – it calmed you down, yeah?”

Stolas remembered the glass of water, and suddenly felt very nauseous. “How much – “

“It said four was a safe maximum.”

“Blitzø,” he said, his voice sounding slightly worried. “I – I’m not supposed to – go from zero to a full dose like that.”

“But you’re not,” The imp said, rubbing Stolas’ back soothingly. “You took your normal dose this morning – that’s two, right – so your body is already used to – “

And suddenly, Stolas’ eyes told him everything he needed to know. Blitzø’s voice fell silent.

“You haven’t taken your medication?” Blitzø asked, voice monotone. After what felt like an eternity, Stolas shook his head, eyes welling up in the corners. “Blitzø –“ He said, quickly. “I can explain – “

“Any of your medication?”

“…no.”

“Since when?”

“Since… since the trial.”

Blitzø looked at him with an expression Stolas couldn’t place, and that worried him. “Blitzø,” he said again, reaching for the imp’s hand. “Please, let me – “

Blitzø stood up, facing away from Stolas. His hands and muscles were clenched, and Stolas’ heart sped up.

“Okay,” The imp said, his back tensing. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Stolas. You’re going to sit here – right here – and go nowhere else. I’m going to go for a walk, because I’m really fucking upset right now. And then – and then we’re going to have a talk, or some shit. I don’t know.”

“Wait, Blitzø,” he said, desperately. “Don’t leave – “

“Stay right there,” Blitzø repeated, barely-restrained emotion cracking into his voice, making Stolas pull back his hand.

The imp just barely made it to the sidewalk. And then he picked up a trashcan, threw it as far and as hard down the street as he could manage, punched the wall of his building with a guttural scream, and began to walk brusquely without knowing his destination.

Figures it would be there.

Blitzø sat on the wall – the ruins of the wall – overlooking the wreckage that was once Loo Loo Land. They hadn’t bothered clearing it – it had been built on a swamp, and renovating the place was deemed far more of an expense than the shithole was worth. A cigarette hung from his lips, and a bottle of bottom-shelf tequila stayed comfortably within arms’ reach.

Here, he could destroy – he could break, he could throw, he could burn - without restraint, and he did. The smoldering remains of the smoldering remains of the tent he’d grown up in lay in tatters around him. All the windows had bullet-holes in them now, and so did some of the mascot cutouts. The faces on the posters were defaced in a way Blitzø was sure would come up in his own therapy appointments. A path of caved-in midway fair booths and shattered lightbulbs led to where he sat now, exhausted by anger and pain.

He was a fuck-up. That he’d known for a long time, even though he’d done a lot of work to convince himself otherwise once in a while. But this time was different. He couldn’t find, no matter how many structures he’d torn apart, what he’d done wrong. He’d done everything boring, healthy people were supposed to do – things Blitzø almost never managed to do for himself – for Stolas, and it wasn’t enough. Why? Was he doing it wrong? Was there a secret manual he’d never been able to read?

Or had Blitzø fucked Stolas up so bad, made him lose so much, that he was beyond help? Had Blitzø broken him? Is that all he could do, now, is watch Stolas -

“Hey there,” said a scratchy voice behind him, making Blitzø jump. A robotic arm snaked its way around his shoulders, and he groaned.

“What are you doing here, Fizz?”

“Your daughter texted me. Said she came home to your bird crying on the couch, saying something about you going for a walk.” Blitzø felt the guilt churn at those words.

“How’d you find me?” Blitzø sighed.

“Lucky guess.”  

The two imps sat on the wall, looking onto the wreckage – twice over – of their childhood home.

“Nice aim,” Fizzarolli noted, pointing to a poster advertising his robotic self’s Special Sunday Matinee – For the Kids Too Poor for the Full Show! “Shootin’ out just the eyes, classy.”

Blitzø snorted, playing with the safety latch on his gun.

The clown took a swig, without asking, of Blitzø’s tequila. “I’m gonna sit here until you talk about what’s wrong, you know.”

Blitzø sighed. “I know.”

The robotic arms wrapped around his torso, pulling Fizz closer to him with a metallic twang.

“Let go – I’m not in a hugging mood, Fizz – “

“Better spill then,” Fizzarolli said, tightening his grip as Blitzø squirmed with increased annoyance.

“Ugh – fine – FINE – “

The arms slackened their grip.

“I fucking love that stupid pigeon,” Blitzø groaned. “That’s what’s wrong.”

“Yeaaaaah, that won’t cut it. Need at least a chapter here.”

“What for?”

“Your celebrity biography, dipshit.”

Blitzø crossed his arms, his tail curling tightly. “He lied to me. About taking his meds – the ones you said you could help me get refills of – for a month. For – I don’t know what fucking reason. I don’t know why he does shit anymore. It’s like he just – doesn’t want to get any better. Like he just wants to wallow in misery while I have to watch. Like he doesn’t realize how much that fucking hurts.”

Fizz glanced at him. “Yeah. Watching someone you care about self-hate themselves into destruction – no idea what that must be like.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

Fizz passed the bottle to Blitzø, who took a swig heartier than what was good for him. The two looked back at the smoke rising from the circus tent.

“We all need somewhere… to put the pain.” Fizzarolli gestured out at the circus. “You go out and you hurt things. And you’ve gotten better at hurting stuff that doesn’t matter anymore, instead of people. And Stolas… I guess… hurts himself instead.”

“Why?” Asked Blitzø, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. “I’m giving him help. Why can’t he just take it?”

“Because he can’t bear to lose anything else.”

Blitzø looked up at Fizzarolli with a frown. “Look, Fizz,” he muttered. “You’re not making a lick of sense right now, you know that?”

Fizzarolli took a long sip from the bottle.

“I lost everything, in that fire,” He mumbled. “Or at least I thought I did. Performing was my whole life, something I was finally good at. And one day… that was it. I had no arms. No legs. No face. No fans, no family, no friends.”

“You gotta understand… what that does to someone. I’m not saying it to make you feel bad, Blitzø. I know it wasn’t your fault. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t sing. All I could do was lay there. And once a day, they’d come and give me pills for the pain,” he said, his eyes glazed over for a moment. “And I didn’t take a single one, Blitzø.”

“My life had shrunk, down to that one tiny, daily interaction. There was nothing – no one – else. And so, it became the last choice I could make. If I didn’t take them – if I just held out, withstood the pain – I could be proud of myself for it. I could feel like I was strong. I could have achieved something – anything. I had lost everything, and I couldn’t bear to lose my dignity, too.”

He sighed. “Not to mention, you know… the pain… it reminded me, at least, that I was alive. That I hadn’t been pulled under yet. And if I could feel then I could live, and then maybe there was a future out there, somewhere.”

He looked back at Blitzø who was staring at him, tears flooding his eyes. “Fizz…” He choked out.

The robotic arms wrapped tightly around him, and Fizz pulled him close. The imp threw his arms around his friend.

“Thought you weren’t in a hugging mood?” Fizzarolli teased.

“Shut up.”

They stayed like that for a while – Blitzø crying into his shoulder, a fact he would forever deny until the end of his days.

“So is that it?” The imp finally said, pulling back from the embrace. “Stolas wanted – control over something, and that’s what the birdbrain picked?”

“I don’t know,” Fizz said honestly. “I don’t know him, like you do. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe the voices in his head telling him it’s not something he deserves are just louder than you are. But I can tell you what I think. You can’t – force him, or threaten him, or bribe him. No matter how much you want to.”

“You’ve got to give him a reason. Something that gives him a purpose. He won’t do it for himself, and he may not even do it for you. But for someone else… for some hope of a future… he just might try.”

When Blitzø came home, it was dark. He clicked the lights on to find Stolas, sitting still on the couch exactly as Blitzø had left him hours before. The imp felt a bit bad about that, but in that moment, it had been all he’d managed.

His tail twitched. The bird’s eyes were rimmed with red, like he’d been crying. Blitzø took a shaky breath and sat down beside Stolas.

The Goetia had his hands between his knees, nearly curled in on himself, his eyes shut. Trying to look small. Blitzø’s heart felt suddenly squeezed in a vice grip as he realized Stolas expected him to yell at him and put himself into that position to make it through that.

“Stols,” he said, softly. Slowly, the red eyes opened, gazing up at Blitzø. The imp smiled, weakly, wiping a stray tear from the owl’s face. “There’s my pretty bird.”

Stolas blinked, staring up at him in silent bewilderment.

Blitzø reached out, running his hand through the feathers on Stolas’ head. After the third stroke, the shoulders lowered just an inch, the body uncurling as the heart hammered.

The imp took a deep breath. “I want to tell you something, Stolas,” he said softly. “About Sinsmas morning.”

He felt the bird tense under his fingers.

“The first time I saw your daughter that day wasn’t at your palace,” He admitted. “Soon after you left, Octavia came here – to I.M.P.”

Stolas’ eyes widened. “She did?” He asked, and Blitzø winced at the rasp in his voice. “…why?”

“To bring you your medication.” Blitzø carefully arranged his feathers as he spoke.

Stolas looked down. “So to tell me what she told me at the palace, then.”

“No – Stols – I don’t think so. Well – maybe a bit. But – “ The imp’s fingers stilled, hesitating. “Look. No one’s coming all the way to Wrath to yell at their dad when they’ve got a cell phone. She came to bring them, for you. Because she cares. Because she knew you needed them. That’s it.”

The red fingers lifted Stolas’ chin just a little, so that all four of the bird’s eyes met Blitzø’s yellow.

“It’s your choice,” He murmured. “But I don’t think – I don’t think Octavia would want this. And one day she’ll reach out to you, want to see you – because she’ll need you. And because she’s seventeen, and her mother is a fucking piece of work, she’ll be a mess, Stols. She’ll come to you because she’ll need a father. And when that day comes – I think you’ll want to be there for her. I think you’ll want to be what she needs – a strong, loving dad who can help her work through her feelings without pulling her through his own mess. And neither of us had that, birdie. But she can, and Loonie can. And they deserve it.”

Blitzø put the bottle of pills into Stolas’ hands, wrapping his fingers around it. “I can’t tell you what to do,” He murmured. “I don’t know what shit Stella put in your head, only that I’ll shoot ‘er on sight if I see ‘er. But I can tell you where that future with your daughter starts. And it starts with that, whether you like that or not.”

And the next morning, Stolas carefully counted four pills out with his morning coffee.

Chapter Text

“So,” asked Dr Smith. “How are you feeling today?”

That question always caught him off-guard, even though by now, it really shouldn’t.

And it had been… quite a week.

Stolas sighed, falling back against the chair. “Not very well,” he admitted.

To his surprise, Dr Smith beamed at him, causing all four eyes to blink in surprise. “Very good, Stolas.”

“It’s… good that I am not feeling well?” The owl said, visibly confused.

“No. But that is the first time you have answered the question honestly. And being in touch and open with your feelings is a very important step.”

“Now – let’s talk about the previous week.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Stolas. You’re going to sit here – right here – and go nowhere else. I’m going to go for a walk, because I’m really fucking upset right now. And then – and then we’re going to have a talk, or some shit. I don’t know.”

The imp said that, even as Stolas pleaded not to be left alone. And the door had closed behind him, even as the owl’s hand stretched out towards the door.

It fell with a trembling sob. “Blitzy…” he whispered. The words followed the imp, yanking on the doorknob with all of their might, but they gave up soon after, falling into a broken heap against the threshold.

Stolas’ hands searched for relief in desperation. First, they reached for his arms, grabbing fistfuls of feathers, but soon fell limply. When Blitzø came back – if Blitzø came back – Stolas couldn’t be the same mess the imp had run away from. He squeezed instead, the talons scratching deep into his flesh. But it didn’t hurt quite enough, and he dropped them with a frustrated groan. The fingers searched for another solution, briefly, but there were no bottles within reach of the couch. He tried lower down, but even brushing a finger against his cloaca made him instinctively recoil after that night’s events. Left then, to his fear and his loneliness with no method of relief, he curled up in a ball on the cushion where Blitzø had told him to stay, shaking as he cried in an empty apartment.

“That sounds like a very difficult evening,” said Dr Smith. Their eyes shone with compassion, and Stolas still could not bring himself to accept it.

The bird shrugged. “It was my fault.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I – I ruined my night with Blitzø. I lied to him about taking my medication. I made him angry.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

The bird looked up.

“I said, that sounds like a difficult evening,” the therapist said, gently. “And you responded, it was my fault. I want to understand why you connected those ideas.”

Oh.

Stolas sat there for a moment, eyes darting around. His hands wrung together. It wasn’t often he really had to stop and think to get a grasp on his feelings, but it was increasingly happening in this office. It felt at times like his heart was an open book, and that frightened him. Dr Smith watched the owl’s fingers twitch, as if trying to knit a sentence out of the thoughts eluding him.

“I don’t know,” He said at last.

“Alright,” the doctor said softly. “Let’s see if we can figure it out together. You said that when Blitzø came back, you talked, and he convinced you to begin taking your medication again.” Stolas nodded. “What did he say that changed your mind?”

“He…” His throat felt a bit dry. “He talked about…. Octavia.”

“Your daughter,” confirmed Dr Smith. The bird nodded, avoiding eye contact.

“You told me in a prior session that you found it difficult to talk about her,” the therapist noted. They could see how their words affected Stolas – the fingers, twitching to his wrists, the knees coming closer and closer together, the figure retreating deeper into fabric. “But this time, when Blitzø talked about Octavia, you listened.”

“Yes,” he breathed.

“Why do you think that was?”

“Holy FUCK, what happened in here?”

Stolas opened his eyes. The apartment was still dark, but a bright light shone from the bathroom, illuminating Loona’s figure. The bird straightened up with a squawk and quickly glanced at the time. An hour – Blitzø had been gone for an hour.

“Oh – dear me – my apologies,” he said, sounding mortified. “I thought Blitzø had cleaned up – “

The bathroom door closed, and the living room suddenly flashed into bright existence with the flick of a switch. Stolas winced.

“Ah – shit – sorry – “

A few clicks of the dimmer, and the light was reduced to a caliginous haze.

Loona settled on the couch beside him. She looked worried. It was an expression that hurt him – like a quiet tug on a festering wound.

“What’s wrong?” The hellhound asked.

She’s more perceptive than she should be at that age, thought Stolas.

“Nothing, dear,” he said with a weak, forced smile. “Please. You don’t have to worry.”

“There’s feathers and water all over the bathroom, Hooters, what gives?”

Stolas’ hand absently rubbed the spot where his wedding ring used to sit. ‘Your father and I had an argument’ didn’t sound quite right. Not when it was this one-sided. “I… I was… I had a small… bit of an episode,” Stolas said, squirming with embarrassment. “Your father… helped.”

“And where is he?”

“On… on a walk.” 

Loona growled. “Oh, I’m gonna kill him.”

Stolas felt guilt rising in his chest. “I’m sorry, Loona. I’m the one who upset him. I’m sure he meant to be here when you returned -”

“What? No, I’m angry he abandoned you here after something like that, you dipshit. Come on.” She grabbed his still-stinging arm, standing up.  “We’re going for a walk, too. At least to the ice cream shop.”

“No –“ He pulled his hand back with a blush. “No – I would prefer not.”

“And why’s that?”

“He… he told me to stay here.”

“Okay – let’s at least go eat at a table, then.”

“Right here,” murmured Stolas in embarrassment, his hand picking at the cushion. Loona raised her eyebrows.

“I don’t think he literally meant – “

“Thank you for your care, my dear, but I would – I would rather – not upset him further than I already have.”

The hound growled low, her hands folding into fists for a moment. Then her frame relaxed, just a little. “Fine.”
A minute later, something made of hard plastic was thrust into Stolas’ hands as the bird gave a surprising squeak.

“What is this?” He asked curiously, examining the object. It looked somewhat like a c-curve, or a boat, with a cross in the middle. Runes were inset into buttons that felt surprisingly pleasant to the touch. He raised it up in front of him. “Is this from the human world? A nautical amulet, perhaps? I don’t think we should be keeping holy objects,” he said, with slight alarm.

The plastic amulet was snatched from his hand, flipped over, and handed back to him. “It’s a controller, dipshit. For video games.”

“Video… games,” Stolas said slowly, his tongue learning the taste of a new word. The screen before them blared to life as the hound picked up an object identical to his, but silvery-grey.

“A to jump, B to shoot.”

“And how did that feel?” Asked Dr Smith. “To spend time with Blitzø’s daughter?”

Stolas ran his tongue over the inside of his beak, feeling out the word taking shape there. “Sad,” he said at last.

“Why did it make you sad?”

“Why do you think?” Deflected Stolas with a strained laugh. But those dark eyes did not look away from him, and he knew he wasn’t getting away with that. “I felt guilty,” He admitted.

“Why?”

“Because… “ he sighed. “Because it shouldn’t have felt good.”

“So, it felt good,” checked Dr Smith. “You enjoyed spending time with Loona.”

Stolas swallowed and nodded.

“But you feel guilty for that emotion.”

There was a silence, for a while, in the office, until Stolas finally spoke, entrusting his words to the darkness.

“Since Sinsmas,” He said softly, “It’s as if… there is a black hole, inside my chest. Pulling in all other emotion… all other happiness. And at the center of it is Octavia… my Starfire… and the fact that for one hundred years… or perhaps forever… she’s gone.”

He trembled. He felt the tears coming, and this time, he did not stop them.

“She’s gone. I’m – I may never see her again. And if I was the father I hoped I was… the father she deserved… if I truly loved her… how could I ever be happy? Blitzø tells me I’m wrong – that she does not hate me. That she will not want me forever gone from her life. But it cannot be both, Dr Smith. I cannot be a father who can be redeemed, loved, someone who, yes, made mistakes, so many fucking mistakes, but ultimately loved her, cared for her, ultimately was if not a perfect father, a decent one, someone who deserves to have her back – all of that – and – and – “

Dr Smith handed him a tissue, and he merely crumpled it in his hand. “Spending time with Loona fills that hole in my heart, even if only a little,” He whispered, tears streaming down his face. “And nothing – no one - should be able to do that. Not if I was a father worthy of Octavia’s forgiveness. Not if I love her.”

His heart lay at his feet. Open, unprotected, and tender. Dr Smith had enough experience to know what a gift it was to have a client show them that – and also how delicate, how vulnerable it was. How easily a wrong touch could destroy it.

And so, their next words were considered carefully.

 “You like gardening, don’t you, Stolas?”

The bird nodded, his talons shredding the tissue strip by strip.

“How many plants did you have at the palace?”

Stolas sighed. He didn’t know where this was going, but he had learned to trust in the doctor. “Thirty-six.”

“Knowing the precise figure, you must have cared for them a great deal,” noted the therapist.

“I did,” Stolas said softly. “I do.”

“And when you bought a new plant, Stolas, did it make you care less about the rest?”

The Goetia blinked. “…no,” He admitted softly. “But…. But my Via isn’t a plant.”

“No, she isn’t. But what I’m trying to show you, Stolas, is that you are under the impression that the love you have to give is finite. That loving Loona, perhaps beginning to care for her as a second daughter, and taking comfort from once again playing a paternal role, does not diminish your love for Octavia. In fact, it seems to be making it less painful for you to talk and think about her. And that in turn allows you to process your feelings. To make changes in your life that will improve your relationship with Octavia. Is that not an act of love?”

“You’re cheating,” Loona growled, throwing the controller at the floor in frustration. An empty pizza box, two bottles of soda, and a greasy plate and utensils – on Stolas’ side – sat between them. It had been their fifth match of Halo – the Hell-produced version involving a reverse extermination in Heaven. After the first round, where he had struggled with the controls, Stolas had won every time.

“I am not,” The bird said, sounding offended at the very notion.

“You’re looking at my screen,” she complained. “With your second set of eyes. How the fuck am I supposed to hide from you?”

Stolas shrugged, smiling as he fiddled with the buttons. “Being good at this game does not constitute cheating, my dear,” he said with a hint of sass to his voice.

“Fuck off, rat-eater,” she said, grabbing the controller back. But she was laughing, and it made Stolas feel warm.

“Rats are full of protein, you know, my dear. Very healthy for you.” He smiled. “Might help you with your performance,” He teased.  

“Yeah, fantastic, I’ll stick to chips, thanks,” Loona said with a roll of her eyes, scrolling through the game menu for an anti-weird-bird setting.

“Now, now, you never know until you try it,” The owl said in his best fatherly tone. “You know, my Via – “

And then he remembered it – that black hole in his chest – and watched as it sucked his next breath away.

There was a moment of silence.

“You know what Octavia would hate?” Loona said, with a soft smile. “The food here. Bet she’s even pickier than you.”

“Yes… and no,” said Stolas, softly. “She does have strong preferences, but… I think she would’ve liked the pizza.”

“Then we’ll have to get it again,” the hellhound smiled. She elbowed him slightly. “But no fucking pineapple this time.”

And Stolas smiled – just a little.

“I don’t know,” Stolas muttered. He took a deep breath, and rested his head on his hands, folded over his knees. “I don’t understand why everything always has to… hurt so much.”

“I want to tell you I’m proud of you, Stolas,” said Dr Smith, softly.

“I know this is difficult. It is very difficult, in fact. I do not like to sugarcoat things. When people need help, they don’t need more lies. They want honesty.”

“And the truth is, Stolas, that for you to get better, we will need to talk about Octavia. And we will need to talk about Stella. And some of those discussions may be painful for you.”

“We’ll take them slowly,” They reassured, as the Goetia looked up. “But I have full faith in you. And I’m happy – truly very happy, Stolas – that you are taking your medication again. It may take a week or two to begin affecting your mood again, but it should make things – just a little bit easier.”

Stolas took a deep breath. 

“In the meantime, there are skills I can teach you to help manage your emotions. Why don’t we start with that next session, okay?"

Loona stood up, her body finally succumbing to sleep. Blitzø still wasn’t home, but at least Stolas was calmer.  

“Just – talk to him,” She sighed. “Or listen, or whatever. I’ll give him a piece of my mind in the morning. But work it the fuck out. I think the universe wants you two weirdos together.”

The hellhound flipped the switch, letting the darkness wrap around Stolas like a blanket.

“What if it doesn’t?” she heard, barely audibly, from the dark living room.

Loona smiled. They really were the same, deep down – her dad, and his bird. The same mess of insecurity, wrapped in different packages.

“Then you kick the universe’s ass and tell it to try again. Had to do that a few times myself. Works like a charm.”

It was a few days after his session later that he found himself back in the owl nest. New additions popped up inside it, almost every day – nearly always horses. Wednesday’s addition was a smaller decorative figure doubling as a scent diffuser – eucalyptus and solar wind, as claimed on the label. Yesterday’s was a large, squishy black mare, nestled lovingly in the corner. Today, Stolas had found a small grey one – fluffy, and slightly leaking its stuffing. He popped a Hoot Loop into his beak and took a deep breath.

He thought about why he answered that sounds like a difficult evening with it was my fault. He thought about how he managed his emotions, and which ones he allowed, and which ones he hid away in shame. 

He remembered that earlier today, he'd felt brave, and with shaking fingers he selected Octavia’s contact.

Hello, my Starfire, he typed. Each letter felt like a brand to his heart, but he pushed himself onwards. You have no need to respond to me, but I wanted to share something with you. I learned recently that I am very sensitive to daylight, and that darkness helped alleviate the headaches you know I suffer from. Being my daughter

Sniffling slightly, Stolas pressed backspace seventeen times.

It is my theory the same may apply to you, and I don’t want to keep something from you that could spare you pain.

I hope you are doing alright, my darling Octavia. I love you dearly.

Before he could change his mind, he pressed send. He stared at the screen like it would answer him, soothe the hole in his chest that hurt every time he took a breath. He pulled up her contact photo – his lovely owlet, smiling proudly as she held up a taxidermized possum with which she had taken particular care, her beanie sliding over her eye. It was one of his favorite photographs.

🌟 My Starfire🌟 is typing …

Stolas nearly dropped the phone. He stared, his heart beating faster and faster, his fingers hovering over the keypad. She was there. She was there. What should he say? What could -

And then the three little dots disappeared over the little digital horizon.

But Stolas knew they’d been there.

Chapter Text

Those three little dots hung around in Stolas’ vision. Every moment, his hands itched for his cell phone. Longed to write something – anything – to see them again. Longed to beg her to respond, to write to him, just to know she was okay. He kept swiping to her contact, opening the chat, and typing out words he knew he’d never send.

What did it say on her side, he wondered, when he did so? Dad is typing? Or was his name in her phone something else now?

I love you dearly, said his last sent message. And underneath it, the second checkmark. The only proof it hadn’t all been a cruel dream.

Please, Via, he wrote one evening. Please just tell me you’re okay. Please let me talk to you. You don’t understand how much I miss you.

I’m sorry, he wrote the next night. I’m so, so sorry, Octavia. You’re right. I abandoned you, something I promised I’d never do. I can’t ever undo that.  

I don’t deserve you in my life, but Via, please

Starfire, you were the only

I understand if you can’t forgive

And then his finger – always - hit backspace.

Every day, each letter melted like freshly fallen snow. Like it had never been there.

 And every night, nothing but the cursor taunted him, like the blinking pupil of a serpent in wait.

“Stols.”

“Mmm?” The bird mumbled with an upwards inflection, stirring his tea without looking away from the book in his other hand. It was a recent gift from Moxxie – a replacement of a book he’d sorely missed after having left the palace, and he was wholly enthralled by Elizabeth’s first meeting with the aloof Mr. Darcy. A welcome distraction, for once, from Octavia’s profile. 

“I owe you an apology.”

At this Stolas looked up, immediately sliding one of his molten feathers into the book to mark his page. He knew the walls Blitzø had to scale for an apology, and he had sworn to honor that.

Dammit. When those four eyes were actually there, looking at Blitzø all trusting, suddenly this shit got a lot harder. He glanced up past Stolas’ shoulder, where Loona silently gestured him to go on.

The imp sighed. “I’m … sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that, that day. I was just…” His tail whipped through the air. “If I get angry, I… I tend to hurt people. So, I left, ‘cause I didn’t wanna hurt you anymore.”

“And?” prodded Loona, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. Blitzø groaned. “And I’ll explain that next time, so I don’t make ya feel like shit.”

Stolas considered Blitzø’s words carefully, his thumb running around the rim of his cup. He’s just being kind, said the voice in his head. He wanted to leave, I know he did. He came back because he felt he owed me, and because of Loona. He doesn’t care about me.

Silently, he watched those words drift to his left, as a new list appeared to his right.

1. He made me the tea I am holding.

2. There was a new stuffed horse in my arms when I woke.

3. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t apologize. Blitzø hates apologies.

Stolas took a deep breath, returning his gaze to Blitzø, who looked rather concerned with his lack of response. Words, Stolas, reminded a newer voice in his head.

“Thank you,” Stolas said at last softly. “It’s alright, and I forgive you. It – it was a difficult evening for the both of us.”

“Holy shit, you weirdos,” Loona grinned. The look of pride on her face could’ve turned night into day. “At least hug already.”

And as Blitzø’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, Stolas felt – for the first time, perhaps, in months – like this could be home.

“How are you feeling?”

“Been worse,” sighed Stolas. “Been better.”

“Well,” Dr Smith smiled faintly, “That’s why we’re here. Today’s an important session – one where we focus on the behavior part of the triangle we discussed, in our second session. Some skills for emotional management. This is because once you’re comfortable with those skills, Stolas, I’d like us to try something a little different. It is somewhat… unconventional, but I believe with you, it may be quite helpful.”

“What has Blitzø told you about the techniques we used in session?”

“Not much,” Stolas said, frowning. “I mean, that’s – quite personal, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Dr Smith reassured softly. “I do not mean the content of my sessions with Blitzø, merely some of my – methods.”

At this, Stolas looked suddenly nervous, his talons digging into the carpet. “You want to… go inside my mind?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I want to assure you this would not take place without your explicit and signed consent, Stolas. If this is not something you’re comfortable with, there are other therapeutic avenues we can pursue. However, if it helps, I can explain what this might look like for you, and why I think it would help.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Stolas nodded.

“Prolonged sessions, like those you may or may not have heard about from certain clients, are not my common approach. That takes trauma centered on a singular, identifiable moment, and an extraordinarily focused mind.”

“And I take it I have neither,” quipped Stolas with a raise of an eyebrow.

Dr Smith smiled, fairly amused. “Well – to be quite frank – “

“So, what would it look like, then?” The bird asked. “If it’s not like that?”

“For patients with strong reactions to certain traumatic triggers, I engage in something called exposure therapy. In essence, we’d start by identifying things that make you scared or uncomfortable to think about or remember. We’ll rank them by difficulty. And then we will experience memories or thoughts relating to those fears, within your mind, in short pieces. The goal is to repeat that exercise, going a little deeper each time, to teach your brain that those stimuli are not to be feared.”

“So, to reiterate,” said Stolas, “You want me to repeatedly experience my worst memories.”

“In session – in a controlled, careful manner – with my support, and only when you are ready – yes.”

“Ooh,” he said, his feathers fluffing up as his eyes sparkled. “Well, that sounds like tremendous fun.”

Dr Smith raised an eyebrow and Stolas sighed, his upper eyes rolling back – just a little. “What, I can’t be sarcastic, now?”

“On the other hand, Stolas. It brings me great joy to hear you use sarcasm.”

Stolas wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. That directness – that sincerity – was still just as jarring to the bird as it had always been.

“You don’t need to agree to anything, but I’d like you to think about it.”

The avian shrugged his shoulders non-commitally. “I suppose.”

“Excellent. I am honored to be trusted enough by you that you are willing to consider it, Stolas.”

“Now, let’s review. Have you been evaluating your thoughts, like we did in session?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“And…” Stolas stopped himself with a blush.

Stolas Goetia, rang out in his mind. I can tell when you lie.

He cleared his throat, choosing his words more carefully. “It helped and encouraged me to be very… thorough.”

Dr Smith shrugged. “Well, most of my patients begin to find it rather tedious.”

Stolas had the decency to look embarrassed. “Oh,” He laughed softly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Well – I wouldn’t put it quite – “

“It’s alright if you found it tedious, too.”

“… perhaps a little,” admitted the Goetia.

“Good.” Stolas looked surprised, and Dr Smith went on to explain. “The opposite of fear is not joy, you know. The opposite of fear, Stolas, is boredom. You cannot be bored by a task and at the same time be afraid of it. If you’re beginning to find it boring, that means those thoughts are losing their grip over you, little by little.”

“It also means that we can move on to some shortcuts. We can keep the full table for more difficult or persistent thoughts, but I imagine you’ve realized it’s quite cumbersome to pull out your workbook in the middle of a conversation. That’s going to be the focus of today’s session – how to manage your emotions in the middle of a difficult moment.”

“You’ve learned, by now, that thoughts can lie – that your own thoughts aren’t always supported by the truth. There are some common ways in which thoughts lie that you can learn to spot – general patterns – without having to go through the full list. These are called cognitive distortions.”

Dr Smith picked up the marker. “We’ve already talked about one, do you remember?”

“Yes,” said Stolas. “My tendency to… impose rules or obligations where none may exist. I meant to discuss that one, actually.”

Dr Smith nodded, encouraging him to go on.

“I don’t see why it’s a problem,” he admitted, reluctantly. “It feels like… there are certain standards of behavior we should hold ourselves to, aren’t there? There are good people – and bad people. And somewhere within, there are definitions of both. Is it really so wrong, to try to do right, and to conceptualize that within a rules-based framework?”

Dr Smith thought carefully, considering his words. Deciding which to respond to – and which to file away for later dissection.

“No,” They admitted. “It is not the fact of having rules that is in itself the problem. But if you are following a rule set by someone else, Stolas, you should understand why you are choosing to do so.”

“It may be a useful exercise for you over the course of the week. Any time you notice yourself thinking about how you should be doing something a certain way, write it down, and then think about whose rule that is, and whether it benefits you. Can we try that?”

Stolas nodded.

“Alright. In that case, there are three more cognitive distortions we will learn about today.” They began to write on the board. “These are, by their nature, almost never true, because they constitute a logical fallacy. You can substitute that understanding for a more detailed analysis of the thought, especially in the moment.”

“The first is called black-and-white thinking. The idea is simple. It is any thought that assumes an OR, with only two options. If you’re not a good, or perfect person, then you are a bad person. If this may not go perfectly, it will go horribly. If this person is not head-over-heels for me, they must despise me. Have you noticed that in your own thoughts?” Stolas nodded.

“The next is called mind-reading. Of course, there are demons, both Sinners and Hellborn, that genuinely possess some level of psychic ability – “

Stolas snorted.

“ – but it is a mental distortion in those that do not. I presume you do not?”

“No,” Stolas said, amused despite himself at this line of discussion. “I cannot read minds.”

Dr Smith sat, silently, until the bird’s giggles died down. They raised their eyebrow slightly, and Stolas blushed a little, like a pupil chastised for making too much noise. “My apologies,” he said, politely. “Please continue.”

“You cannot know, for certain, what another person is thinking. Any statement where you presume to know the thoughts of another – unless it’s what you’ve been explicitly told by that person – cannot be based on true evidence.”

“That makes sense,” Stolas admitted – albeit reluctantly.

“Good. There is one last one we will cover in today’s session – it often overlaps with the others. The thought that one small thing will lead to another, and another, and that a situation will result in the worst possible outcome. This is called catastrophizing.”

“You often assume, based on what we’ve discussed, that the very worst-case scenario is the one that will come to pass. It is one of many possibilities, yes, but it is statistically quite unlikely. Our brain, however, can filter out all other possibilities, focusing on only the worst – which is inherently illogical.”

“I don’t see why,” Stolas admitted. “I think when it comes to mind for me, it’s often – quite likely.”

“Let me demonstrate,” said Dr Smith. “How is your hand-eye coordination, Stolas?”

Not as good as Stella’s, came a dark thought, unbidden. “Rather average. I have good vision but no particular talent with aim.” Although – he hoped – if he had another opportunity to play Halo with Loona, he may find himself improving.

“Alright.” The doctor pulled out a stack of papers from their drawer and handed them to Stolas. They pointed at the waste basket. “Crumple those up, one by one. If you get one in, we can have your next session outside – somewhere quite special.”

Stolas suddenly lit up. “Really?”

“Really.”

What followed was the most Stolas had ever concentrated on an athletic endeavor. The papers landed over the floor, many almost hitting the basket, but not quite. After six tries he ignored his taught propriety and began to throw with his right hand. At last, a paper ball landed in the small opening in the wastebasket. Stolas cheered with a loud hoot, forgetting himself for a moment and then clamping his hands over his beak. “Sorry,” he said, sheepishly.

“No apology needed,” said Dr Smith with a smile. “I suppose there will be a therapeutic field trip in your future. But let’s focus on the game for now. How many did it take you?”

“Twenty-one,” Stolas said easily. Counting was second nature to him.

“So that’s one in, twenty out. What percentage is that?”

“4.8 percent,” answered Stolas quickly. “Although, it’s not quite correct – for a true success rate, I should have settled on a number of tries and continued throwing after my initial success.”

“Let’s go with 4.8%,” Dr Smith said, ignoring Stolas’ bait to pull him into a mathematical wormhole. “And you were sincerely trying to get it in, correct?”

Stolas nodded.

“Now imagine that paper basket is the worst-case scenario, and the paper balls are potential outcomes of the situation you fear. Is it possible to get the paper ball in? Yes, of course. But even here, you only managed it 4.8% of the time, trying your hardest for that outcome. In real life, you are trying your hardest to avoid that outcome. Do you see why, at the very least, it is a logical fallacy to conclude that it is the most likely outcome, rather than one of many?”

Finally, Stolas nodded.

“For the next week, your homework is simple. I would like you to notice, when your thoughts follow these patterns. And I’d like you to think about my proposition,” The therapist said, gently. “We will not take any steps in that direction until you are ready.”

“Blitzø,” Stolas said, opening the door. It had been a few days of worried thinking, and the bird was ready to talk. “I’d like to ask you something.”

Blitzø looked up, blowing the bubbles out of his eyes. He held a claw clipper in his hand, rusted from long-term use. The other arm arched behind his back, having just been vigorously scrubbing out the day’s bloodstains from his lower back with a long-handled bath brush. A rubber duck in a cowboy hat floated lazily through the bath, and Stolas’ bottle of bubble bath liquid – the one scented with dragonfly and bergamot that Blitzø claimed to hate – stood open next to the imp.

“… right now, Stols?” asked Blitzø.

Stolas wrapped his arms around himself and nodded. It was then that Blitzø noticed the slight tremble in his bird’s frame. He put the brush and clipper down, reaching out a hand towards Stolas instead. The bird made to sit down on the wet floor, until Blitzø clicked his tongue.

“Nah, birdie. Serious business talk means ya gotta get in.”

“I am clothed, Blitzø,” Stolas said with the raise of an eyebrow.

“Sounds like a fixable problem.”

The avian demon sighed. Reluctantly, he had to admit the warm water looked inviting, even if it would be a tight fit. His oversized t-shirt fell to the floor first, followed by a pair of sleep shorts patterned with crescent moons. Water splashed out onto the tile as the owl climbed in, however carefully he may have tried to do so.

He met Blitzø’s eyes then, and the nerves returned. “Right. So, um – I wanted – it’s about – about something that came up in therapy.” There wasn’t quite enough space for him, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his arms. His knees were crammed up against Blitzø, pressing them both into the tiled wall.

“Good something?” Blitzø asked, softer. “Bad something?”

“In the middle, I suppose,” murmured the bird. He looked down, watching his reflection in a bubble. Was that really him? Did he really look that ashen, and that frail?

What are you doing here? Asked his reflection. Can’t you see that he deserves better? Don’t -

“AH – Blitzø!”

He started with a sudden squawk, splashing water onto the floor, as he felt the imp quickly touch his beak. Stolas reached up his hand, coming away with foam along the crest. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a mustache,” Blitzø explained. His tone suggested that this was obvious.

Stolas couldn’t help but laugh. The imp was being ridiculous. “I beg your pardon? The Ars Goetia do not - ”

“There we go,” Blitzø said, running a hand through Stolas’ wet feathers. His eyes shone, reflecting the slowly dying lightbulbs in the ceiling. “Tricked ya. Now you’re smiling.”

Stolas’ smile faded to something so tender it could not be named.

Blitzø picked up the bath brush he’d discarded to the floor and lathered it up with bubbles. “Turn around, birdie.” He helped maneuver the avian demon, careful not to bang the bird’s knees against the tub and began lathering up the feathers on his back in practiced, soothing circles.

Stolas took a deep breath. Slowly, the movement, the scent and the warm water around him slowed down his heart rate, and he leaned his head against the wall.

“Dr Smith said they thought it would be helpful to go into my mind.”

The brushing paused, but only momentarily.

“I want to know what it was like for you.”

Blitzø thought back to that day. “It was – a lot,” He admitted. “I mean – for me - just being back at the circus like that, with mom, and - Cash, and Fizz, and Barbie – it was a lot. Felt really – real. But now… it’s not as fucked to talk about anymore.”

“They want me to – to explore memories with Stella, I think. And Octavia.” Stolas swallowed. “Memories that… aren’t very happy, Blitzø.”

Blitzø put the brush down, massaging the lather through Stolas’ feathers. In the process his firm, practiced hands worked out the knots in Stolas’ back, dissolving the tension with his fingertips, little by little.

“They said,” Stolas said softly, “That going back there… seeing it again… it would make it easier to, to…”

“It might,” Blitzø murmured. He didn’t need Stolas to finish the sentence – he understood it from the way his shoulders tensed.

For a while, they sat there in silence. Blitzø’s hands moved steadily upwards, his thumbs pressing with steady, gentle pressure between Stolas’ shoulder blades.

“I’m scared,” whispered Stolas.

Blitzø nodded. He pressed his face against the back of Stolas’ neck. “I know.”

“I,” Stolas gasped softly, trying to find the words among the bubbles. “I – “

“Turn around for me, birdie.”

Blitzø turned Stolas back around, carefully. The bird looked down at the imp, eyes beginning to water.

“I don’t know how it would feel to – to have someone see me like that,” Stolas murmured. “To see things that are so – so – “ He gulped. “Weren’t you scared? To let someone see - ”

Blitzø couldn’t help but laugh faintly. “Fuck, Stols, I was terrified.”

“So… so how did you…”

Blitzø looked down, picking up Stolas’ right arm. His wrist was plucked nearly bare, but Blitzø treated it no differently. He simply soaped the feathers, gently, massaging his way down Stolas’ arm as he went.

“Because it was the only way out,” said the imp, quietly. “Because there was this – big fuckin’ ball of pain in my chest, Stols, and I couldn’t fuckin’ take it anymore. It was burning me up. Me, and everyone else I knew. All I knew was that I kept hurting people, and that there was a part of my past I was so scared to go back to I screamed at anyone who tried to make me.” He brought Stolas’ wrist up to his lips, kissing it gently, pretending not to notice the way the owl sucked in a breath.

“…did it help?” Asked Stolas softly, as he watched Blitzø switch to his other arm.

“…yeah.”

“Did it…” Stolas swallowed nervously, looking at the imp’s horns to avoid meeting his eyes. “Did it… hurt?”

“You mean like, the procedure?”

“…no,” said Stolas softly, his talons curling a little.

“… yeah,” sighed Blitzø. “But I think… sometimes it has to.” He smiled sadly. “Even if it sucks ass.”

The imp squeezed the owl’s hand. “Want me to be there with you?” He asked, softly.

“No,” said Stolas, almost immediately. Almost too quickly. He sighed. “I mean – well – first of all, I haven’t yet made up my mind. But if I did agree, I… “ He winced. “I just… don’t want you… to see me that way, Blitzø.”

“Hey.” The imp waited until Stolas met his eyes. “There’s nothing you could show me that could make me stop carin’ bout ya, Stols,” he said softly. “You know that, right?”

“It’s not that I’m afraid of,” said Stolas. He touched a bubble with the tip of his talon and watched his reflection pop.

“Then what?”

Stolas shook his head and pulled Blitzø into his chest. The imp wrapped his arms around the wet feathers. He could hear the owl’s heartbeat steady in his embrace. If there were things Stolas couldn’t tell him yet – or might not ever – well, that sound would have to be good enough.

Stolas wasn’t sure why Dr Smith had moved their usual appointment time to late evening. It seemed like an odd time to meet, but he supposed the doctor knew better. He wrung his hands, waiting alone in the small waiting room, his feathers sticking to the plastic chair too small for him.

He ran his fingers over the spines of the books on the shelf next to him. The titles – things like “Mind before Matter, Matter and Mind, or Matter and Mind? Psychotherapy for the Quantum-Locked”, “The IMPortance of IMPS”, and “Acceptance and Commitment Therapy for the Recently-Deceased”, intrigued him. He did appreciate it, when a place had books. Books had, for a long time, been his only friends.

Is that why he was like this? Would he have been different, he wondered, growing up in a fuller, happier house? Would he still have met Blitzø if he had not been so desperate for a companion his father had to purchase him one?

Would he be here, waiting for his therapy appointment in a small city office, or would he be more like the Prince he was supposed to be?

“Stolas?”

Stolas glanced up to see Dr Smith by their open office door, with their hand outstretched towards him. The door beside them, however, did not lead into their office. Stolas blinked, and then carefully walked forward.

He felt his feet walk on linoleum and then grass. Air – earth air – filled his lungs, and he stared at the doctor.

“Are we – earthside?”

“Yes.”

“But how?” he said, startled. “Of course, my Grimoire enabled me to do so, and there are Asmodean crystals, but surely – “

Dr Smith merely smiled. “I assure you,” they told him. “I have my means. Now look up, Stolas.”

The owl did and felt his breath hitch in his throat.

The milky way spilled out above his head like a silk scarf, forgotten somewhere long ago and yet somehow still there. The stars twinkled at him, like thousands of eyes taking their turns to blink. He used to walk among them. He had listened in on their conversations. He had cradled supernovas; he had sung lullabies to meteors; he had tearfully watched as galaxies died. He’d conducted the tangoes of nebulas and felt them wrap around him as if he, too, were part of their dance.

The moon hung above the trees, merely a sliver, as the wind rustled his feathers.

“It’s beautiful,” whispered Stolas. “Thank you.”

“It was your job, wasn’t it?” Dr Smith asked quietly. They pulled out a blanket, settling both themselves and the owl on it. Stolas couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sky. “To study the stars, and the planets.”

Stolas smiled in the way one did when remembering dear friends that were long gone.

“I… studied the stars the same way you study the mind, Dr Smith,” he said. He lay back on the blanket, reaching his hand up. He could almost, if he focused, feel the fabric of the night against his fingers again.

“And how is that?”

“By talking,” Stolas murmured. “If you listen… they have a lot to say.”

Dr Smith watched Stolas’ features. “And what did they say?”

“Oh,” laughed the owl, weakly. “All kinds of things. Everyone wanted me to ask pointed, specific questions, you know. They wanted answers about their futures. They wanted to know who they should marry, whether their business would prosper, and whose children will die in the war. But the stars…” His hand dropped, softly. “I came up there, sometimes, after the work was over… after I’d delivered the mighty kings their prophecies… and asked other questions.”

“What did you ask?”

“About their day, mostly,” said the owl softly. “Whether they were… tired… or lonely.”  

“Whether they were happy?” said Dr Smith.

Stolas did not answer.

They looked up at the sky, for a while.

“Have you thought about my proposal?”

“Yes,” said the Goetia. His voice was quiet.

“Have you come to any decision?”

“No.”

Dr Smith nodded. They had expected as much. “What are your apprehensions?”

The owl curled in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest.

It was easier to talk to the stars.

They’d never asked about him.

“I - ” He whispered into the darkness, “I don’t think I can handle it.” He swallowed tightly, feeling tears nip at his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” came the gentle answer.

For a while, Stolas let himself be held within the dark, familiar silence.

“I’d like you to imagine yourself as one of them, Stolas.”

“As a star?” The owl asked, looking over at the Sinner next to him. The therapist nodded.

“It’s what you call your daughter, isn’t it? Starfire. If she is the fire produced, the heat, the light, would it not be appropriate for you to be the star from which it emanates?”

Stolas’ hand twitched. “It’s… complicated.”

“It is,” Dr Smith said softly. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

The Sinner’s eyes looked back up, reflecting the endless dark. “Suppose you were a star. Imagine you had planets orbiting you. Some might be smaller, and faster – almost mere space dust. So small, you may not even notice them. Others may be larger – constants in your sky, coming and going. Still others may be even heavier, taking their time to make their way around you. Imagine you could feel the weight of them all, pulling at your core. Demanding you feel their weight, their impact. Demanding your attention. Demanding you orbit around them. What would be wrong with that picture?”

“Stars don’t orbit planets,” Stolas said.

“Could the planets exist without a star to orbit?”

“Not as planets, I suppose,” The owl said, “No.”

“Can they hurt the star?” Dr Smith asked, softly. Stolas fell silent.

“Some of them might be heavy,” the Sinner said quietly. “Some may feel, to the star, as if they take up the entire sky. But a star can handle its planets, Stolas. Even if it doesn’t think so. All they do is spin around it… even if they like to pretend they’re anything more.”  

“Stars burn,” Stolas whispered. He felt the wind rustle his feathers. “Stars get old, Dr Smith. They get cold. They collapse, under their own weight. They can’t hold… themselves up anymore. Sometimes, by the time their light reaches earth…” His gaze turned upwards. “They’re already dead,” He said, and his voice was hollow, “Even if we’re still seeing their light. They may have been dead for centuries.”

“Stolas...”

“I can’t,” The owl gasped out. “I’m scared because it finally feels like maybe I can breathe, now, just a little, and seeing her will break me again, is that what you want me to say?”

“Being honest with your feelings is always a start,” Dr Smith said gently. “Yes. But remember – we’re not going to start with your worst fears. We’re going to take it one small step at a time. Yes, the process will challenge you. But I will not push you beyond what you can handle. I need your trust, Stolas.”

“I need more time,” sighed Stolas into the darkness. “I need more time.”

“Then you can take as long as you need.”

The stars spun. It was too slow for anyone else to notice, but Stolas knew. Or rather, he knew that the earth was spinning in relation to the stars, and that he was spinning along with it. Somewhere, he was aware that it had been far longer than his allotted hour, and yet Dr Smith had not made them get up. They seemed content to lay here with him, looking at the stars, tracing their paths across the vast expanse.

“My mother called me Starfire, too,” said Stolas.

Dr Smith said nothing.

“She was kind,” The owl sighed. “We went out – just like this – all the time. She was the one who taught me about the stars. She taught me their names.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Stolas,” said the Sinner, and it sounded so genuine that Stolas wanted to cry. But he laughed instead – weakly, and brokenly.

“Oh, she’s not dead. At least, not to my knowledge. I would imagine she’s alive and well…” He waved his hand in the direction of the galaxies spinning overhead. “Somewhere out there.”

“But you’re not in contact with her?” Stolas shook his head. “What happened?”

“She left,” Stolas said, simply. “Didn’t want to… deal with it all anymore, one day. With my father. With the family.” His hands squeezed the blanket beneath him. His words sounded hollow.

“Probably didn’t want to deal with me.”

“Stolas,” Dr Smith said, softly. “Do you really think that’s true?”

“I don’t know,” the owl said quietly. “I only know I wasn’t enough for her to stay.”

And his eyes drifted, sleepily, towards the sun creeping up over the horizon.

The universe could be a funny thing.

Sometimes, despite its best intentions, more time was simply not something a person could ask for.

“Thank you, Loona,” Stolas said, climbing out of the car. It took a little longer, now. When Blitzø had proposed they add a convertible roof to the van for Stolas, both the owl and Moxxie had imagined a professionally installed, retractable sunroof. Blitzø’s solution had been more along the lines of cutting out a hole in the top with a chainsaw, around the circumference of Stolas’ head. But it had greatly reduced the amount of pain in Stolas’ neck after an extended drive, and so the owl, despite his reservations about safety, had begun to accept it. “You don’t need to drive me every time, you know. I can take the bus.”

“Like shit you can take the bus, Hooters,” The hellhound laughed.

“I am absolutely capable of taking the bus,” Stolas said, rather offended. Loona raised her eyebrow.

“Then what route goes here, huh?”

The bird had the decency to look slightly flustered. “What route? Doesn’t the bus driver know his way around Imp City?”

“Oh, forget it,” said Loona good-naturedly. “And for the record, I’m only drivin’ ya because I need makeup tips, and my dad’s useless with that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, my dear,” said Stolas softly. “I hope you have a nice day.”

Loona’s phone buzzed – a text bubble saying where are you? popping up on her screen from a contact named The OG 💀. She cleared it quickly with her thumb. “You too, Stolas.” The car revved back to life, leaving the owl coughing his way through the cloud of exhaust.

He climbed up the familiar steps, up to the elevator. He rested his head, eyes scanning the posters he had by now memorized.

Hang in there! Exclaimed a cartoonish speech bubble emanating from a dead soul, hanging on a meat hook.

Every Day is a Fresh Hell, suggested cursive writing overtop a screen-saver sunrise.

Need someone dead after bitching about them in therapy? Hire the Immediate Murder Professionals with a special discount, only for the CLINICALLY pissed. That one, at least, did make him smile.

It was a short ride. Stolas emerged from the elevator, leaning down to press the familiar code into the office keypad. And then he froze, finger hovering over the one, at the voice coming from behind the door.

“I have the legal right to those notes, you know,” came an all-too familiar screech. “I am his wife -”

“You have made it clear you have previously been married, yes,” Replied Dr Smith’s voice. Stolas’ sensitive ears picked up the sound of the Sinner sipping tea.

“Do you know what I can bring upon this practice?” Stella hissed. Her talons scraped against the desk. “I can destroy any so-called credentials you claim to possess. I can make your personal life a living hell.”

“Interestingly enough, it already is,” Responded Dr Smith. “That’s actually where the office is located. May I recommend a map?”

Something crashed to the floor, and Stolas flinched.

“I can also recommend an excellent referral for anger management classes.”

“Do you know who I am?!” Screamed the Goetia. “You and this little office aren’t worthy of the refuse bin in which – ”

“Actually, I know exactly who you are, Stella.” Stolas felt through the door a sudden coldness, seeping through the crack. “In fact, I’ve been rather intrigued about you for a long time. Most of my curiosity has been satisfied by this exchange. I do, however, have one more question for you, Ms. Goetia.”

“Stella,” they said quietly, and it rung out like a guitar string pulled too tight. “Such a beautiful name.”

“Tell me, what is the origin of that?”

There was a silence. “Fuck you,” spat the swan in the Sinner’s direction. And yet her voice shook, in a way Stolas had never heard. “Fuck you – ”

“I’m afraid that would be inappropriate workplace conduct,” said Dr Smith. “Additionally, I have no desire to spend any more time with you and find you rather unattractive – in both face and personality. I will ask you to vacate my practice now, please.”

“This isn’t over,” spat the bird. But her voice lacked its previous venom and held something new Stolas had not heard. Fear. Her heels clicked over the floorboards, and Stolas only had a moment’s notice to jump back as the door was flung open in his face.

The pink eyes met the red, and Stolas felt his heart drop to his feet. 

"...Hello, Stella." 

Chapter Text

“Stolas.”

There’s no hello like he dignified her with. A sadistic, satisfied smile spread over her beak.

“So, this is what you’re up to, now? Brain doctor, hmm? About time,” She laughed. “Always knew there was something wrong with you.”

“How much are you paying them to listen to your pathetic whining? Half your meager little salary?” She giggled, bringing her hand up to her beak as her eyes sparkled.

“No,” Stolas said softly. “I have insurance.”

Stella let out a screech of a laugh. “Oh yes, glad you have someone to pay for all the help you so desperately need. Where is that money coming from, your little imp boy?”

Before he could process, he found himself pinned against a wall, her hand against his chest. Her palm pressed down into his ribs, squeezing a breath from his lungs.

He shivered as she leaned closer, her beak by his ear.

“I can really hurt you now, you know,” She whispered. He felt her claws digging into the skin by his neck. Like Blitz, she knew where he was sensitive.

Her hand pushed in harder, and Stolas could barely make his chest rise to draw in air.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” She hissed. “It’s not enough for you to make a mockery of our family publicly, but you need to drag our entire marriage through the mud, don’t you? You have a need to humiliate me. A pathological fucking need. I can’t imagine what kind of lies -”

Her fingernails dug in. Exquisitely manicured as always, they drew blood as Stolas whimpered.

“What have you said about me in there?” She screeched. She grabbed the collar of Stolas’ shirt and threw him sideways into the wall. The back of his head hit the drywall hard. “I was GOOD to you, you thankless disgrace! What are you in there telling them?“

“If I find out you’re making me look bad – “

Stolas gasped out something inaudible, and Stella was taken aback enough that her fingers loosened. “What?”

“I said,” gasped the Goetia, red eyes boring into pink, “I don’t need to do your job for you. You’re good enough at that yourself.”

He watched as her hand drew back.

“Miss Stella Goetia,” Came an ice-cold voice from somewhere behind Stolas. The hand froze. All the owl could focus on were those pink eyes, those red lips, and the distance between her hand and his face, as his heart pulsed in his ears, echoing louder and louder.

“I believe I asked you to vacate my practice.”

“I’m in the hallway,” Sneered Stella, dropping her arm. “That’s public fucking property, you pathetic little whelp. And what did you do to get sent down here anyway, sweetie? Threw a tantrum while the grown-ups were talking?”

“Something like that,” said Dr Smith calmly. “I also happen to have rules about talking, when talking involves assaulting my clients.Kindly, Miss Stella - get the fuck out of this building.”

“You speak big words for someone so small,” the swan grinned. “Do you think you can – “

And then there was the whoosh of a portal, and a distant sound of splashing Envian water, and Dr Smith and Stolas were alone in the hallway once more.

Dr Smith’s voice changed immediately as they approached the bird. “Stolas – “

“I’m fine,” Stolas said, far too quickly. He smiled – too wide – eyes open and empty of feeling. “I’m fine.” He turned, grabbing the handle of the open door, and walking into the waiting room.

Dr Smith followed.

“I said I’m fine,” Stolas snapped. “I can wait for my appointment time.”

“That happens to be now.”

“Well, I’m still fine.” The Goetia straightened up his back, his eyes daring – or pleading? – for Dr Smith to snap back.

“Yes,” said Dr Smith calmly. “You’ve clarified that.”

“Good,” said Stolas. “Glad we’ve got that settled. On the same fucking page. That’s good.” He walked down the familiar corridor until he reached the office door, throwing it open. The doctor followed, turning behind them. The lock clicked as they cocked the handle, turning back to look at Stolas.

Stolas happened not to be fine.

At the moment, the bird was curled up in a shaking, sobbing ball in the corner. His hands clawed at the carpet as he gasped out great, heaving breaths that kept getting faster, and faster.

“Stolas – “

“I can’t,” The avian demon gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t – “

“Stolas,” The therapist instructed, sitting down on the floor, cross-legged, in front of Stolas. Despite their spell preventing any real damage, they could see the bird’s talons clawing, desperately, at his wrists, and took them gently but firmly in their own hands. “We’re going to breathe together, now. Listen to my voice. Breathe in – “

Those pink eyes. His chest was constricting; he felt like he was running out of air, and that only increased the panic. He felt sweat, coating his feathers. And then he was suddenly beside his own body – watching, passively, as if he was someone else entirely. Someone ethereal, and weightless, and yet unable to grasp onto any coherent thought.  

“- three, four,” Dr Smith was speaking, patiently. “Now feel that air in your lungs – hold it in. One – “

Those pink eyes. The hand holding him down.

“ – four. Can you hear me? “

The springs of an expensive down mattress digging into his back. Squirming to escape, as her hand gets tighter. Feathers suddenly moving against his, his lower body beginning to warm without him wanting it to.

“Squeeze my hands if you can hear me, Stolas.”

Faster and faster. His heartbeat, faster and faster. The feathers moved, faster and faster. Her hand, nails scraping against his –

“I’m going to calm you down now,” He heard a voice, his brain unable to form the syllables into words. “It may be a little jarring.”

It only hurts more if you fight.

“STOP!” Screamed Stolas. “STOP – “He yanked his hands back, panicking for a second as he felt them restrained, though he was quickly released. He thrashed, like a caged animal, trying to grab something, to tear, to shred – his neck twinged as he stretched, trying, with his beak, to tear out his feathers –

And then a sudden feeling flooded him. His limbs felt heavy, his heart somehow resuming a normal rhythm between one beat and the next. Air rushed into his lungs as if through the hatch of an airlock. A sudden switch turned off Stella’s voice, like she was nothing more than a broken recording.

Stolas sat, gasping for air, on the office floor. Tears covered his face, and Dr. Smith was sitting in front of him, cross-legged, their hand on his shoulder.

“Better?” They asked, softly. Stolas nodded in bewilderment. “What – h-how – “

“You had a panic attack,” They explained. “I have the ability, if I choose, to affect the emotions of others via physical contact. I do not use this ability unless given explicit consent, or if a client is in danger. However, as you were in considerable, strong distress and I could not get you to calm with other means, I made the choice to use that power on you.” Stolas brought his hands into his lap as Dr Smith pulled back their arm. “I am very sorry,” they said earnestly. “I should have asked your consent beforehand for this kind of contingency, given your history. Please forgive me.”

“That – “ Stolas heart his voice come out raspy, and swallowed, feeling saliva coat his throat. “That’s alright,” he said, in his own voice at last.

Dr Smith stood up and held their hand out to Stolas. It was a little comical, given that the avian demon towered over the Sinner, but Stolas took the offered hand and pulled himself to his feet. The doctor gestured him to his usual chair, which he took, his hands still shaking. Dr Smith switched off the lights as usual before taking their usual seat as well.

Stolas looked up as he was handed a glass of water. “You may feel a bit of jitteriness, or a feeling of dissociation, and perhaps a pressure in your supraorbital nerves,” The Sinner said kindly. “It should go away in a minute or two.”

Stolas took a sip of water. Then he took another. Then he breathed in, held his breath, and breathed out.

“How do you feel?” Came the gentle question.

“Fine,” The Goetia said automatically.

“Stolas.”

The bird shut his eyes, just for a second. He wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere dark, and quiet, where he was alone, and no one expected anything of him anymore.

“We can take this slow, today,” Dr Smith said quietly. “You’ve had quite the emotional upheaval. I had plans for today’s session, but right now my only goal for this session is to make sure you are safe when you leave this office. But what I do need from you today, Stolas, is honesty. I can’t help otherwise – and I want to help.”

“Please allow me to help.”

Slowly… hesitantly… Stolas opened his eyes. He looked down and nodded. He felt tears, coating his lower lashes. He felt shame swishing around in his stomach. Once. He’d seen her once since his banishment, and it made him into a sobbing fucking mess.

“I want to do it,” said Stolas, firmly.

“Do what?”

He looked up, his eyes suddenly glowing like Dr Smith had never seen. “I want you to go inside my head. Go through – all of it. Every last second. I don’t care if it takes ten hours of watching her beat me and fuck me. I’m ready. I consent. Whatever you need me to do.”

“...Alright,” Dr Smith said, softly. “I will give you the forms when you leave today, Stolas, and give you the chance to review them before our next appointment.”

“No,” snapped the Goetia, surprising himself with his own anger. “I want them now. We’re doing this now.”

“No, Stolas. We’re not.”

“Yes, we are.” The demon stood up, his head brushing the top of the office – two pairs of red eyes, floating in the darkness as his feathers bristled. “We are doing this right now.”

“No,” said the Sinner.

“If we don’t do it right now, I’ll – I’ll – “Stolas looked around in desperation for something to break, something that would make the Sinner do what he wanted. “I’ll break your – plaque.”

“Go ahead.”

“Your desk.”

“I hardly use it.”

“I’ll – “His breath hitched. “I’ll burn your books.”

“I have thought, recently, that perhaps I have too many.”

“And then you’ll do it,” Stolas said, stepping forward. “You’ll go in my head.”

“No,” said Dr Smith. “Not today.”

“Why,” Stolas asked, knowing perfectly well why. He was met merely with Dr Smith’s gaze – those endless black whirlpools of eyes. He felt his muscles contract, and something inside him snapped like a twig.

“WHY?” Stolas screamed, suddenly. He grabbed a chair – one of the smaller ones – as if about to throw it at the wall, and then threw it back on the floor instead, where it collapsed with a crunch. “WHY WON’T YOU JUST FIX ME?”

His hands began to shake, as he felt his anger transform into something uglier, and more guttural.

“Why,” He whimpered. “Why do I have to – why does it have to hurt?”

He felt his hands, once again, gently guided away from his forearms. He hadn’t even realized he was trying his hardest to pluck out his remaining feathers. Those same hands guided him back, and then down into his chair. As they squeezed his palms, his gaze lifted.

“You are in pain right now,” The Sinner said softly, “Because terrible people did terrible things to you, Stolas.” If the Goetia listened closer, he could hear the deep, rumbling anger underneath those gentle words. “Because you were traumatized by those events, and because your brain learned to fear those events to keep you safe. And sometimes our minds – try a little too hard. They do a little too well. They don’t understand when there is something to fear, and when they are safe. And right now – in this office, in this moment – you are safe, Stolas Goetia, and she cannot hurt you.”

“The way to teach your brain that you are safe is, yes, through exposure therapy. And I am glad that you are considering it. But right now, you are emotional, and you are in distress. You’re trying to push yourself, well past what you are ready for, out of panic and anger. And therefore, under no circumstances am I putting you into an even more vulnerable state today – one that requires a steady mind, and informed consent. That is a matter of professional ethics. Do you understand?”

Slowly, Stolas nodded.

“Sorry,” He sighed. “I just… “

His hands clenched and unclenched.

“It feels like after all this time… after all the work I’ve done… I’m still so… helpless,” He whispered. “She can always just come and – do with me whatever she pleases. And there’s nothing I can do.”

“That’s a two-fold answer,” The Sinner replied. “From a legal perspective, there are ways you can ensure she stays away from you. I have no expertise in that area, but I can give you a contact to a lawyer. As you can imagine, the Pride Ring is rather… overrun with representatives of that particular profession. And a number of them owe me a favor.”

“But I believe what you’re truly asking is how to make yourself less emotionally vulnerable to your triggers. How to recover from incidents like what just occurred and handle panic attacks like you just had. Is that correct?”

Looking ashamed, Stolas nodded.

“That’s not something we achieve in a day,” Dr Smith said softly. “But we can start today, if you’d like that, by going through some strategies on what to do in the case of another panic attack. Over time, as we make progress on your fears, they should decrease as well. But that’s two within two weeks – is that correct?”

Stolas shakily nodded.

“Alright. The good part is, it’s not a surprise to you now. You know what to expect, and that it seems they have been triggered by specific memories or – interactions – with Stella. Can you feel it, when it’s about to happen?”

“Sort of,” said Stolas.

“Once she was gone, you went straight to my office. Were you looking for privacy?” Stolas weakly nodded.

“Why? What did you feel at that time, in your body?”

“My heartbeat… sped up,” he said softly. “And my chest hurt.”

“So if you feel those sensations, it’s likely the start of a panic attack.” Stolas nodded. “Alright. In that case, here’s what I’d like you to do.”

“The first thing you did instinctually, which is excellent. Can you think of what that is?”

“Cry?” said Stolas, with a slight roll of his eyes.

Dr Smith smiled. Sarcasm was good.

“You sat down on the floor,” they said softly. “You placed yourself somewhere safe, and private. When you feel that sensation, that’s the first thing I’d like you to do. Move yourself somewhere close to the floor, and away from any objects if you can.”

“Like a bathtub,” winced Stolas slightly, ignoring Dr Smith’s questioning look.

“… like a bathtub,” They confirmed, deciding not to push.

“The most important part of panic attacks is that they’re physical, Stolas. It may feel like your mind is going a million miles a minute, but you can focus it on the sensations in your body. You can experience them, like you are merely a star being pulled on by the planets’ gravity. Many people choose a sentence – or a mantra, if you will – to place themselves in the right mindset. Something like this is uncomfortable, but it will pass, or I have handled this before. Something to remind you that what you’re experiencing is a set of physical symptoms that are time-limited and will not cause you harm.” Dr Smith smiled encouragingly. “Anything speaking to you?”

Stolas thought for a moment. A long moment.

“You will be okay,” He spoke softly, at last.

Some diaphragmic breathing, distraction and grounding techniques, and a list of ideas for adrenaline burn-off later, Stolas emerged back into the hot, sticky air of Hell. He leaned his head against the car seat, explaining in a sentence or two what occurred, and closing his eyes as he heard Loona rapidly firing off texts.

The consent forms were held tightly in his hand, like a lifeline, even as the scent of Stella’s lipstick still clung to the back of his throat.

A few sessions went by. Stolas paused every time the elevator doors opened, expecting to hear Stella’s screech once more. She knew where to find him, now, even if he’d moved his appointment time. But week after week, there was nothing but silence.

And Stolas was discovering how – even when helpful – how dreadfully boring some parts of therapy could be.

He practiced breathing. He practiced affirmations. He endured Blitzo’s encouragement flag-waving as he practiced affirmations. He journaled his thoughts, underlining cognitive distortions. And then he and Dr Smith spent an entire two sessions figuring out a list of scenarios and memories that Stolas was afraid to encounter, listing them in a hierarchy, and scoring them by his level of fear. Dr Smith had rejected the traditional acronym – SUDS, or Subjective Units of Distress – as the bird had gone on a tangent about Blitzø in the bath that put a blush on the owl’s cheeks. The replacement term, however, had been a little more difficult to decide on.

The answer came from an unexpected source.

“HEY STOLS!” Yelled Blitzø one morning with two boxes of cereal in his hands. “DO YOU WANT ASMODI-OS OR SINNERMON TOAST CRUNCH?”

“DON’T GIVE A FUCKING HOOT, BLITZO,” returned the hungover owl, groaning as he pulled a pillow over his head.

And so, HOOTS: Honest Observations Of Triggers and Stress were born. It wasn’t perfect – but neither was he. In practice, they didn’t use the term much – but when needed, it was there, on his forms, to make him smile.

And soon – both too quickly, and too slowly – Dr Smith declared him ready.

Stolas signed the form with his right hand.

He was nervous.

Well, at least you're starting to identify your feelings, said a voice in his head that wasn't his. It was piping up more and more lately. Sometimes it made him feel good. Other times not - but when it hurt, it merely tingled in the same way that antiseptic stung, letting him know it was working.

"I want to do it," he said, softly, sitting down. "I am informed and aware and consenting, and I have a ride home. And I don't want to back out. I'm just -"

He smiled weakly.  

"I'm still - scared," he admitted. "I'm scared, but I want to do it. Is ... that okay?"

They smiled calmly at him. "Yes, that's very normal. Would you like to discuss what you can expect during this session?"

"Sort of. Blitzø told me.... some." He took a deep breath. "He said that you said it can feel... invasive," he mumbled.

They nodded. "It definitely can. There is no experience exactly like having someone else see inside your mind. But it can be extremely helpful in allowing yourself to address things that you have no other methods of properly addressing. Still, it is important that you are aware of the procedure beforehand. And the knowledge may help you be more comfortable in beginning."         

They steepled their fingers. "First, in order to initiate the procedure, the standard method is through minor physical contact, such as placing your palm on mine. It is the most direct way, but not the only way. Do you consent to this physical contact?"

Stolas hesitated and left his hands in his lap.

“I… suppose that’s a rather silly question for most people, isn’t it?” He laughed softly.

“Not at all.”

Words. Words were hard some days, because some days, they were like soldiers winding through a minefield. They had to be carefully chosen, carefully lead, to avoid a word or a turn of phrase that would open a door he wasn't ready to enter.         

"There were times," he said, very slowly, "In my past.... when I was .... touched..." He took a deep breath. "In ways I didn't want and couldn't... couldn't make stop."       

His hands clasped and unclasped on his lap. He looked down to avoid meeting those eyes. He feared them, right now. Irrationally, he knew - but he feared their judgement.

Or their reflection of his own.

Last session, he had made a list. A list of memories that made him uncomfortable.

Exposure therapy involves experiencing increasingly more intense versions of the things that make you anxious, but slowly and gradually, Dr Smith had said. It will require you to endure some discomfort, so that you can learn that the anxiety itself cannot harm you.

He had listed those memories, and he knew which ones he feared. And for some of them, he knew, the sensation of skin against his feathers would feel like a manacle.

"You... said there were other ways," he asked softly. "Without... touch?"

"Yes, there are more indirect ways. For example, you could hold one end of a rope, and I could hold the other. Though without physically touching you, it may take longer for you to relax enough to enter into the correct headspace.”

“But that is all right,” The Sinner smiled. “We can take as long as you need."

A thick, braided string appeared in their hands. Stolas carefully picked up the other end. It felt soft, like velvet, and yet sturdy and unyielding. The name of the material seemed to escape him. He lifted his head as he realized Dr Smith had been speaking.

"... any material is fine. Now, here is what will happen. You will hold the tether, and I will help you relax. When, and only when, you are adequately relaxed, I will ask you to show me a memory that feels safe. It may help to think ahead of time what might be a suitable memory, one that puts you at ease. Once you are there, I will begin to phase into that place with you. It will feel like you are there – like we are both truly there.

“From there, you can show me your memories, and we will both be able to observe and modify them in a way that will help you process them.”

“I’ll check in with you on your anxiety level, periodically - just as we practiced. A key component of this is that you learn to tolerate that pain as much as you can, so that your mind can learn that these memories do not actually pose any danger to you. But I don't want you to push yourself past your limits. If you ever decide that it is too much, you can let go, and everything will stop. I may also terminate the procedure if I feel that your distress has gone past merely testing your limits and toward actually breaking them. Do you understand?”

The Goetia nodded. “I understand. It’s the difference between red and yellow.”

The two looked at one another, and Stolas blushed. “... never mind.”

“.. it’s a very different context, of course,” the therapist said hesitantly. “But if it would help to - “

“It would not,” said Stolas, his cheeks scarlet. “I’m ready.”

He took a deep breath.

He wasn't sure how he was supposed to relax for this when his heart was thumping against his chest, but he had learned to trust. He wrapped the rope once around his wrist - not so tight he couldn't easily pull away, but enough so that he wouldn't drop it by accident. And then he closed his eyes.

He tried to picture feeling safe.

Who made him feel safe?

Blitzø. But would he, in a memory? Most of his memories with Blitzø also held pain, and longing, and desperation borne out of fear. Would it put him as ease, or remind him of his failures?

His father? Certainly not. His mother? Made him feel small and no longer wanted.

Thinking of Stella made him want to vomit.

Thinking of Octavia made him want to cry.

He tried to just reach for a feeling of safety, despite not knowing what he may find on the other side.

"Imagine," heard Stolas. The voice was almost hypnotic.

"Through this tether, I am sending you a feeling of pure, unobstructed relaxation. Feel it move up your arm, releasing the tension there. Allow your arm to become heavy and at rest, its muscles purely relaxed. Now, feel that relaxation spread into your shoulder. Feel how it loses its tension and comes to a position of rest. And then your left shoulder... good, exactly like that.”

“Now, feel it move into your chest, your lungs. Let it make your breathing slow and deep.”

It reminded him, oddly, of being in the hospital after Striker. It was as if he had an IV in his arm, and he could feel a cooling, relieving sensation travel up his arm to his chest, like he did then as the drugs numbed him. The office began to feel distant and fuzzy. For a moment that scared him, and then he felt a deep, comforting presence, filling his chest with every breath he followed. It was like being drunk, he thought. His mind felt light, and unrestricted, as his muscles relaxed.

“How do you feel, Stolas?” asked a kind voice.

"Feels nice," he whispered. "Like I've had three bottles of absinthe."

"Good," they replied, their voice so low and smooth that it was almost mesmerizing. "Now, close your eyes, and follow my voice. Let everything else fade away. Let your thoughts drift away, like leaves being carried away by a river. Only one thought returns to you, and it is this: I am safe. You don't need to think about anything but being relaxed and safe in your own mind. I am going to count backwards from ten.”

He tried to picture the leaves. They bobbed, carried by the stream.

Ten.

There was a river like this by Paimon's palace. He remembered walking along its borders, holding his mother's hand. He'd liked to jump and slash around in his rain boots, but mother had been quick to tell him it wasn't becoming of a prince to splash. Still, it had been fun.

Nine. It was scary, to drift. Stolas liked to be anchored. Liked to have something tangible in his hands. His fingers squeezed the rope. Where was he? I am safe, he told himself, breathing deeply. I am safe.

Eight. He felt a twinge of pain in the back of his head. It seemed that a small part of him, however distant, resisted giving up control. But it was momentary - barely a bee sting, and it was washed over soon after by a soothing wave of calm.

Seven. He felt more relaxed than he had in his life and followed that feeling eagerly. He wasn't quite sure where he was, even as it drew itself into existence around them - towering arches, colorful stained-glass windows, and the smell of parchment. The carpet here felt soft under his talons. It felt like he was almost in a dream, rather than a memory. A dream where no one would touch him. Where everything was okay.

"Your Highness!" Came a faraway voice. It was faint - many doors away, many walls. "Prince Stolas!"

Six.

Five.

Four.

Stolas heard a small giggle and realized it was his own. He could feel the door frame press into his back as he held it shut, his eyes slowly taking in the full scene around him at last. The magnificent library - shelves spiraling upwards, seemingly into the night sky itself. Windows, covered with rich velvet curtains that hung down like a widow's veil, still let in rays of sunlight that projected dazzling rainbows of light upon the shelves. The small owl gasped, taking it all in.

Three. A little stool stood at the foot of the nearest shelf.

Two. Stolas smiled. He wasn't allowed in here yet, in the library that would someday be his. The books here were expensive and precious, he was told. Some of them dangerous, bound with thick chains and rusted locks.

The staff were searching for him.

He hadn’t yet learned to fear the consequences.

He never did hear a one.

Chapter Text

Do you feel safe, Stolas? said a voice. He didn’t quite recognize it, but he thought it sounded kind. 

"As long as Father doesn't find out," he said softly. "But I think he's away."

A shape shimmered in the library, almost there but not quite. It spoke without making a sound, but it was easy to understand.  

Yes, he is away, it said, and while it didn't exactly have facial features, he could feel a comforting smile in its voice. He is far away, and he will not bother you here. Would you like to read a story, Stolas? There are some excellent picture books here on the bottom shelf. You can pick any book you like.

Stolas crossed his small arms. 

"I don't want picture books," he said adamantly. "I'm not little. I have picture books in my room in my Father's palace, and I've read them all already." 

He walked up, instead, to the step-stool, and carefully climbed up. 

"There's books for grown-ups here," he said instead, grinning. "Father never lets me read those." 

The forbidden fruit felt exciting. Stolas found he could just reach the third shelf from the bottom. He felt magic hum beneath his fingers. 

Here, he was safe. He had both the power and the innocence that life had taken from him. 

Stolas ran his fingers along the row of books, and their titles revealed themselves to him, one by one, each embossed in gold. A Gentleman's Guide on Etiquette and Decorum; Predictive Astronomy in Unstable Systems; On the Physics of Binary Stars; Demonology and Anatomy of the Ars Goetia; and a strangely plain white volume titled Original Sin. The image of an apple was stitched onto the spine, and someone had glued tiny googly eyes to the fruit. 

He tried to reach the upper shelves, but found he could not quite reach them, and could only faintly make out the titles. Above them, Stolas could see an old tome, bound in metal and chains. "I want to read that one," he said, sounding disappointed. "But I can't reach it." 

The shape materialized into a person - a person with glasses, short hair, and a long, soft cardigan full of lots of little pockets. They looked familiar in a way that was difficult to place.

"You will have a chance to read those, Stolas, but not yet," they said kindly. 

“Who are you?” 

"I am the Librarian here,” answered the person. 

Stolas looked at them, unsure. He wasn’t sure if there had ever been a librarian. “Could you help me get that book down?” he asked, politely. 

“No, Stolas - not yet. But I can read you a story. Librarians are the best at reading stories. They teach us all the character voices in library school." 

They knelt down and looked at the picture books on the bottom shelf. "Do you want me to read you a story about a prince and a dragon?”

The owl looked on, doubtfully. “Well…” 

“I'm the only one who knows how to do the dragon's voice."

Stolas looked torn. On the one hand, the adult books intrigued him. On the other - he really wanted to hear the dragon's voice. "Okay," he said, after a moment. He climbed down from the step-stool, and plopped himself down on the carpet in a most un-prince-like fashion, hugging the imp plushie that followed him everywhere. "But only if it's a really GOOD dragon voice." 

“It is,” said the Librarian, flipping open the book. “I promise.” 

They sat down in an armchair that Stolas couldn't remember being there before, but that didn't seem to matter once they started reading.

“Now. Once upon a time…” 

It was a funny story, thought Stolas. The Prince wanted all his subjects to be happy, and Father talked to him often about how important it was to satisfy the masses and keep up appearances. It all seemed to make sense, that is, until the prince decided that the dragon that lived in the nearby caves also counted as one of his subjects. 

“Oh, you must be so lonely, oh wretched creature,” read the Librarian, in a high-pitched aristocratic accent. Stolas giggled. “Please, I am only here to befriend you.”

“Liar!” The dragon responded in a very raspy, grumpy voice. “You think I was hatched yesterday, four-eyes? Finders keepers. Get your dumb prince hands off my treasure. That’s all you’re here for.”

“Never!” gasped the prince with an exaggerated motion of the hand. “I shall prove my loyalty to you. Every night on the full moon, I will visit you, and we will have fun and merriment aplenty.” 

Stolas was a very good listener. He sat, enthralled, as the dragon and the prince became friends; gasped with his hands over his beak as the cruel, vindictive king locked the prince in the palace for “foolishly consorting with the rabble”; and clapped with delighted hoots at the dragon’s heroic rescue of his only friend. 

 "And the silly prince and the silly dragon, who were in fact not so silly after all, lived happily ever after,” read the Librarian. “The end."

“That’s a nice story,” said Stolas softly, when it was over. “I wish they could stay together forever.” 

“They do,” said the Librarian, closing the book. “Some people thought that the prince was foolish for befriending a dragon, or that the dragon was weak for befriending a prince. But no one could stand up to both of them, and when the prince eventually became king, they had the most wonderful kingdom that there ever was."

Stolas smiled. But it was a sad sort of smile, and it faded as he hugged his knees. A beam of light shone through the top of the dome, bathing him in a gentle warm circle. 

"I wish I had a dragon friend,” said Stolas. “Or... or any friends."

They nodded at him kindly. "I very much hope you make some nice friends, dragon or not.”

“Dragon,” said Stolas with a firm nod. “Definitely dragon.”

The Librarian smiled.  “Friendship is a wonderful thing.”

“What... what are your friends like?" asked Stolas. "Are they librarians too?"

"No, my friends are quite different from me. My best friend is a grumpy cat who made me soup when I was sick. And my other friend is a very tall, very pretty spider who shows me the funniest shows on the television and helps me find clothes I like. They are both wonderful people, and I love spending time with them. Sometimes, being friends with people that are different from you can be very nice. You can help each other, because things that are hard for them are easy for you, and things that are hard for you are easy for them. And when you help each other, you can do anything. Just like the prince and the dragon."

Stolas looked a little sad. "I got sick last year," he said softly. "Father said it was because one of the servants took me to Imp City and I got an illness from one of the littler demons. So he told me I'm not allowed to go there anymore. And now Sindy doesn't work for me anymore, and she made very lovely soup." 

He pouted. "And now he won't let me go to Loo Loo Land. He says it's for poor people, and people like us go to Loo Loo World. But I don't want to." His eyes got teary. "The rides look big and really scary, Mr. Librarian." Then he cocked his head. "Or... Mrs. Librarian?"

"Either is fine," they said, unbothered. "And truthfully, I think that you're right, and your father is wrong. Maybe that sounds silly, but sometimes grownups can be wrong about things like that. But I'm sorry to hear that you got sick, and that you can't see Sindy anymore. Nothing is better than homemade soup when you're sick. And I think it tastes just a little better when the person made it because they care about you." 

"Yeah." He sniffled a little. 

And then an idea occurred to him, and he suddenly brightened up, his feathers fluffing and his eyes shining. "Mr. Mrs. Librarian, can you be my friend?" he asked excitedly. "Then I'd have one! Even if they're really different. And - and if you're a grownup, can YOU take me to Loo Loo Land? PLEASE, Mr. Mrs. Librarian?" 

They smiled at him brightly. "That’s a wonderful idea, Stolas. I'd love to be your friend. And yes, I'd love to take you to Loo Loo Land. I think you even have a book about it in here somewhere."

"I do?" Stolas said, looking confused. And just as he did, a small white book fell off the shelf, of its own accord, opening up to the title page. "Woah," said Stolas, standing up. "Are the books magic?"

They leaned in conspiratorially, like they were about to tell him a secret. "They are," they said in a low, hushed voice. "This really is your library, Stolas. Many of the books in here can take you to places you've been, and show you things you've seen. But there's one small thing. This book is from when you're a grownup. So if we read it and go to Loo Loo Land together, you'll be a grownup when we get there.”

“Are you ready for that today, Stolas? If not, we can always read it when you are. This library will always be here, and I will always be here to help you find the books you need." 

So it can show me the future? Stolas wanted to ask. 

But something deep inside him knew better.

He knew everything in these books. He knew how his life had gone. And he knew he couldn't rewrite the books, not fully. He couldn't change what had already happened. He couldn't change the words he had already written, no matter how much they hurt, and no matter how hard he pretended. 

"It's okay," he said softly. "I'm ready. But can I have some ice cream when we get there? Even if I'm all grown up? And... and will you still be my friend?" 

"Of course." 

Once Stolas was comfortably settled on the carpet, the Librarian sat down once again in their armchair and began to read. As they described the bustling atmosphere of Loo Loo Land, chaotic but thrilling in a way that only a theme park can be, their words seemed to fade, along with the library. 

Stolas was surprised to once again be eleven feet tall. He had also not been expecting to be holding a mice cream, covered in rat tail sprinkles. 

Stolas blushed. "Sorry. My childhood self can be... I suppose... excitable. I'm sorry if that was quite tiresome." 

Dr. Smith licked their own vanilla cone and laughed slightly, something they had never done in their sessions with him. "That’s quite all right, Stolas. You don't have to apologize for acting like a child when you were a child. In fact, I found you quite endearing."

“Well, I still - “ 

"STOLAS!" 

Stolas visibly flinched, and Dr. Smith’s expression soured. "Looks like your first source of anxiety has announced herself."

A younger Stolas, his cape wrapped around his shoulders as if to protect himself, stepped out from behind a tree, holding the hand of a small, excitable owl with a fluffy bow on her head. “Right here, dearest,” he said, sheepishly. “There is no need to shout.” 

"There is when you loiter at every dirty imp stall like a starry-eyed toddler," Stella spat, grabbing his arm.

"Daddy!" Said Via, pointing at a booth excitedly. "Can we play? You shoot angels and then you can win a stuffed Fizzarolli!" 

Stolas smiled. "Of course we can, my starfire." He handed some cash to the imp attendant, engrossing himself in showing Via how to use the little pistol. 

The next few minutes were happy ones. The older Stolas watched and the younger clapped as Via shot at the targets. 

She didn't do particularly well, but he encouraged her nonetheless.

"We didn't win," the girl said in disappointment. The younger Stolas smiled. 

"That's okay. Winning isn't always easy, my darling starfire. But you had fun, right? That's most important." 

And then Octavia’s hand was roughly taken from his. 

"Octavia," Stella said in a voice sweet as sticky glaze. "Don't listen to your father. You are not some dirty imp child - you are a Goetia, a mighty Princess of Hell. Someday you will have legions to command. When you want something, you don't take no for an answer." 

 "It is almost as though there is a singular element that prevents this from being a positive memory," Dr. Smith remarked dryly.

A second later, Stella was screaming at the poor imp salesman, and Stolas had pulled out a flask. 

 "What is your anxiety level now?" Dr. Smith asked.

Stolas felt his talons digging into his palms, but he was unable to make it hurt. Right - they were still in the office. "Three." He sighed.

"Then I suppose we can continue. It seems as though your daughter has become interested in one of the rides."

He looked over, and saw Via pulling his younger self and her mother towards the merry-go-round. 

"Can we ride the horsies?" she asked excitedly. An imp servant followed dutifully behind her, holding the stuffed Fizzarolli. 

"Of course," said Stolas. “Don't be ridiculous," said Stella, at the same moment. 

The two Goetia looked at each other.

"She is not riding that piece of trash and catching tetanus from some dirty impling," she sneered. "She has real horses."

"That is not how one acquires tetanus,” Stolas said in frustration. “It's just a ride, Stella. Why did you even agree to bring her to the park, if you refuse to let her enjoy it?"

"This wasn't my idea, Stolas." Stella spat at him. "I wanted to take her to Loo Loo World, not this off-market, disgusting -" 

"Those rides are too big for her," Stolas said firmly. "And Via wanted to come here." 

"Octavia is five. She doesn't have standards."

 She looked him up and down. 

"Nor will she ever if she takes after you."

"Forgive me if this comes off as too... insensitive,” said Dr. Smith. “But... I imagine this is going to be a bit of a theme?" 

Stolas had taken his medication that morning. It gave him just enough energy to give Dr. Smith the look that question deserved. 

"Via dear, you stay here with the staff for a moment,” sang the swan to the nestling. “There's a good girl. Daddy and I just need to speak in private for a moment." 

And then she grabbed Stolas by the wrist, pulling him behind a stall, not far from where the older Goetia and Dr. Smith were standing.

"Listen," Stella said, sweetly. "Stolas. Husband dear." 

She batted her eyelashes, and then stepped forward, her body pressing him against the back of the stall. 

"It's bad enough we are practically outcasts because of your inability not to be an embarrassment at every party we attend. I will not let you do that to our daughter, as well. You want her to be like you, hmm? Stolas Goetia, lover of the poor, talks to his plants, such a bad fuck my mother feels sorry for me? You want her to be all alone, just like you?" 

Her nails dug into his chest. 

"Another stunt like that," she said with a smile, "And that face may not stay as pretty when we get home."

Moments later, she sauntered back to Via, as Stolas gasped for breath. 

"Come on, darling. Your father may not care about you getting hurt, but I care. Why don't we go ride the boats? Just you and mummy. Won't that be fun?" 

The younger Stolas sank down to a nearby bench, still by the stall. A nearby imp looked at him in confusion, and concern. 

The Prince sighed and raised his gaze. "Hello," he said, weakly. "Do you know if there's a bar somewhere here?"

The older Stolas looked a bit ill. He took a deep breath. "This...." he sighed. "This sort of thing happened... a lot."

The doctor nodded, just once. 

"I understand," they said softly. 

Revelations made in the mindspace were groundbreaking, but also extremely fragile. The doctor could sabotage their patient's hard work during the session if they were too careless with their words - too eager to guide. 

Stolas watched his younger self drink more and more, as Stella and Via climbed onto a boat further down the path. "It was... I wanted to bring her here because I had wanted to go when I was her age," he said softly. "I wanted her to have that... us to have that. For it to be special. And then... because I was too weak to stand up to Stella... " he waved his hand at his younger self, downing his third bottle. "I ruined it." 

"For what it's worth," Dr. Smith said quietly, "I don't think you ruined it, Stolas. I think Stella ruined it for you. I know that you are focused on what you could or should have done differently. It is natural for our minds to focus on the part of bad situations that is in our control. But please do not forget how much you did try to make this a special day for Octavia, and who was actually trying to stop that from happening."

Stolas shrugged. He gestured to his wife and child riding a boat, Octavia giggling. 

"They seem to be having a good time without me. It shouldn't have become about me at all. I should've been focused on Octavia." 

"It seems to me like you were focused on Octavia, until Stella no longer allowed you to be," they said gently. "I hope you can give yourself some grace, Stolas. That you can see how hard you tried for her. I know it's not easy, but it is an important skill to learn in this process." 

"No one made me drink that much,” said Stolas softly.  “It ... this day didn't get much better from here. After this, I was barely present. What kind of father allows himself that?" 

"The kind of father that had no other choice after his wife belittled and threatened him," they said quietly. "We don't need to discuss it much now, but it's clear to me that this was the only option you had to endure your emotions. But now, you can find other options.” 

Stolas sat down on the bench. It supported his weight despite not being real, largely because he expected it to. Around them, the image had become a blur of colors, the memory hazy. 

It was how Stolas remembered it - merely snippets that broke through, but the concept of time had lost its meaning. 

Here he was, getting shouted at by Stella again without much of a reaction, all as Via was tugging on his arm, begging for a balloon. 

There he was, riding a rollercoaster with Via in his lap, but focusing far too much on not vomiting to enjoy it even as she screamed with delight.

 And there they were, in the audience, watching a robotic Fizzarolli sing to a dead crowd. Stolas saw himself, loving it - swaying in time to the music and clapping along, while Octavia beside him looked more and more frightened. The clown dipped down towards the owlette and she began to cry, even as Stolas clapped along, none the wiser. The older version watched her look at him for comfort, and then realizing there would be none, bury her face to cry into Stella's skirt.

"I barely remembered any of this," the older Stolas said softly. "I pieced this together later, I think.. from Via's retelling. But back then, and for years after... I'd simply thought it was a happy day. Not a day my daughter hated, and not the day she saw her father put his own needs selfishly above hers for the first time." 

He sighed. 

"But not the last."

 And as he spoke, the scene began to change, wind blowing through his feathers. They found themselves instead in a grand kitchen. Celestial bodies twirled overhead as a Stolas not too much younger than the real one stood in the room in a red robe. And then a plant flew over his head, nearly hitting him, as screaming followed. 

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU SLEPT WITH AN IMP - IN OUR FUCKING BED!"

"It was unexpected! I didn't have time to go to a motel!" protested Stolas, raising his hands in surrender as Stella grabbed a bowl, smashing it against the wall. 

"A MOTEL?! LIKE A FUCKING PLEBIAN?" 

"Is -" Stolas looked exhausted. "Is that really the issue? Stella, you know just as well as I do that we -" 

"DID I SAY YOU COULD FUCKING SPEAK?" 

And with headphones over her ears, Octavia slid in behind the couple, dodging another flying object casually as she made herself a cup of coffee and grabbed a box of cereal. Like this argument - along with the others - had become nothing more than her normal. She nodded along to music, the baseline fairly audible from her phone. 

Now that he was paying attention, the older Stolas noticed how much she looked like him. The bags under her eyes, the dead expression, the thin gangly frame. Her trained posture disappeared into her exhaustion. Her beak curving downwards of its own accord. 

"Good morning, Octavia!" Exclaimed the younger Stolas as Stella's screeching and the sound of broken objects continued in the background. "Did you sleep well?"

"Is that a serious question?" The teenager groaned.

The older Stolas stood and watched as his younger self spoke - as he ignored everything going on around them and her own wants in a desperate bid to create a fantasy. Octavia had just wanted to be with him, and to do something she actually wanted. And to be talked to like an adult. She wanted a father, and got a caricature. What wouldn't Stolas give now for her to want to spend time with him again? 

The younger Goetia picked up the phone. "Why hello, my big-dicked Blitzy."

The older Goetia blushed, hiding his face in his hands. 

Octavia spat out her cereal. 

"What the FUCK, dad?!" 

"Language, everyone," scolded Stolas, before returning right back to flirting. 

This time, the older Stolas watched Octavia. The way she shrank into herself, and poked at her cereal. The way he now saw that her father had once again made things about himself, even when it was meant to be about her. And then Octavia’s cereal froze along its journey to the floor, and Stolas turned to look at the therapist.

Dr Smith seemed deep in thought. First, there were Stolas’ interactions with who they assumed to be teenage Octavia. It was somewhat understandable that he was acting like a lovesick teenager, but doing so in front of his actual teenage daughter was... inappropriate. 

But for now, it was important to stay on track. “What is your level, Stolas?” They asked softly. 

Stolas reflected. “Five.”

"I... assume you will be taking Octavia to Loo Loo Land a second time, then? Accompanied by I.M.P.?" they asked. Stolas nodded. “We don’t have to keep going, if you’re not ready.” 

Stolas paused and gave it a proper moment's thought. 

"No," he said softly. "I'm alright. I guess I just..." 

He looked at Octavia. "I never noticed how much of a pattern it was. I thought I had made... a couple of mistakes, here and there... but even here, when I wanted to plan a day all about her, I took her to a place she hated and spent more time flirting with Blitzø than doing things with my daughter." 

He walked up to her. Watched as she plugged in her music to tune out her mother's screams, how she folded herself into her arms in frustration as his past self ran up the stairs to get dressed, and the sound of the fairgrounds began to fill the air around him once again. 

"I thought I was so much better than my father," he said softly - very softly. "But I did the same thing, in a different way, didn't I?"

"You may have made some similar mistakes," they said evenly. "But I think the main difference is that you always cared about Octavia. Even when you didn't give her what she needed, it was never from lack of trying. You just... didn't have the skills you needed. And you are working to gain those skills even now. Being willing to do this counts for so much, Stolas. Please don't discount that."

"Does having the skills matter?" 

Stolas’ eyes watered, just a little, as he watched his younger self walk through the park with Blitzø and Octavia - leaning down, arching his back, and putting on a show for the imp all while ignoring his daughter who seemed to be trying her hardest to disappear. 

"Does it matter, if she won't talk to me?"

"I think it matters," they said softly. "These skills are important for any relationship. Even if she doesn't talk to you again, which isn't guaranteed, they show that you are able and willing to improve. That always matters."

They sighed slightly. "But I don't want to undermine the pain of only gaining these skills when you are, at least for now, unable to apply them. I sincerely hope your daughter will be able to see how hard you have worked to be the sort of father she deserved, despite never really having that yourself.”

“But even if she doesn't, I still think the work you are doing here matters. Because it's all right to want to improve for your own sake too, Stolas. I know that your daughter's happiness and your own have seemed, for so long, mutually exclusive. But you are not failing her merely by seeking happiness, Stolas. I hope that someday, I can help you believe that." 

"I don't know," he said, quietly. 

He watched as his younger self walked to the circus with excitement, with Via following along, looking like she'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"She's why I'm doing this," said Stolas. "Any of this. I don't know if you... understand. It's not only that seeking happiness without her feels wrong. It's that I cannot. I cannot be happy, knowing that my daughter hates me. It's the first thing I think of every morning. And the last when I fall asleep. And if I never see her again..." 

They were in the circus again. Octavia was hiding her face as Stolas clapped for the show in delight.

It smelled of popcorn and shame. 

He walked up the steps up to where his younger self was sitting, and sat down beside him, the two owls distinguishable only by clothing and the depth of the pain in their eyes. 

"My father did take me here," he said softly. "When I was seven. Just like I had begged him to for years. But it wasn't to get close to me. I'm not really sure why he did it at all. He didn't even come himself, asking an imp instead to accompany me. I spent nearly the entire show crying, because I had just found out I was to marry Stella. And then..." 

His eyes drifted to the stage. "I met Blitzø here," he said softly. "It was the happiest day of my childhood. And I guess that's why... " 

The tent began to glitch. 

Via flipped into her younger self, crying, then back again to the sullen teenager.

The younger Stolas was clapping, louder and louder.

And then instead of little Octavia, it was a young Stolas, crying into his grimoire, and in Stolas' place sat an imp, holding up a mirror with an image of his father. Clapping.... Clapping..

Teenage Octavia got up, and stormed off, and her father followed -

"Stop," Suddenly gasped Stolas, his hands grabbing, white-knuckled, onto the edges of the bench. Tears ran down his cheek and he buried his face in his arms, shaking. "I want to stop -" 

Immediately, Dr. Smith held up their hand, and everything but the two of them froze. "Would you like to go back to the office now, Stolas?" they asked gently.

Stolas shook his head even as his body trembled. He wasn't completely sure what he'd been asked. But right now, he just needed the cold bench beneath him, and the smell of popcorn, and the smell of Blitzø's perfume that lingered on his arms. "I - I just - " he sucked in a breath. "I need - a minute -"

"Of course," they said, their voice low and soothing. "As long as you need."

Memories flashed around them in quick succession, but smoky and half-formed, as Stolas kept his face cradled in his arms.

Stolas and Blitzø as children, running through the aisles. 

Blitzø jumped up into the air and turned into a bundle of pink blankets, as Stolas' spine lengthened rapidly. Soon a teenager - a young, exhausted-looking Goetia with smoky eyeliner and a hint of acne hidden with concealer - cradled a crying child, trying to calm her to sleep. She opened her eyes, and they were bright, and pink. Soon only the eyes remained, the rest of her gone, and then those eyes extended out into their other bearer. 

Stella, in a wedding dress. Stolas, in a suit. Mumbling words they barely understood. And then a slap, echoing through the room like a gunshot. 

Now it was Blitz holding a gun, pointing it at Stolas' head -

And then the image stilled as Stolas took in a deep breath. 

He counted in his head.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Blitzø put down the gun, and put his hands on Stolas' shoulders instead. 

"That's it," said the imp's voice, quiet and gentle. 

"Just breathe, just like we practiced." 

And Stolas did. Once more, and then again. 

"You're doing so well," the imaginal Blitzø told him. 

"Now grounding, remember? You're in a memory, so that's gonna be a bit fucking weird. Gonna be hard for you to pick something to focus on, so I'm gonna give you one. Pegasus - that's my favorite constellation. Probably." Blitzø laughed. "Ya know, cause horses and shit." 

Stolas laughed, weakly, through his breathing. 

"Tell me about that one, pretty bird." 

"Pegasus," murmured Stolas out loud. "Forty-six degrees across. Stars Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Epsilon, bordered by Andromeda, Lacerta, Equestuus, Cygnus..." 

"You will be okay," said Blitzø and Stolas' voices together.

The tent melted away. All that was left were bookshelves, and a soft plush carpet. 

Stolas blinked his eyes open. He could feel his heart beat, slowly and steadily. His eyes were still a bit teary, but he smiled a little as he looked up at the doctor.

"That was so well done, Stolas," they said, their voice like warm honey. "I'm so proud of you."

"You are?" He heard them the first time. Maybe he just wanted to hear someone being proud of him again. Would that be so bad, if he did? 

"Of course," they said, walking up to him. "This is hard work, Stolas, and you were able to bring us back here. To have your version of Blitzø guide you home. That's huge, Stolas. You've come so far already. I am so proud of you, and I hope you are proud of yourself too."

Stolas seemed to fight something deep inside for a moment. And then he smiled - weakly and almost guiltily, like it wasn't allowed. "I am," he murmured. "A little."

"Good, that's so good to hear," they said, sounding genuinely pleased. "Is there anything else you would like to do before we return to the office?"

He took another slow breath. The outlines of the library became a little clearer. "After Octavia walked out of the circus, we talked," he said softly. "I don't.... I don't think I'm..... ready to see that yet. But after... I went shopping with her. And I think I'd like to see that - just a moment. If I can?"

They nodded, still smiling widely. "Of course," they said, and a thin, black volume with a stylized skull fell into their hand. "I believe that this is what you are looking for.”

"Stylish Occult was a store," he read out loud. "And yet so much more… it was, as the youths of the day had baptized it… real hot shit."

And then he smiled.

The shelves around them turned into racks of clothing. The windows were lined with taxidermied animals, and the whole place smelled like teen girl deodorant and incense.

"Dad!" Via laughed. 

"You look ridiculous!" 

"I do not," huffed a younger Stolas. He was standing in front of a mirror wearing all black, along with a dream-catcher choker with black feathers hanging down, tracing on thick eyeliner. "I think I look very handsome." 

"You look like a racoon," said Via, and she giggled.

“Racoons can be handsome.”

She reached for Stolas' hand - then one holding the eyeliner - and brought it down, popping him down in a stool as she plucked it out of his hand. "Close your eyes, I'll do it,' she said mischievously.

"This seems to me," Dr Smith murmured, a warmth glinting in their dark eyes, "like a father caring about his daughter, and both of them having a very nice time because of it. Don't you agree?"

"It's special to me because this didn't happen often," said Stolas softly. "But here... we had talked, before... and it felt like I was doing something right." 

He watched as Via traced the eyeliner on to both his lower and upper eyes, in a style that matched her own. Then she added some little black hearts at the corners of his eyes, and some grey shadow. 

"There. Look." He opened his eyes carefully as to not smudge it, and then Stolas smiled, seeing himself in the mirror. 

"You should dress like that to mum's next party," she grinned. 

"I don't think she'd like that, Octavia," the younger Stolas said, but he seemed more amused. 

Via snorted. "So?" 

"Mm." She let out a pensive little hoot. 

"Your outfit needs a little work, though. " 

Her hands searched through the racks, pulling out shirt after shirt, holding them up to Stolas and putting them away, unsatisfied. Then Stolas plunged his own hand in the rack, and pulled out a lacy black skirt. 

Octavia laughed. "Dad. I am not wearing that."

"I know," said Stolas. He looked a little nervous for a moment, but then leaned against the wall in a pose that one usually only saw in teen magazines. "It takes a certain maturity to pull off a piece like that." 

"DAD!" Via said. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but she also couldn't stop laughing. 

"Okay, then go put it on, then!" 

"I will," said Stolas, already closing the door to his dressing room. "And I'm going to look fucking good." 

"I'm taking pictures!" 

"I think you were too," they said, grinning as Stolas appeared in his new outfit, which did look quite fetching on him. Even in the memory, Dr. Smith could feel the impression of Octavia's considerable embarrassment being outweighed by a pure, uninhibited joy. 

"She's grown so much since that first visit, and so have you. You always cared about her, Stolas. But here, you are showing her that in a way she understands. And it's so wonderful to feel the joy you felt together here. The love you shared. Even in a memory."

For a moment he just sat down on a nearby ottoman and watched himself model as Via photographed. 

"You asked me in one of our sessions what I wanted," he said softly. "Where I saw myself. And this... this is what I want. I want me, and Via.... and Blitz.... and Loona. And I want to go somewhere, all together. And instead of being lost in my head somewhere.... I want it to feel like this." 

He smiled faintly. "I want to feel like this." 

“That sounds like a wonderful goal.” 

"Did you wear things like that?" Via asked, holding back tears of laughter. "Before you had to wear the princey shit?" 

"Language," Stolas admonished, then smiled. "I did have a phase where I favored dark fabrics." 

"No," said Via, rolling her eyes. "I mean, did you ever shop here. Or at stores like this, I guess, I don't know what they had that long ago..."

"Hey," pouted Stolas. It was answered with a giggle. 

"No, I... actually," he said, looking at the mirror, "I didn't really shop for clothes."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they were made for me," he explained softly. He traced his hand down his skirt ruffles. "Goetian standards."

"... that's lame," said Octavia after a moment. "You never wanted anything else?"

"I did," he said simply.

Then he turned, and looked at his daughter. His mouth curved into a slightly sad smile.

"I suppose... it wasn't much of a choice. But I'm glad you get to wear what you like now." He smiled then, and draped a pink scarf over his head ridiculously, adding high heeled boots with a snap of his fingers.

"And so do I." 

"It's time to go back to the office now, Stolas. Are you ready?"

Stolas nodded softly.

He closed his eyes, as colors and shapes melted away around them. When he opened them again, blinking cautiously, they were back at the office - back in reality. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "That was... different," he admitted.

The doctor smiled widely at him. "You did incredibly, Stolas. I couldn't have hoped for a better first mindspace procedure." 

They shifted, leaning toward him a little. "How are you feeling? Time in the mindspace can have some unusual side effects, including mentally, physically, and emotionally."

"My head's a little sore," he admitted. "Tired." He sighed, rubbing his temples a bit. "And it feels... can one be emotionally exhausted? Like if something goes wrong today, I might cry," he said sheepishly.

"That is all completely normal," they assured him. "It sounds like your symptoms are relatively mild, but I'd still like you to rest for the rest of the day, and tomorrow if you can. Mindspace exploration can be very emotionally strenuous, so we will only be able to do it every two weeks maximum. But I think that will allow us a session to debrief after each mindspace session, which I think will be useful." 

They clasped their hands in their lap. "Is someone coming to pick you up? Or do you need to contact them to tell them to do so?"

"Usually Loona does anyway," he said. Then he blushed a little. "But Blitzø said he would. Something about having been there." He sighed. "He.... he's been so incredibly supportive, though all of my - mess. I don't know how to thank him." 

"I'm sure that knowing that he is helping you recover is thanks enough. Although literal thanks are also appreciated, I'm sure," they said, grinning.

And just then, Stolas’ phone buzzed in his pocket. 

As Stolas carefully inserted himself into the passenger seat of Blitzø's van, Blitzø went from drumming absently on the steering wheel to beaming. "Hey feathers!" he said, taking his hand and giving it a little squeeze. "How did it go? How are you feeling?"

Stolas looked at Blitzø then. Almost like he was seeing him - really seeing him - for the first time. Those yellow eyes full of tender care. That sharp face, so soft when it came to him. The worried little flicks of his tail. 

Maybe it was the procedure. He knew his emotions were heightened. But suddenly his eyes teared up, just a little, and he reached over the cupholder, hugging Blitzø as tight as he could.

"I'm okay," he said, softly. "It.... it was hard. But I'm okay."

He sniffled. "Blitzø.... I'm so sorry." 

Blitzø accepted the hug, squeezing him back. When they separated, he looked like he was trying hard not to panic at Stolas’s tears. Mostly succeeding, it must be said - to his own credit, and to the credit of the exhaust of the Pride Ring highways that had already nearly emptied his reserves. 

"Oh! Uh, you're crying. I mean, that's fine, or like, not fine, obviously, but y'know, I cried when I did it too so like... wait." He stopped speaking suddenly, blinking in confusion. "Sorry for what?"

Stolas just hugged him again and held onto him a little harder, burying his face in the back of Blitzø's shirt. It smelled like sweat, and blood, and eucalyptus, and it made Stolas feel like he was home.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, "For what I've put you through. Not taking my meds. Drinking myself into a stupor. Ignoring you when you were trying to help. Taking for granted everything you did. You... you had to drive me here against my will when you ran out of options." He sniffled and squeezed the imp. "You must have been so scared... oh, Blitzy... I'm sorry." 

Blitzø's grip on him tightened slowly as he listened, and fuck, was he really tearing up too, Highway 666 be blessed? Was he really going to be the one getting emotional when this was supposed to be about Stolas getting help? 

But... he couldn't help it. 

It had been hard, it had been really fucking hard to watch Stolas get so bad, to feel so useless, to fear that Stolas might never get better, to fear losing him again. But everything he had endured had been worth it, because it had been so Stolas might get a little better. And it seemed like, just maybe, he was. 

"It's... it's okay, Stols," he said quietly, petting his feathers for a moment before pulling back and smiling at him. "Just glad to have you here with me, y'know?"

"Today," Stolas said softly, "I watched myself spend time with my daughter. And there were so many days... so many days.... when she was there, and I was not. In body, I was beside her, but in heart and mind, I was gone." 

He squeezed Blitzø's hands. "I want her back," he said softly. "And I need to get better for any hope of that. But... but I also have you. And I ... I want to be here with you." 

"I wanted to thank you for not giving up on me," he said softly. "Even when I had. That's all.”

Blitzø listened in silence, and in a fairly rare occurrence, he had no fucking idea what to say.

"I'll never give up on you, Stolas," he finally said, quietly. "It's you and me now, yeah? Me and you and Loona... and Octavia, I hope. I don't know if you're okay with me talking about her yet, sorry, but…”

Stolas nodded. "You can talk about her," he said softly. "It hurts.... but I think it always might. I think... I think it's good for me. And I don't want her to someday find a father who can't bear to say her name, Blitzø." He took a deep breath. "I owe my Octavia that much."

“Then… I want you to get her back too, Stols. And I'm so happy that you want to be here with me. Because turns out, I want the same exact fucking thing." 

Stolas seemed like he never wanted to let go. 

Blitzø smiled softly, kissing Stolas’ head. "Gotta get at least one of my hands back to drive us home, pretty bird." 

Stolas kissed Blitzø's left hand, placing it on the wheel while holding the other in his lap. 

"Do we have to go home?" He asked, and then blushed rather sheepishly. "This is a little silly... but I've got an awful craving for ice cream." 

He smiled.

"I think I've earned it," he said, playfully. "I've been your hardworking, pretty bird today. I'll even read my affirmations if we can get sprinkles.” 

And Blitzø said nothing, driving to his favorite ice cream place at breakneck speed.

Chapter Text

There were many milestones in therapy. 

Stolas had started this journey thinking there was one - feeling better. But he'd soon learned that milestone didn't exist, and that instead it consisted of many smaller goals that never really ended. 

Get back on your medication. 

Be able to say Octavia's name without crying. 

Enjoy a book. 

Find something to live for.

(Some, of course, were harder than others.)

One, however, Stolas didn’t notice until he’d completed it: when the next week, he sat back down in the worn, wing-back chair. 

"How are you feeling?" asked Dr. Smith.

And Stolas said, “Better.” 

Better did not mean well. Better did not mean happy. But better did simply mean just that - better. 

And sometimes, that was enough. 

But as always - the work continued. 

“Did you have any side effects from your first exposure to the mindspace?" asked Dr. Smith, later that session. “Many patients report heightened emotions… or on occasion, nightmares.” 

Dream interpretation was an unexpectedly significant way to check for symptoms after a mindspace procedure. The type of nightmares that might easily be dismissed could provide important information about a patient's psychological framework.

At this, Stolas looked a bit uncomfortable. "... some," He admitted, his hands fidgeting.

"Anything you'd be comfortable discussing?" 

Dr. Smith always took care to make it clear that "no" was a perfectly valid answer. Knowing the details would probably be helpful in treating him, but not at the expense of making him feel pressured into revealing anything he did not wish to.

It was almost visible in Stolas’ eyes - how his mind made a list, and crossed out items he wasn't comfortable talking about, one by one. 

"Most were about Octavia," he said softly. "The same way I last saw her. At the footsteps of my old palace, screaming at me... asking me if I needed the medication because of her... telling me I lied to her... that she no longer wanted me in her life."

His hands trembled, and he took a steadying breath.. 

"There is also one... reliving a different memory. But in it..." He took another deep breath. "It's my Via... in the assassin's place. Hurting me. And laughing." 

"The others... the others were about Stella." And it was clear from his voice that that was as much as he could say. 

His hands instinctively moved to his wrists, but he stopped himself. He reached into his pocket instead, his fingers busying themselves with the beads of a small bracelet. Red, white and black, along with letters spelling YOU GOT DIS BIRDY. It wasn't hard to decipher where that had come from, and why new feather growth was visible on his forearms. 

"I don't really know why I'm having these dreams," he said softly. "It felt... it feels like I've made progress. I can talk about her now. It doesn't hurt as much to think about her. So why - " 

"It is not unusual," they said gently. "Going into the mindspace causes you to consciously examine things that have faded from your awareness, and re-examine them in that new light. And while the mechanics of dreams are still somewhat poorly understood, I have documented a direct correlation between things examined in the mindspace and the subjects of subsequent dreams."

 They crossed their legs and looked off to the side thoughtfully. 

"I also think you are making excellent progress, but unusual dreams are one of the side effects of this procedure. If anything, I think this is just your mind trying to process information that it has not had to consciously consider for some time. But thank you for sharing this with me. As I've said, the mindspace procedure is extremely delicate, especially involving repeated visits as we are intending to do. It is very important to me to check in with you frequently about how you are responding to it, so that we can ensure you are not pushing yourself too far." 

"Yes," said Stolas. "I understand." 

He smiled weakly. "Blitzø said once was overwhelming enough, and that he has no idea how I'm planning to do it repeatedly. But - it's like you said." He sighed. "We're on different journeys." 

Even if he wished his own journey could be over with faster.

Even if he wished, so tenderly and deeply, that he could screw up his courage, put himself through one agonizing but cathartic memory, have a good cry by himself and then just - be well. 

But it was like trying to get up after being asleep for a very, very long time. 

"I did the journaling, like you said," he said.  "I got to a six the first day," he said softly. "But four the second... and the dreams were better afterwards. I guess that's something?" 

It was helping. But fuck, was he already getting tired. 

"It definitely is something," they confirmed. "That’s quantifiable evidence that the exposure practices are, over time, decreasing your anxiety. This will be slow, and likely quite difficult, but as long as you are moving forward and not overextending yourself, this looks like good progress to me." 

They leaned forward a little. 

"I would like to use these 'in-between' sessions to both discuss any thoughts or feelings you had in the mindspace, as well as potentially determine the next memory you'd like to target. Let's start with the first point.”

“Was there anything you have been particularly focused on about last week's session that you would like to discuss here, in a safer and more neutral context? I find that these sorts of debriefings can be helpful in making sense of things that otherwise can seem... difficult to make sense of."

Stolas thought back to that day. 

"After it was over... I apologized to Blitzø," he said softly. "He has done so much for me the last few months, and I haven't made it easy. Seeing all that... seeing Octavia.... it made me see how often I wasn't present with her. I wanted to be more present, that day, with those I loved. There were times when I was.... and times when..." 

He took a deep breath. 

"I know we discussed.... black and white thinking. So I know I was, on occasion, a good father. But thinking back, there are far more times when she needed me, and I wasn't there." He hugged his torso. 

"I don't know how I'm supposed to just... live with that," he murmured. "Being a good dad was, for a long time, the only thing that mattered to me. The only purpose I really cared for." He smiled weakly. "Which is rather amusing, isn't it?" he asked, not to anyone in particular. "All things considered." 

"I understand that," the doctor said softly. "For so much of your adult life, being her father was the only element of your identity that you took pride in. You are seeing that you are more than just her father, but that is still an extremely important part of you.”

"You always did your best, but you had so few resources to be the type of father you wanted to be. What you are doing now is an exercise in dedication, both to her and to yourself. It is how you achieve that goal."

They folded their hands - this part would need to be done very carefully to prevent Stolas from spiraling. 

"Would you like to discuss some of the times you felt you... weren't there for her, in the way you wanted to be? Are you ready to begin discussing that?"

Stolas fidgeted with the bracelet in his hands. It was Dr. Smith who had recommended picking something to occupy them to prevent him from plucking his feathers. And he knew the habit was good to build even if he couldn't pluck them here if he wanted to. 

He took a deep breath. "Yes," he said softly. "I am. It'll probably just... hurt to talk about. But if I don't... I don't get anywhere without this, do I?"

They nodded gently. "We don't have to do this all at once," they reminded him. "I want you to be cognizant of your feelings, and your limits. This is going to be uncomfortable, but it shouldn't stray into being unbearable. This is your journey, and everything we do here should be what you need from this. That said, I think those feelings are important to explore, at your own pace." 

They shifted, looking for all of Hell like their only purpose was to listen. "Whenever you're ready."

He looked down at his hands. The bracelet was held in between them. He rubbed the beads with his palms, feeling the small bits of plastic spin and press into his talons. 

He thought about times he'd failed Octavia. 

He thought about the star show he had promised her, and how he'd ignored her so fully that she went to the human world alone. He thought about how many yelling matches Octavia had walked through. How many times he had been too occupied with his ex-wife to notice his daughter. How he threw his neck on the chopping block to save Blitzø, without thinking for a moment of how his Via would live without a father. And he opened his beak to tell them all of that, but it wasn't what came out. 

"I never wanted a child," he instead whispered softly, feeling hot, brittle shame rising in his chest. 

He'd never told anyone that.

"I can understand that," they said softly. "You were never given a choice. And being forced into parenthood is a terrible thing. It is not a reflection on the child, but it is still a very real and valid thing to feel."

"I -" he took a deep breath. "I was... seventeen, when I was married. Not by choice, as you may have guessed. The age Octavia is now, and in that memory you saw. Eighteen, when ... " 

His entire body tensed as that year played out in his mind in quick succession, and he felt his psyche slam the door. 

"Eighteen, when Stella lay the egg," He said simply. 

"And until she was born... and perhaps, even, a little bit... after..." 

He could not say the words. 

"I'd wanted things," he murmured. "I'd wanted to fall in love. Perhaps to pursue formal schooling of my own. Perhaps travel in an unofficial capacity and see the seven rings. But... but now I had Octavia." 

"I could have given her to the servants to take care of, and lived my life. I know that. It's what all the others did, including my own parents. My mother I knew far more with my father, but those memories, too, are far between." 

"But I wanted...." he hesitated. "I wanted her to have... something better." 

His hands squeezed the bracelet in his fingers. 

"If I didn't get to choose being a father, I could choose what kind of father I was." Then he laughed weakly. "And I did. Those choices led me here. And now... and now, she despises me. And it's different... to be bad at something you cared about. That you thought you prioritized. It means..." 

It means you're useless. 

"...it means more," he said softly.

Dr. Smith nodded again. "You've been combating your black and white thinking, Stolas. You’ve made good progress in that. And... you must admit that the Trial didn't allow much time for you to make a carefully considered decision. So while she may no longer be on speaking terms at the moment, what I'd like you to work on is seeing your performance as her father as more... nuanced. For you to be able to think of a time when you wish you had done something differently, but also be able to think of a time when you were the father she needed, like at Stylish Occult. And to be able to hold both of those thoughts in your mind."

"It makes me feel - guilty," Stolas said softly. "If I focus on the things I did wrong... if I'm miserable... then that makes it up to her. It makes me feel what she felt." 

"The pain feels right. And times when I did well feel wrong to remember."

They fixed him with a dark stare, mild but focused entirely on him. "There may have been times she wanted you to feel pain. She is still a child, and such rash thoughts are part of growing up. But I imagine what she really wants is a father who wants to be there with her, and for her. Is it really wrong to think about that, Stolas? About how you can be, and in some cases have been, the father she needed?"

"I understand the impulse to feel what she felt, but I'm not sure that hurting yourself makes it up to her." 

His talons picked at the beads of their own accord. He knew what he wished to pick at instead, and not trying to do so was taking decent restraint. 

"That's..." He took a deep breath. "That's how it worked for me, growing up, I suppose. I would do wrong, and then... even if I fixed my error... I had to be punished, first. I had to feel pain. And then - only then - would I be forgiven. It's how all Goetia grew up. In my time, at least." He looked down. "I never... I would never hit Octavia."

"So it hasn't been how she's grown up. That's already something you've given her as her father that you didn't have. That most Goetia didn't have. Octavia grew up not feeling like she had to suffer to make up for every mistake, and that was because you were her father." 

They paused, giving him a soft little smile. "You knew Octavia didn't deserve that. That no child deserves that. Is it possible, Stolas, that you don't deserve that either? That suffering is not how you need to make amends?"

He'd never really considered that. Never considered himself in Octavia's place - looked at his own childhood through the lens of fatherhood. 

He imagined handing Octavia nothing but a book of responsibilities at the age of eight, and leaving her to figure them out. Leaving her to figure out dangerous, ancient magic, some of which hurt her and frightened her, instead of teaching her how to use it. He pictured dressing her up, like a fancy doll. 

He pictured telling her to bend over her desk for the cane when she missed a few answers in lessons; he pictured pushing in her spine, and twisting her hands, and shaping her mind to his liking. 

And he pictured setting a veil on his little girl's head as she struggled not to cry - as she told him she didn't want to get married - and he suddenly felt ill. 

"... I think..." Stolas said very slowly. "... I think I don't know how to make my brain... believe that," he said softly. 

"I know.... my father did not love me. I know my mother cared but allowed what he did to me nonetheless. But..." He took a deep breath. "The little boy you met in the library... he doesn't understand," he murmured. "He wants to believe he was loved... that it was for the best. And that's what I find in my heart... and I don't know how to change how I feel." 

"I don't expect you to be able to change that right away. Perhaps not for quite a long time," Dr. Smith murmured. "It was what you needed to believe as a child. And I hope that someday, you can convince that boy in the library that he did deserve love, even if he was not shown it. That someday, you can show him the love he should have had all along. But that will take time. For now, I'd like to focus on something a little more... concrete." 

They paused, trying to formulate how to phrase the next part. 

"You knew that you were a good father at Stylish Occult," they said, their matter-of-fact tone leaving no room for argument. "That was why you wanted to see it. So I'd like you to do something that might be a little hard for you, Stolas. I'd like you to tell me how you were a good father to her then. I'd like you to tell me how you were able to support her, to make her happy. I know you know that you did."

That was hard. It gnawed at something inside him, something much deeper than reading sentences off a piece of paper had. 

He took a deep breath. 

You will be okay. 

He couldn't do it meeting Dr. Smith’s eyes. He felt they would be far too kind in a way that would feel painful, and so he focused his gaze instead on a patch of beige carpeting.

"I..." He grit his beak. "I... listened when she talked, so I could... learn what she was interested in." 

"Yes, that's perfect," they encouraged him softly. "And you did learn what she was interested in, and you engaged in it with her. That was so good, Stolas." 

"I... I'd never worn a skirt before," he said softly. "But I tried it because... I wanted to make her smile... and because..." He blushed faintly. "I did want to, and I had been curious... and I wanted to show her... that she should be confident in herself. I suppose. Because, you know, well - she's seventeen - she wears makeup - I thought maybe she's getting less confident about her looks, like I did at that age."

"You modeled wearing something that you wanted to wear, despite your insecurities," they said. They were grateful that Stolas was less allergic to therapy-speak than Blitzø was. "You modeled finding confidence in your own choices, so that she might find her own. That's two things, Stolas. You're doing so well. In fact, I think you could come up with a third. Nice round number, isn't it?" 

Stolas groaned. He knew what Dr. Smith was doing - they were pushing him, gently but firmly. And he knew it was good for him, but it didn't stop him wiggling restlessly a bit into his chair, almost by instinct. 

Sit still, Prince Stolas. Goetia do not wiggle about like plebeian worms.

But somewhere deep inside, something new piped up - just a little. Something that heard his tutor's old words, rolled its eyes, and stuck out its tongue. And Stolas felt his breathing even out - just a little. 

"I...I... I was honest with her, when she asked about my youth. I... I let myself... be earnest and connect with my daughter." His nails dug into the lining of the chair- just a little. 

"Yes," they said, quietly but emphatically. They were hoping he would come up with that one on his own. "Yes, you did. And that matters so much, Stolas. That you could be honest with her, about something that would have been easier to lie about. That you were able to build trust and connection with your daughter." They smiled brightly at him - he really was doing so well. "That was wonderful. I'm very proud that you were able to tell me not just one thing, but three. I felt how hard that was for you, and how you found the strength to do it regardless." 

They let that sink in for a moment. "So... how do you feel now, Stolas?" And then softer - “Out of ten?” 

Stolas couldn't lie when he'd just been praised for being honest.
"Maybe a five," he said softly. "It - it doesn't feel good, to say those things." He felt tears in his eyes, and blinked rapidly a few times. "It doesn't feel right." 

"I understand," they said. "That will be it, for today. But it is something I would like you to keep working on. It's like the affirmations - saying them doesn't make them feel true right away. But the practice does, in time, rewire things. It creates new pathways. It overwrites the lessons we learned long ago that no longer serve us. Do you understand?"

Stolas nodded, faintly. He stared for his hands, for a moment. 

"In the mindspace.... Blitzø said... it's not just memories," he murmured softly. "That things can be changed... rewritten. That it's possible to live a past that never happened.”

"I ... want to ask for something," he murmured. "But... I don't know if it's possible." 

He suspected it was. He also knew it wasn't good for him. 

Dr Smith knew this was often something that came up with patients who did the mindspace procedure. Whether it was worth doing was highly dependent on context, though. It could provide a closure that couldn't be found in reality, but it could also form a sort of insidious escapism. There were few things that were more dangerous than a patient abandoning reality over the false comfort the mindspace could provide. 

"What is it?"

"I... I want to see my father," he said softly. "And... and..." And, just once, hear Paimon tell him he loved him, and that he was sorry.

And he didn't need to say it out loud for them to understand.

They tried to say the next part as gently as possible. "He won't really be there, Stolas. Anything he says or does in the mindspace will either be a memory, or... an imagined scenario. And the latter isn't necessarily a bad thing, but..." 

And here was the painful crux of the matter, the thing that made them wish that killing a demon king was within their reach. 

"It can be dangerous to make things happen... that are too fundamentally different to the events that shaped us. Because nothing in there actually changes the world out here. And going too far into what should have happened merely makes the mindspace seem more appealing to live in than your reality. Do you understand?"

"Why is it so bad to want to imagine it?" he asked softly. 

"Without you... I cannot. My mind cannot picture him saying those words while I am awake. I cannot twist his voice into them, and I've tried."

He stared at the floor. "I know it won't be real," he whispered. "I just want to hear it. Please. I haven't asked for much - in my life - you know I haven't. "

Dr. Smith inhaled, sharply but silently, at the pain and desperation coming off Stolas in waves. They would have had no compunctions with twisting Paimon, hurting him, into saying or doing whatever would help Stolas the most. But the only version of Paimon that they currently had access to was in Stolas’s mind, and was thus, in a way, Stolas himself. 

And forcing a patient’s own mind to give them a comforting lie did not help them live with the truth. 

"I'm sorry," they said softly. "I can't make him into something that he wasn't."

Stolas felt his eyes flush, suddenly, with hot tears. He immediately felt embarrassed. What was he to cry at such a thing, a ground nestling? But he couldn't help it. He was thirty-five years old, and what he wanted more than anything at that moment was to hear his father tell him he loved him. 

"You said I deserve it," he said. "You said I should tell myself that. But somehow, if I need to twist my own words through my father's voice to believe them, somehow it's wrong. Somehow, it becomes a lie. And yet I'm meant to believe something my own parent could - perhaps would - not give me. And neither will you." He sniffled as he quickly tried to dab the tears away from his eyes. "Is that it?"

"That you deserve love is not a lie," they said, their voice gaining a quiet intensity. 

They had to be so careful with their words - a syllable in the wrong direction could ruin everything. 

"That you are loved is not a lie," they finally said. "The only thing your father not saying that to you means is that he was a failure. And he was, Stolas. I know it doesn't change what you wanted from him, what he should have been able to give you. His not doing so was his failure, but I'm so sorry he failed you like that.”

"But I cannot make him into the sort of person who could show you the love you deserved. Even if I did, it would not help you. It might feel good, but it would ultimately feed the poisonous lie that you are only worth love if he loved you. That you need to draw blood from that stone to survive. And you don't."

Oh. 

....Oh. 

Stolas just sat there, for a moment. Dumbfounded into silence. It felt like the dust had been kicked up onto the air, and now was slowly settling in a moment of total stillness. 

Those words ate their way through his brain, rearranging things as they went. With no care or principle as to what doors would soothe him, what doors would awaken him, and which doors would send a jolt of agony down through his core. 

Stolas struggled, for a moment, to put that in words. How do you describe in words how it feels to turn your brain inside-out like a pocket square? 

" ...is..." His voice was shaking, and he couldn't even attempt to hide it. " ...do you think Octavia thinks that, too?" 

"She might," they said quietly. "And even if you did not love her, she would still be worthy of love. But you do love her, Stolas. You are capable of telling her that you love her, and that you're sorry. You can give her that thing that you cannot receive. Maybe not now, but you can, and you will. And... I don't know for sure, but I imagine that she wants to hear it just as badly as you do." 

"She doesn't think I love her. She - she thinks I left her - to be with Blitzø - that I don't care about her," he gasped out. 

He felt tears stain his cheeks. "And she's so much like me... I tried to prevent that, but she's so much like me... and if she thinks like me, that she's not worthy of love if I don't love her, and she thinks that I don't, what is she... what is she..." 

And he buried his face in his arms. "I'm like him," he whispered. "I'm.... I'm terrified of how much I'm like him. And if he can love me... then maybe.... Octavia... do you understand?"

They blinked, looking down. Something like melancholy flickered briefly across their features. 

"Almost all of us wanted our parents to say they loved us. Some parents are just incapable, and that is never a reflection on the child. But I think you are capable, Stolas. I think you are capable of being a better father than you had, of giving your daughter what he could never give you. You are better than him, and Octavia will be better off for it. And you know now that I do not offer platitudes, not even comforting ones. I say this because I believe it. I believe in you."

Stolas heard the shuffle of a chair. “Stolas,” the doctor said softly. 

There was no response. 

“Can you tell me about the process of photosynthesis? In as much detail as you can. Pretend I have never even heard of it. All right?"

"I don't want to," Stolas murmured. His shoulders shook as he was crying, now. "I just... I just want my Via back."

"I know," they said, as gently as they could. 

"Please trust me, Stolas. Like you told Blitzø about Pegasus in the mindspace." They grinned a little, wondering a little if they could bait Stolas out of his despair. "You like carnivorous plants, right? Do they even photosynthesize?"

"Of course they photosynthesize," Stolas mumbled through tears. "They're still green, why else would they be green... It's just that other plants get minerals from the soil, like nitrogen, and carnivorous plants get it from their prey..."

"Could they starve, from not getting enough prey? Or would it simply be a form of mineral deficiency? How does mineral deficiency manifest in carnivorous plants?" 

"They can," he sniffled. "They evolved to survive in... nutrient-poor environments, like the Pride Ring.... it'll just grow slower and not - not flower..." 

He sat up, trembling as he wiped at his eyes. 

"I fed mine a steak twice a week." And then he took an unprompted breath, slowly counting it out in his head, even as tears kept falling.

"Thank you for trusting me with that," Dr. Smith finally said as Stolas’ breathing gradually eased. "You're getting so good at the grounding techniques, and you did your breathing all on your own. You're learning to self-regulate through even these intense emotions, and that is so important. You're learning the tools you need to navigate through the most difficult parts of this. You're making such wonderful progress, Stolas. Please don't forget that."

A few weeks ago, he may have protested. But instead he pulled out a handkerchief - embroidered with a delicate SG - and dabbed at his eyes. "I know I am," he said softly. "I just wish it didn't hurt so much. I'm sorry for breaking down like that."

"You never need to be sorry for breaking down in therapy," they said immediately. "You never need to be sorry for anything you think or feel or say here. That is what this place is for. I know that this work can be painful, but it will also always be safe. I will always see to that."

"I'm not used to that," he admitted. "To pain being safe. Feelings - for most of my life - were followed with -" 

A pause. 

"...with expressions of displeasure," he said softly.

He rubbed his right wrist, subconsciously, feeling an old pain flare up. "I was always made... to be sorry." 

"I... I understand why you can't show me my father the way I wish he were. I just... I wish you could. And I'm worried that my Octavia feels the same way about me as I do about him." He swallowed. "I... that feels horrible to imagine." 

"Though..." And it was as if Stolas was standing on the edge of something, deciding whether or not to jump. And then he did, with a deep breath. "Although perhaps my father failing me is why I care so much about being a good father to Via." 

"Perhaps... if he had loved me... I wouldn't have tried so hard. And so perhaps... my desire to see him that way... is a selfish one as well."

"Being selfish doesn't make it some inherently negative thing," they said. "It is perfectly natural to want your father to not have failed you. But I am truly so impressed by how much you are not like him, Stolas. How much better of a father you are. How Octavia will never have to ache so desperately to hear her father say that he loves her." 

They folded their hands in their lap. 

"Some people take the pain inflicted on them when they were young and inflict it on others, either out of some twisted sense of fairness or simply out of never learning how to be better. But others - like you - try their best to ensure that they do not inflict the suffering onto others that they experienced, so that those that they love will be better off than they were. Your father was the former, and you are the latter. You are working to break that cycle of abuse." 

"I wasn't abused," mumbled Stolas quickly.

"...All right. But you are not like him, Stolas. The work you are doing, the pain you are braving to confront these things, to really address them instead of accepting the lonely path laid out for you by your forebears- that makes you strong."

Stolas smiled weakly. He didn't fully believe Dr. Smith’s words, not yet. But they felt nice. He glanced at the clock. He knew they were almost out of time. "And now is the part where you give me some homework I hate, right?" he asked with a weak smile, still cleaning up tears with his handkerchief. 

"I suppose it is," they said, smiling good-naturedly at him. "Here is what I'd like you to do." 

They handed him a piece of paper. "These are the three ways you said that you were a good father to Octavia that day," they said. And sure enough, the list said in Dr. Smith's neat, businesslike print: 

1) I listened to Octavia so I could learn about what she was interested in. 

2) I wore something I wanted to wear with her despite my insecurities, modeling confidence in personal choices. 

3) I was honest with Octavia, allowing her to trust and connect with me. 

Stolas didn't even know when they had managed to write it down, but he figured that it wasn't worth worrying about that sort of thing anymore. 

"You generated these yourself," they said, "and I think they will be excellent practice. Once a day, say these aloud to the mirror, or to Blitzø, and record how much anxiety you feel on a scale of one to ten. My hope is that by the time you come back here next week, that five will have dropped. All right?"

The therapist looked up at him, the abyss of their gaze pulling him in ever so slightly, like the gentlest versions of black holes. 

"Thank you for all your hard work today, Stolas. And for trusting me to guide you through it. Next week, we will discuss what you want to explore in the mindspace next. I will see you then."

Stolas leaned his head against the warm leather seat with a sigh. "You didn't have to pick me up today, Blitzø," he said softly. "It wasn't a mindspace session. I'm okay." 

And yet he couldn't hide, in the gentle relaxation of his beak, how nice it felt to see the man he loved at the end of a hard session. How nice it felt to reach across and touch his hand.

"Tough shit, Birdie," Blitzø said cheerfully. He saw the bracelet in Stolas' hand and squeezed his hand, grinning. "Oh, did it help? Like, I know you can't do much in the office anyway but... thought it would help you have something else to do with your hands. The Doc's already told me off for ripping up the armrest fabric to shit."

"It did help, some," he said softly. "Thank you." 

He pulled back his sweater sleeve - just a little. He always wore long sleeves these days. His forearms were patchy, still, and in places horse-themed band aids covered unfortunately deep scratches. But there were new feathers poking through - purple and soft, row by row. 

He rubbed at them carefully. 

"Itches like heaven," he murmured, but pulled his sleeve down. "But I haven't - for six days now. It does help to have something else. And something that reminds me of you. Thank you, Blitzø."

"I'm so glad," Blitzø said. "Not about the itching, obviously, but about the fact that you've gone almost a week without plucking them. That's huge, Stols. And, y'know... I'm glad I can help with that. There's a lot of stuff I can't do shit about, but it's nice knowing I can do something." 

His expression shifted from rare contemplation to the more common grin tinged by mania. "And hey, tomorrow will be a week, right? That's a fucking milestone, bitch! Someone's getting a treat tomorrow if you can keep it up. What do you want, Stols? Rat skewers? Hella Novela marathon on the couch? I think there's a museum in Pentagram City that does half-price tickets tomorrow and is doing some kinda astronomy thing... whatever you want, Stolas." 

He smiled at him more softly, and it was impossible to miss how desperately in love with Stolas Blitzø was. "You've earned it."

Stolas smiled, a little embarrassed. "I ... I don't know if going a few days without tearing my own feathers out is something to celebrate, Blitzø." 

"There's - There's really no need to do anything special for me."

"Nope, I'm gonna do special shit for you because I like doing special shit for you, birdbrain," the imp said, rolling his eyes.

His eyes trained on where Stolas was fumbling with his sleeves. "That shit looks like it itches like a bitch. We can go to the drugstore." 

"Oh, you don't have to -" tried Stolas sheepishly.

"This isn't your treat!" Blitzø declared suddenly. "This is just me being like... attentive and shit. And if you don't have an idea by tomorrow, I'm deciding for you."

He put the car into drive and drove, in a less insane way than usual. Birdie probably didn't need more anxiety. 

"Well... if you insist, and we're going to the drugstore anyway, I do have... one idea," Stolas admitted with a soft blush. "But you might think it silly."

"Uh, what I think is that you tell me RIGHT FUCKING NOW, Stols," he said, sighing slightly as the yellow light turned red before he could speed through it. Having to care about traffic rules was so lame, but hey - precious cargo. And all that.

"Well, I thought... maybe... it would help me if the rewards were... tied in some way to the achievement,' he said softly. "Would remind me of it. And... " 

This was the hard part. A bit of his idea - just a little - might count as exposure therapy. But Dr. Smith would be proud of him, he supposed. 

"Octavia and I used to paint each other's talons sometimes," he said. "Or we'd get it done. Of course, that could be rather expensive, but... I thought... if we bought some nail polish, I could do my own, maybe Millie's if she wants, Loona... " He blushed. "Yours if... if you wanted, but I understand if it doesn't suit your look, darling. But I think... if my hands looked nice, and maybe... filed less sharply, too... it would help me remember, um, to keep them to myself. And... and it would feel nice."

Blitzø's grin nearly split his face. "Oh, fuck yeah, let's do it!" he said excitedly. 

"Fizz and I used to paint our nails black back in the day. Would be just like the old times." 

He looked away from the road to glance at Stolas, almost shy. 

"If you paint mine, can I paint yours? I'm probably not as good at it as you, but I think I'd do okay. I think like a dark purple would look good on you, or like... maybe a red to match your eyes? Oh! And Millie showed me this nail art shit where she put little skulls on hers once... maybe stars and moons? Maybe like... moon phases? Fuck yeah, this is gonna be awesome!" he declared, his speed ramping up a little as he got excited about reaching their destination. 

Stolas blushed as he watched his Blitzø get excited. "I would love it if you did mine, darling." He smiled shyly. "I... I was thinking something lighter? Perhaps with stars, yes, or... or flowers. I've been missing my garden lately and... and I think... it might help to wear it a little."

"I mean, it doesn't need to be anything complicated-" 

Thirty minutes and one quick text to Fizz (Hey ur sik robot hands got nales we can paynt? Doin a hole fuckin thing for Stols) later, Stolas was holding a bag full of twenty different colors of nail polish, brushes, and stickers.

And perhaps… Stolas could agree with Dr. Smith on one thing. 

Perhaps… he truly was loved.

At some point Blitzø had begun sharing the couch with Stolas. The owl wasn't sure when that happened. 

He got out, careful not to wake his imp, knowing he'd be up and bouncing around soon enough as it was. 

He wanted to do something. 

He didn't know what.

But every morning, Blitzø had made him breakfast, and now... he wanted to be useful, in a way that wasn't driven by fear.

He went to the bathroom. 

He took his meds. 

He pulled out his little slip of paper, read the lines out slowly and shakily, and then penciled in a little 5 in the corner.

He looked up in the mirror, and hated the reflection just a little bit less. 

Half an hour later, the fire alarm went off as Stolas dropped his pan with a clatter. Censored bird screeching came out from the kitchen - along with a decent amount of smoke.

The spray of a fire extinguisher coated the kitchen - and Stolas soon after - originating from the couch. 

"Mornin', Stols," Blitzø said sleepily, still holding the fire extinguisher.

“...Morning,” said Stolas faintly, his ears ringing from the alarm above his head. 

"I'm gonna open some windows, let the smoke out. Could you press the button on the smoke thing? I don't wanna go looking for the ladder."

"What - oh - yes yes yes -" Stolas reached up and pressed the button. When that did not shut the infernal device up, he smacked it with his palm. That didn't work either.

"Never mind - move your hand, Stols."

A gunshot rang out. Stolas whipped his head around to see Blitzø casually pointing his gun at the smoke detector, who just shrugged. "Figured that was faster," he said.

Well - the device was itself now smoking, but at least it was quiet. 

Stolas coughed through the remaining smoke, wiping foam off his feathers in thick slabs of white.  "I - you can go back to sleep. Blitzy. Don't worry - Chef Stolas will have everything ready in but a moment."

"What's on the menu, Chef?" said Blitzø with a nervous laugh. 

"IT'S A SURPRISE!" shouted Stolas, heading back into the kitchen while waving away smoke. "Don't you worry, darling!" 

He scrubbed the foam off the pan as best he could before plopping it back down onto the stove. 

One pancake. 

Good. 

Well, it wasn't really a pancake, but it was a circle. 

Two. That almost looked edible, and Stolas felt pride swell in his chest. 

Three. He turned up the heat just a little, adding a dash of oil - 

"Ah you FEATHERY MOTHER OF FUCK -" 

"You, uh... you all right there, Hooters?" Loona asked, emerging out of her room. Blitzø also peeked over the top of the couch in obvious concern.

"I'M FINE!" yelled Stolas in a strangled voice, his hand between his knees, tears instantly flooding both sets of his eyes. "Just - a lot of - onions in this recipe!" 

"A lot of onions in the pancakes, huh?" Loona said flatly, turning the heat off the stove and grabbing the pan out of his hands, throwing the whole thing in the sink before turning on the faucet and shoving Stolas’ hand - covered in hot, burning oil - under the cold stream.

"Unrelatedly - I'm gonna go get us donuts and iced coffee. You okay being on first aid kit duty, Dad?"

Blitzø beamed - she had been calling him "Dad" a lot more the last couple of weeks. "Sure thing! Thank you sweetie!" 

The lock clicked. Blitzø walked cautiously up to Stolas, his tail flicking nervously. 

"I still would have eaten the pancakes," he said, smiling sheepishly. "Next time, I'll show you how to make 'em, yeah?"

Stolas just looked at the mess he had made, and felt his heart sink. This wasn't what he'd wanted.

"I... I made a circular one for Loona, like the moon?" He said feebly. "And... I was trying to make you one shaped like a heart." 

He looked over at the plate with the smoldering, blackened remains of his attempts at breakfast, and sighed. "I really am hopeless, Blitzø... I'm sorry. I did not intend..." 

"Hey, hey, it's okay, Stols," Blitzø soothed, putting a hand on his forearm to guide him to the couch. "Honestly, it's less stressful than half the mornings here. You don't gotta worry about it." 

"Lemme see your hand, okay? I'll be careful."

Stolas sighed deeply and opened his squeezed hand, letting Blitzø take it. His talon was white in several places where the oil had landed, the leathery texture giving way to flaked white and pink skin - a few in his fingers and a long gash across his palm where he had grabbed the side of the pan in a panic. A few small blisters had already formed on the sensitive webbing between his fingers. 

"I wanted..." he took a breath. "I just wanted to do something nice for you, for once..."

"I know," Blitzø said, gently wrapping a cool, wet washcloth around his hand. "And I appreciate that, Feathers, I really do. I love how caring you are. But like... you don't owe me anything, Stols. Neither of us owe each other anything, not anymore." He looked thoughtful, like he was working through something in his own head as he took Stolas’s unburned hand just as gently. 

"I love you, Stolas. I'm doing nice stuff for you because I want to, because I like making you happy. So don't ever feel like you have to do something, okay? And if you do something and fuck up, that's okay too. Lucifer knows I've fucked up way more than my share. I just want you here with me, healthy and okay. Anything else you wanna do is great, but... that's all I ever really want."

He knew it was true. He knew Blitzø meant it. He knew it was one of the things he was working on in therapy. But it was still ... so alien to him. The idea of someone loving him - dealing with him - housing him - just because they wanted to. 

That isn't what this is anymore. 

"I..." Stolas said, weakly, "I don't know how I came to deserve you in my life, Blitzø."

"You... you are so very good. To your core, you are good. To everyone... and yet somehow to no one more than me." 

"Funny," Blitzø said, giving him a crooked grin. "I was thinking the same thing about you. Guess we're just a couple of lucky bastards, huh?"

And Stolas smiled, however weakly. "I guess we are," he murmured, very softly. Then he took a deep breath. "To use one of your more colorful expressions, Blitzy," he mumbled, "My hand hurts - like a bitch, I believe, was your term. Do burns always -"

Blitzø's eyes went wide. A few expressions flickered across his face - shock, anger, hurt, sadness. Then he took a breath - suspiciously similar to a 4-7-8 breath - and spoke in a dull, quiet voice.

 "Yeah, Stols. That much or... or a lot more. But..." He grinned half-heartedly, looking at Stolas’s hand and not in his eyes. "But I know how to take care of them now."

"I’m sorry," Stolas said, very softly. There was a hint of fear behind his words. "I'm really sorry. I spoke without - without thinking. Please forgive me." 

Stolas knew that there were times for discussions like that. And at eight AM, while Blitzø was tending to the very minor burns on his hand with his own hands bleached by fire, with the hands that had burnt his family - accident or not, after Stolas had disastrously attempted to make breakfast, was not that time. And he desperately wanted Blitzø to know that he knew that.

"I forgive you," Blitzø said quietly. He was glad to have the option to say that now, instead of "It's okay." 

Because it honestly wasn't okay, but he did forgive Stolas. Stolas had barely even done anything - he had just nudged an issue that happened to be one of the main ways that Blitzø was deeply, visibly, irreparably fucked up. 

It was never really on purpose, when Stolas hurt him. 

Stolas never wanted to hurt him. 

But Stolas could feel his chest tighten at those words. I forgive you meant something different. It was a forgiveness, yes - but an acknowledgement of hurt he'd inflicted.

 And the thought that he hurt Blitzø was so, so close in Stolas' head to I am a monster. 

Blitzø watched Stolas’s anxiety rise on his face and braced himself for Stolas’s further apologies, for his desperate request for assurances, for needing to find some way to keep down his own irritation at not being allowed to even get fucking upset, for fuck's sake. But they didn't come.

Stolas wanted to explain. He wanted to beg Blitzø to tell him it was all right. To tell him he wasn't upset. That he still loved Stolas. That he wasn't about to walk out. 

But that would be wrong, and Stolas knew that. 

This wasn't about him. And right now, he needed to win against his body, and he needed to do it alone. 

He tightened his other hand a moment, closing his eyes. 

You will be okay. 

Inhale. One, two, three, four. 

Hold. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. 

Exhale. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. 

His hand hurt. 

He'd gotten bitten by one of his plants as a child, once. Vorax immanis. Hinged jaw, seventeen teeth. A unique salivary gland to digest the victim's own stomach contents. Six leaves. Native to Wrath, Envy, and Sloth. He opened his eyes as the room came back into focus. 

Blitzø didn't know what he was thinking about, but he could tell it was calming him down. When Stolas finally opened his eyes, Blitzø's smile was soft and affectionate. 

It didn't take a genius to see that they were both still fucked up, but they were both getting better, and they were doing it together. And that was more than he ever thought he would get to have. 

That he and his pretty bird could both heal together. 

“The antiseptic,” Blitzø said simply then, getting it out from the kit. “Might sting a bit, sorry,” 

Stolas nodded. "It's alright if it does," he said softly. "You're taking care of me. Thank you, my love."

Stolas still flinched, his fingers curling in a little as Blitzø worked, and a small little whine escaping the avian as Blitzø worked it over the blisters between his fingers. But it was a small amount of pain, in the grand scheme of things. 

He was learning that he could handle that. His other hand found Blitzø's knee, settling on it softly. 

And then he smiled to himself, just a little. He'd made a choice. He'd decided how to react, and he made it happen. And with a covert glance at his wrists, Stolas confirmed not a feather had suffered the consequences. 

If Octavia could see me now. 

It came unbidden. And it stung. 

But he found it stung no more, at that moment, than the antiseptic. 

And he could handle that. 

"Doctor Smith taught me things to - get myself out of an anxiety spiral," he said softly. "And I needed to use it in the mindspace. And when I did... I pictured you, saying the words I needed to me." He looked up. "My mind needed safety, and imagined you, Blitzø. I... I wanted you to know that." 

He looked up at Stolas, clearly shocked. He had been associated with a lot of things - a disappointment, a disaster, a harbinger of death, a bad boyfriend, a shitty boss, a good lay, and a royal pain in the ass. But safety? He had never, ever heard himself associated with that. "Really?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"Yes," he said softly. "I... I was at Loo Loo Land with Octavia, and... it became a bit too much. And it's all in my mind, right? I control what happens. And in that moment, when I couldn't go on... when it hurt..." He took Blitzø's hands - scarred and tough - in his own, even the one that stung a little from contact. 

"You were there," he murmured. "You reminded me how to breathe. How to ground myself. You made me tell you facts about Pegasus, the horse constellation. You helped me to bring myself back to a place where I felt safe." He smiled weakly. "Called me your good birdie... held my hands... and told me it would be okay." "That's what my mind gave me in a moment of fear. Out of my whole life - without conscious choice - I felt the safest in your arms. " He blushed. "I'm sorry if that's too much. I just thought maybe you'd like that idea, is all. "

Blitzø felt tears coming to his eyes, but weirdly, he didn't feel the need to stop them, or to hide them. He just gripped Stolas’s unburned hand harder, smiling through his tears. 

"Yeah, Stolas," he said. "I really, really like that idea. I fucking love that idea. I..."

He swallowed, trying to find the words. "I think that's what I always wanted, but I never thought that... I'm a fucking assassin. Killing and fucking are the only things I've ever been any fucking good at. Everything else I try absolutely goes to shit, no matter how hard I try. I thought... I thought I lost you too, by fucking up like I always fucking do.” 

"So to think that I'm someone safe, that your fucking brain needed something safe and gave you me, and that I didn't launch you off a fucking cliff, that I actually made you feel safe... I..." He laughed with tears still his eyes, which felt fucking insane. 

"I hope I live up to that guy, I guess."

Stolas wrapped his arms around his imp, pulling him close, breathing in the comforting smell of his pyjamas. 

"Of course you do," he whispered. "Of course you do. That day, after I'd experienced that... do you remember? I told you how sorry I was, for making you worry so much you were going to..." 

Had he noticed, Stolas wondered? 

Noticed the way, in those first few weeks, he'd leaned on the railing?

Noticed the way his fingers grazed over his pill bottle, like that was his comfort - not the medicine, but the knowledge that he could always - always - make it end?

"Do you think I would've said that to just anyone?" he whispered. "Do you think I could've told anyone else how I feel, and cried in your arms, and then asked for ice cream like a child at a fair?" He pulled back. 

"There is nothing to live up to," he said firmly. "My brain pictured you the way that you are, and nothing more or less." He smiled faintly, and put his injured hand back in Blitzø's. 

"You are good at many things, Blitzø. Look at what you're doing right now. You're taking care of someone. Of me, because I am not a very good cook and I've been a silly bird this morning." Stolas smiled a little. "I would say you're very good at that, darling." Then he smirked. "Of course, you're not too bad at the killing and fucking, either. But you can start with my hand."

Blitzø laughed. "I guess I'm pretty good at that too, huh? But I guess it's good to know I got something to fall back on," he said, wrapping bandages around Stolas’s hand. "Guess I might not be able to paint all your nails today, though," he murmured. 

"Hey, why not," Stolas said, pouting. "My nails aren't burnt. And I made it to a week, look, not a single - ow -" He winced a little as Blitzø pulled a bandage tight. "Then at least my other hand," he said firmly. "And I want the cute bandaids to make up for it." 

Loona kicked open the door, putting the donuts and coffees down on the table. "How's our chef doing, Dad?"

Stolas turned as Loona returned, smiling sheepishly. "I'm all right - thank you, dear. I'm afraid I strayed a little close to becoming fried chicken this morning," he said, giggling with a little hoot. 

"But I have my Dr. Blitzy to take care of me." He leaned over and kissed the top of Blitzø's head softly. 

And he knew that he always would. 

Chapter Text

The elevator doors slid open with a light creak. Everything creaked in Hell. Stolas was greeted with a new poster on nicotine addiction, a small fly-like Sinner squished into the corner, and the smell of aluminium. 

It was back into the mindspace today. Stolas’ fingers rummaged in his pocket as he pressed the button – it took a few tries - making sure that he had not forgotten Blitzø’s gift from that morning. His arms and wrists were covered in soft, comfortable fabric, and his thighs hugged in stretchy trousers. He had learned that comfortable clothing – not necessarily fashion – was the key to making him feel at ease in these sessions. 

After all, he could dream up anything he may want to wear in a minute. 

He looked at his nails - a light blue, with yellow daffodils. 

The first flowers to bloom after the winter, poking their heads through the snow. 

The doors creaked open. “After you,” buzzed the Sinner, rolling their eyes as Stolas awkwardly bowed, and stepped out into the familiar hallway. It was on days like this that he tried to notice his surroundings more vividly, grounding himself in the squeak of the carpet, the soft code lock on the door, and even the hard, uncomfortable plastic of the chairs in the waiting room. 

His fingers laced and unlaced while he waited. It reminded Stolas of a different kind of wait. While he was in the hospital after his near-assassination, the doctors hadn’t managed to fix all the damage in one go – merely to stabilize him, at first. And so, there were several surgeries, ones he was informed of, usually, a few hours beforehand. And Stolas remembered lying in bed, waiting to be wheeled out to be put to sleep and cut open. 

He supposed it wasn’t that different. 

“Stolas,” came the soft voice. And the avian demon gave a tense smile and stood up. 

The chair felt familiar under his palms. It was once an itchy, stiff fabric, Stolas could tell – but now it was worn, and the weaving had frayed right where his fingertips fell. 

The door closed. 

"I feel nervous," Stolas said, before Dr. Smith could ask the question. Then he took a deep breath. "But I think I can handle it."

"Excellent," Dr. Smith said, not bothered by him skipping the question. "Your nails look lovely, by the way." They leaned forward, looking at them and smiling knowingly. "Are those daffodils?"

Stolas blushed delicately. He knew he wouldn't have to explain the meaning. 

"Blitzø painted them," he said softly. They were a little messy, yes, but the imp had really tried, and it meant more to Stolas than the finest artwork. 

"It's... something we started... to reward me for, well..." Stolas looked uneasy. Somehow talking to Blitzø was still sometimes easier than talking to someone who dealt with mental health for a living, despite the imp’s proclivity for side tangents and over-enthusiastic support. 

Or maybe he just trusted him, deeper than he’d ever trusted another.

"For.... for not plucking my feathers," he mumbled, his eyes on the floor. "It's been thirteen days now. So, we'll do it again if I get to tomorrow."

His imp made sure to write the number on the whiteboard in the bathroom, every morning. Usually alongside a new supportive horse doodle. Blitzø made sure Stolas was proud of each and every day like it meant something new. 

Stolas hated that he, on the other hand, never really trusted that he would be at fourteen tomorrow.

"That’s wonderful!" Dr Smith said brightly. "Congratulations. That's such a wonderful way to celebrate. And I think the symbolism is lovely as well."

Stolas blushed. Praise that felt undeserved to the former prince still felt good. 

"How did your homework go? Did the anxiety decrease at all over the week?"

"Missed a few days," he admitted. "But two times I did it with Blitzø. He, um -" 

Fuck YEAH you're a good fucking dad, feathers! You daddied the SHIT out of that!

"He was very supportive." He pulled out his notes, flipping through idly. It had become the sacred notebook that Blitzø and Loona knew never to touch. "I got to three."

"As you suspected, telling him was very effective," they noted. "A two point decrease over a week is very good, and I'm sure that Blitzø helped with that."

They folded their hands. "Did you have any thoughts about which memory you wanted to explore next?"

"I did," he admitted. "Though I'm not sure.. if it's the right path." 

He took a breath. "Last session, you said... I felt I only deserved to be loved if I was loved by my parents. Especially my father. I think you are right, and I thought about that. I was thinking... exploring that... could be helpful. Not in a way that changes him. In a way that... makes me okay with it." 

“It seems like it would provide a good segue with our discussion last week,” agreed the doctor. “Let’s give it a try. We can discuss the particulars in the library, and see what presents itself.”

They straightened up in their chair, preparing themselves for the procedure. "Did you want to use the same tether, or did you have something else in mind?"

Stolas blushed, pulling a longer beaded string out of his pocket. 

It alternated - red, white, and purple. UR MY GUD BIRDY was spelled out in beads in the center. A little owl charm hung from the end. Something made from Blitzø's hands, to keep him tethered to reality. 

To bring him back. To keep him safe. A path for him to follow home, bead by bead, out of the darkest depths and into his lover’s embrace.

He smiled faintly, scooched his chair closer so the string wouldn't need to stretch, and handed the other end to the doctor. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I'm ready."

Stolas was more ready, this time. There was always a bit of nervousness - a bit of fear - surrendering his mind to another, which he felt as a little twinge of pain at the back of his head, making his fingers pull on the cord ever so slightly. But this time it was easier, letting himself be carried away, letting the sensation settle in his body, letting his mind surround them. He let the therapist’s words wash over him, lulling him to sleep like a lullaby. 

The outlines of shelves came into being much faster – he was a quick learner. The moment he felt a thrum of magic in his fingers, he knew he was past the threshold. Dr. Smith imagined that soon, he would be able to let them in almost at will. But all in good time.

“How do you feel, Stolas?”

"Okay," said Stolas softly. "I feel okay."

"Good," said that slow, hypnotic voice that eased them both into the mindspace. "Now. When you feel safe and ready, show me your library, and we will begin."

A door appeared this time - a door he could simply reach out to and open. 

He was his adult self from the start, this time. It was less disconcerting. And yet as he cast his gaze to the shelves, he felt dizzy. He was grown, yes – but the library had grown along with him. As he raised his hand, he found the same books within reach, and the same ones on the shelves above him. 

The library knew what he was ready for. And this time, instead of feeling frustrated, he felt grateful. His hands ran over the titles, wondering which one would welcome him today. And as he did, a shape shimmered in the corner of the library, waiting for him.

"This is the library in my palace," he said softly to the Shape, and it seemed to nod. "But when I was a child, I wasn't allowed inside - I could only read the books in my bedroom. And even when I snuck in, it never felt like enough. My father had a much grander library, and that was the one I dreamed of." 

He smiled faintly. "But the books in my father's library felt heavy with duty, while these ones were my first friends. My mother taught me to love reading... she would read to me often, back when she lived here as well. Though that... was a long time ago."

As Stolas spoke to the Shape, it became the Librarian. They noted with some interest that it was not merely a costume change - they also thought of themself as the Librarian here. Mr. Mrs. Librarian, to be precise.

It happened sometimes, in the mindspace. Some people simply let them in largely unchanged, but sometimes they were a tour guide, or a bus driver, or an elevator operator. They became what the patient's mind needed them to be, and they had no problem with that - they prided themselves on being adaptable, after all. 

Stolas had a library, so they were the Librarian. It suited them well enough. They had once wanted to be a librarian, after all. 

However, they focused here not on their own ambitions, but at the task at hand. What kind of Librarian were they if they couldn't help Stolas find his next book? "Your father certainly put many restrictions on what books you had access to," they said, their voice even softer than normal – quiet, respectful of the books that surrounded them. “Are you interested in checking out something like that today?"

"Perhaps," Stolas said softly. His hands locked behind his back of his own accord. "Are there any you might recommend? I don't believe there is anything on hold."

The Librarian's eyes scanned the shelves, and a navy-blue volume jutted out slightly when they looked at it. They reached out and pulled it carefully from the shelf.

It was a hardcover book, small enough to fit in a child's hands but with enough weight and self-seriousness to impress an early version of maturity onto a young reader. A Gentleman's Guide to Etiquette and Decorum was embossed on the cover in gold lettering.

They considered the volume, then handed it to Stolas. "A bit dry, but I believe you'll find something useful in this."

Stolas held the book in his hands, and the moment he did, its dimensions changed. Where the edge was, a moment ago, small enough that the Librarian's palm spanned its width, it now exceeded Stolas' long fingers; and where before it was only an averagely heavy book, it now felt heavy enough that he needed both hands to support it. 

It feels the same size as when I read it, he realized. He wondered if they all would. 

He opened it carefully. He knew the front page well. 

To my son, was written in elaborate cursive. Such that he may make me proud.

And underneath, in clumsy, left-handed crayon: Property of Prins Stolas Goetia. 

His eyes scanned the table of contents, and he sighed. "I never really enjoyed this book. "

"I would imagine not," the Librarian said. "Such books are not really for the enjoyment of the children that read them. They are tools to shape children into the form preferred by their parents, or by society, perhaps." 

They frowned slightly at the volume in Stolas’ hand. "An unempathetic and prescriptivist method of guiding children, in my opinion. But I know that is an opinion not all parents share."

Stolas still knew, on some level, that this was not a library. Nor was the book chosen for his enjoyment. And yet all he wanted to do was to put it down, and search for another volume about castles and magic and dragons to steal him away in the dead of night.

The previous time, the book was but a receptacle for a memory. But this time - Stolas could feel - it was a conduit. It was the book itself - its history and its pages - that would lead him. He touched his hand to the cover, and the book began to glow as the magic flowed from his fingertips. Blue, at first, and then a shimmering green. 

Stolas wondered where his first etiquette guide would decide he needed to go. 

Well… he supposed he shouldn’t have been too surprised. The first chapter was about listening to one’s parents, after all. 

He stood in the same library. Holding the same book. Except it was new - brand new - and tied with a velvet ribbon. 

He turned, and his breath caught in his throat as he saw what his mind had conjured. A woman, wearing an elaborate gown, her eight red eyes shining in the light streaming in from the balcony, eight pairs of velvety white wings spread out behind her. She held a large, gilded book in her impeccably manicured hands, and a small, fluffy owlet on her lap. 

"Now what letter is that, Stolas?" she said softly. The chick in her arms looked at the page quizzically with a little hoot. "A," he answered, looking up at her for confirmation. 

The Queen smiled, petting his feathers. "Very good." 

Stolas could not draw his eyes away. He put the book down on a nearby desk, and touched her hand. 

"She can't see you here,” the Librarian said. “You are not her Stolas here." 

A few pages turned. "What about this one?" asked the Queen.

"G," said the young Stolas, quicker this time. "G for Goetia." 

"That's right. And that's us, right? The Goetia family. And someday, you will grow up and be an important part of the family, too." 

"Like you?" 

The female owl’s smile turned a little sad.

 "... no, Stolas. I am not important. My job was only to have you. But your father is a great King of Demons. When you're old enough, on your birthday, he will tell you what your job will be in the family. Won't that be exciting?" 

Stolas nodded, four wide eyes staring up at her. 

"... it sounds hard," he mumbled. 

"That's alright,” she said gently. "If you study hard, and listen to your father and your teachers, you will be ready even to be a mighty Prince of Hell. You've just got to be a good little owlet for me until then."

Pages flipped. "And this one?" she asked.

"S," the owlet said proudly, eager to demonstrate his knowledge. "S for Stolas." 

"See? You're learning plenty already. "

"It's my birthday tomorrow," said the little owlet. His mother nodded. "Will Father come this time?" 

"Now, Stolas," she said, a little more firmly. "You have already asked that. It is impolite to continually ask the same question." She leaned down and placed a kiss on his feathered head. "He has many duties. He only visits on important birthdays. Do you remember how old you will be?" 

Stolas held up four fingers. 

"Yes. See, one, two, three, four. Now six is an important number. Perhaps he will visit then." 

The owlet face sunk. 

"But," his mother said a little more brightly, "he sent you a gift, Stolas. It has already arrived. Would you like to see?" 

"Is it a plant?" he asked excitedly. 

She laughed. "No, darling. It's a book. Your very first own book, to keep. You can write your name inside if you like. Isn't that exciting? The very first book in your own little library, to read whenever you like."

The owl stood, taking care not to snag her gown, as the fluffy owlet ran after her with excited chirps. She picked up the book the older Stolas had just been holding and gave it to the child. 

"I suppose that it is, in a sense, a children's book," the Librarian said, the flat derision in their voice surprising them a little. It seemed that their opinions on books, while not necessarily different, were stronger in this form. Appropriate for a Librarian, they supposed. "But I can hardly think of a worse one to give to a four-year-old on his birthday."

"Well," said the adult Stolas. "I... I did use it to learn how to read. And I think I just.. loved receiving any kind of gift from him at all. I would've accepted anything in the world if I thought it came from him." 

The boy looked at the cover, screwing up his face in concentration. 

"A.... G.... E.... N...." 

"It's called, A Gentleman's Guide to Etiquette and Decorum," his mother said. 

"What does that mean?" 

"Well, a gentleman is a well-mannered adult Goetia, like your father. ‘Etiquette’ is a set of rules you will need to learn to be just like him when you grow up. And ‘Decorum’ means general behavior keeping with good taste and propriety." 

"Good... taste," parsed the owlet slowly. Then very hesitantly, he stuck out his tongue and licked the corner of the book.

 The Librarian chuckled slightly.

"No - no, Stolas," she said sternly, and he pulled back.

Then the Librarian frowned. They could feel his distress at realizing he had made a mistake. Emotions, of course, were not as reliable in a memory. They really were simply Stolas’ own, but distorted, and mangled by time – a shadow of a feeling, reflected through a hallway of mirrors. 

But they knew with absolute certainty that he was too young to feel that much distress at making a mistake.

 "’Taste’ in this context means - to be well-mannered, and well-dressed,” the Queen continued. “To appear to others as beautiful, elegant, and having a developed aesthetic palate." 

Stolas nodded. He understood - some of those words. "Yes, Mother."

He looked back at the book.

The little fingers undid the bow and opened it. 

"Is that father's handwriting?" the owlet said excitedly. "Did he write a message for me?" 

She smiled weakly, petting his head. "Yes, my Starfire," she lied. "Just... just for you."

And the child hooted with joy, hugging the book close to his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world.

The Librarian felt his joy as he hugged the book in the same way that they had felt his earlier panic: vague through the lens of memory, but unmistakable. "I suppose, for a brief moment, you enjoyed this book," they said to the older Stolas. "But not for its contents."

The owlet sat down at once, opening the book in front of him. And then he tried, one letter at a time, to parse out what Paimon had written, as his mother went to shelve the book she had been reading. 

"That was the first sentence I read in its entirety," Stolas said softly. "I ignored the material. I simply sat there until I read, all by myself, what my father had written to me. I remember that, because he wrote in cursive, it took a long time."

They nodded, their dark eyes still focused on the excited owlet. "You were very motivated to read it," they said simply. They could already feel the first sprout of that motivation form in the child.

"Yes," he said simply. "I was." 

***

The scene shifted around them as the book glowed in the owlet's hands. The shelves were gone, replaced by a grand corridor, and a beautifully upholstered bench. 

Stolas was older now, a little. Six or seven and holding the book on his lap as he read, looking bored as he flipped through the pages, his hand propping up his cheek and glancing occasionally at an ornate, double-paned door. 

Listening, as shouting came from behind it. 

"I gave you one son!" shouted a female voice. "That boy's egg has already damaged my body beyond recognition, and now you ask for another!" 

"The bloodline must be kept strong," said a male voice. It was clear this was a man used to getting what he wanted. "He is not enough." 

"He is. He is enough. His magic is strong." There was a pause. "Your Highness, please. My body cannot take -" 

Something loudly shattered. 

Stolas turned the page with a sigh. 

"Let me show you. Let me show you what he's learned. We do not need another for this line. I will see to it that he does not disappoint you. I promise -" 

A silence hung in the air. 

"Very well, then." And at once, the door opened. 

His mother stood there in another expensive, elaborate gown. But this time, one of her eight eyes was a little bit puffy, and her hair was in disarray. 

"Stolas," she said, firmly. The boy at once snapped the book shut and put his legs down, sitting up properly with his back straight. "Come here. Your - your father wants to see what you've learned in your magic lessons."

The older version followed. He didn't have to, of course - the scene would shift around him. But it felt proper to go through the door, and to hold it open for the Librarian, and right now Stolas was suddenly feeling a desire to be proper. 

His own emotions were palpable in the air, like the taste of ash and coal. 

Paimon stood at the end of the room. Upon seeing him, a wave of anxiety came over both versions of Stolas - though in the younger, it was overpowering. The boy put the book down on the ledge and then carefully walked to the center of the room, stepping around the broken pieces of a chandelier without acknowledging it. "H-hello, Father. What would you like to -" 

"Stolas," hissed the female owl. He glanced over at once, and she mimicked raising her head. At once, Stolas corrected his posture and bowed deeply with a flourish of his cape. 

"Hello, Father. I am honored to show you my magic. What would you like to see me do?" 

Paimon looked bored. "Bring that book over to you without moving from that spot, son." 

Stolas gave another curt bow. "Of course, Father." The boy concentrated, and a wisp of purple magic carried the book through the air, to land delicately in his hand. 

Paimon looked unimpressed. 

"Demonstrate your demonic form.”

"Yes," said Stolas hesitantly.  "Um - should - should I put the book back, or -" 

"Did I tell you to put it back?" 

"No, Father." And so instead, he moved to carefully place it on the floor.

"Is that where you think my gifts belong?" the King snapped. "On the floor under your talons?" 

The owl quickly picked it back up. "No - no of course not -" 

"What insolence," Paimon sighed in irritation. "Is this one always this talkative? He's giving me a migraine."

The Librarian's gaze shifted back to the young Stolas, locked onto the overwhelming anxiety pouring out of him. "A rigged game," they said, under their breath. "There was no way to win."

"Well - no," the older Stolas found himself piping up, unexpectedly. He was wringing his hands, mirroring his younger self.

"I - I suppose he just wanted me to hold it. He must have been very busy, and I'm sure all those appointments get rather tiresome. I understand why he'd be irritated at having to deal with a child - I was known to be rather annoying." And then he gave a small, dry laugh. "You have to admit, it's a little amusing."

They stared at him vacantly. "I don't find it amusing," they said, their voice flat but not unkind. "You were terrified. He terrified you because he made you think you did something wrong. And you didn't do anything wrong."

"I -" 

Stolas struggled to fit some kind of truth to the mold into which it needed to fit, nerves suddenly bubbling in his stomach. 

"Well - I did," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have asked - he would have told me to put it away if he had wanted me to. That's obvious. And I was not terrified." He forced a smile. "He's my father. He... he held me to a high standard, yes, but it was because he - he just wanted me to improve. I'd often got told off for speaking too much, after all, and it was silly of me to put the book on the floor, goodness, I was not that little -"

They just stared at him. Their stare was not unkind, but it was unrelenting. Unbidden, a thought came into Stolas’ mind.

Stolas Goetia, I can tell when you lie.

For one horrible moment, he thought they would voice it. Instead, they said so quietly, so kindly, "What is your anxiety level, Stolas?"

And just from Dr. Smith allowing him that little lie between them - that small comfort - it fell a little from what it had been. 

"Five," he mumbled. "I'm okay."

"Okay," they said. "Thank you." 

Thank you for being honest with me, they didn't say, although he knew it anyway. 

"Your demonic form, Stolas, if you are done with your antics."

The boy nodded, and concentrated. Shadows grew from the small owl, spilling over into corners, wriggling and grotesque. The windows shut of their own accord as the room dimmed. A large, vertical shadow grew taller and taller until it reached the ceiling, bending its neck 90 degrees and then beginning to snake along the ceiling. Four red eyes blinked in the darkness with an unnerving red smile as gigantic black wings spread, screaming heard with every flap. 

The Librarian watched Stolas’ demon form calmly but curiously. They did not look frightened by it. If anything, they looked impressed, and even slightly endeared.

The form retreated slowly back into the small owlet, looking with hope in his shining eyes at his father, desperate for praise. 

Paimon rolled his eyes. "Passable, I suppose." 

And yet little Stolas beamed. "Thank you, Father."

The older Stolas suddenly looked nervous. Like he knew that something bad was coming. 

 "Open a portal to Wrath," said the King. 

Immediately the little owl's smile fell, and he looked nervously to his mother. "I... I - um..." 

"He hasn't done that yet," said the female Goetia quietly. 

Paimon's anger was tangible. "What is the problem?" 

"He... he's had just... the tiniest bit of struggle with inter-ring portals,” said the woman, softly. “But he's making very good -" 

"Silence," Paimon groaned, rubbing at his temples. "Alright. Where can you portal to?" 

"I, I could," stammered Stolas. "To... to somewhere else in Pride?" 

Paimon simply waved a hand, looking like he was already disappointed. 

Stolas took a deep breath and put out his hand. Slowly, the magic began to gather. He squeezed his eyes closed. He moved his hand firmly, trying to get the magic to obey, trying to get space to bend -

Something happened.

Something wrong.

The room went hazy, and for a moment Stolas could only see vague shapes and colors. Then everything snapped back into focus, except for the face of the young prince. The haze clung to his face almost defensively, and there were only uncanny blurs of color where a face was supposed to be.

Why couldn’t Stolas see his own face?

"That," Paimon snapped, "is an embarrassment. I could make a portal on the same ring in a matter of seconds at half your age. You have been slacking off on your lessons, haven't you, son?" 

Stolas shook his head fervently. "No," he said softly. His hazy visage flickered as he spoke, as though imitating the movement of speech. But there was no beak there to match the motion of his words. "No, I haven't, I promise -" 

"Do I need to have a talk with your tutors?" 

"No," said Stolas shakily. "No, I'm sorry. I will try harder." 

"You'd better. Doesn't seem like you're being disciplined properly. I'll make sure to speak to them."

Paimon sighed. "He's not enough. We need a precautionary heir one way or another." He looked at Stolas' mother, then pointed to the child. "If you cannot handle it, then I suppose it'll have to be his. I believe one of the marquises has a daughter. I'll pick her a name to match.  Stolas.... perhaps Astra, or Stella..."

"I need to stop,” Stolas gasped. The Librarian raised their hand and froze the scene, looking at him with concern.

Stolas looked at the motionless, faceless child and felt sick and scared in a way he didn't understand. “I can't be here anymore,” he said desperately. “I want to go back to my library.”

The Librarian nodded, and the familiar shelves began to materialize around them, leaving the memory behind.

It felt better in the library. The strange, foreign fear faded, leaving only a slight tremble in his frame.

"I'm sorry about that," he said softly. He sat down in the chair his mother had vacated. 

In the real world, Stolas' fingers felt the beads on the string Blitzø had made, one by one, relaxing at the feel of smooth plastic.

You will be okay. He repeated the phrase in his mind, willing it to be true. You will be okay...

The Librarian watched him, then sat down in an armchair next to him that may or may not have been there before. The Library just tended to produce what was needed of it. "I'm not sure what you are sorry about," they murmured. "You didn't do anything wrong, Stolas."

He wasn't quite sure either. But something in his brain was telling him he was supposed to apologize. 

"I'm... sorry I made us vacate so suddenly," he murmured. "I don't know what came over me. In truth, I don’t know why I showed you that at all. Things like that are meant to be... private. A family affair. I'm sure my parents would not be happy if they knew a stranger witnessed a private family matter like that, and I'm ... sorry if it made you uncomfortable." 

He took a sharp breath and let a practiced mask of nonchalance fall over his features. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked simply. He got up, walking to a counter that hadn't been there before. "Coffee? Tea? Wine?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," they said politely, knowing that this was more for his benefit than their own. But then, all of this was for his benefit.

"I'm not sorry I saw it," they said quietly as he made the tea. "You brought me here to see it. You do not have to worry about making me uncomfortable with anything in your mind, Stolas. I am, quite literally, here for you. But I do want to check in with you, after that. In your own time, of course."

The demon shook his head. "It - it was improper of me," Stolas said firmly. "Some things are perhaps best kept behind closed doors if they involve other people. I did not consider that." 

The Librarian smiled slightly. "We are behind closed doors," they said, gesturing to the doors of the library. "Both here and in reality. Nothing you bring up here is improper, Stolas. The only thing you need to consider is what will help you.”

Stolas brought over the tea and sat down, pouring himself a generous glass of wine. It wasn't real alcohol, and yet it was almost like the act of drinking alone gave him some comfort. 

Pathetic, whispered a voice in his head. Look how far you have fallen. 

He took a long sip of wine, closing his eyes. All too quickly, he finished the glass and then began refilling it. 

"I did apply myself more to my studies concerning portals, after that day,” he said weakly, answering a question that hadn't been asked. “Now - well, before I lost my powers -  I could do it with ease. Isn't that a positive outcome?"

The therapist-turned-librarian sipped their tea slowly. "I suppose you could view it like that," they said. "But there are so many better ways to teach a child something than through fear. And more importantly, no lesson could ever justify the way he treated you."

Stolas filled a third glass. Somehow despite not being real - or maybe simply because he wanted it to be real - it was making his brain nicely fuzzy, and his heart not hurt as much. 

"You say that - the way he treated me - as if my father was a monster," he said softly. "But he was only reacting with displeasure to my failure."

"He made you feel terrified and inadequate for not being able to master portal creation as a six-year-old." The Librarian spoke slowly, carefully. Sometimes, a client needed to be pushed, to cut through layers of conditioning and to hit something true. And yet, it could just as easily backfire. 

"I think you know that he did not treat you well, Stolas,” they said softly. “You are a father too, after all. You know that's not how a father should treat his child."

Stolas' fingers tightened around the stem of his fourth glass of wine, and he set it on the table. 

"That's different," he said, his voice monotone.

"How is it different?" they asked gently.

He looked at his reflection in the glass. 

"Because she didn't deserve it."

They pressed forward gently. "Why do you think you deserved it, Stolas?"

Stolas sighed. 

"Dr. Smith - have you ever been to a Goetian party?" Stolas asked instead of answering. "Have you met or seen any Goetia besides myself?"

They allowed the diversion - he had to answer this in his own way. They could always come back to it. "I have not been to a Goetian party, no. And I have met other Goetia in passing, including your charming ex-wife. But of course, I am no expert in Goetian culture."

Stolas thought about how to explain. He picked up his glass in his left hand, swirling the wine around. 

"I am not like them," he said simply.

"I see. In what ways are you not like them?"

Stolas hesitated. And then carefully, he put the book on the table between them. 

"In these ways," he said simply. "This is a book to teach a Goetia what to be. And this book is everything they are, and I am not. Everything I never was. Everything that felt so hard to me and came to the others so easily. And I never understood why, no matter how hard I tried, it was always me who fell behind. Always me, laughed at and derided. I still.... I still do not know." He took a deep breath. "I think I just... somehow... hatched wrong. That's all."

"Is this why you think you deserved to be treated badly as a child?" they asked softly. "Because you were different from others?"

And softly, Stolas nodded.

"They... he... " He sighed. "It's not my father's fault... if I'm the only one of his children that needed to be fixed." He took another long sip. "... and perhaps not Stella's fault either. Her name was not even Stella, before me. I never -"

"Stolas." They put their teacup down with a quiet clink and turned to face him fully. "Being different is not the same thing as needing to be fixed." They smiled at him. "You may be different, Stolas, but you are not broken. You don't need to be fixed. And nothing they did was ever meant to fix you. It was only meant to break you into a more convenient shape. And no one needs to be 'fixed' that way."

Stolas looked down. He finished his glass. Then he picked up the bottle and poured another. 

At what point had it become absinthe? 

He wasn't sure. 

"I.... I wish, sometimes, that I had just been… convenient."

"I understand. But you don't owe anyone convenience. You don't need to break yourself to fit their mold. You don't owe that to anyone."

Cautiously, they reached out to touch the hand holding the absinthe. "I don't think you were right when you said Paimon was like you," they said softly. "But I do think you were right when you said that Octavia is like you. She is not like them either, Stolas. The only difference is that she has a father that loves her for who she is. And I'm so sorry that you didn't have that, but I'm so happy that she does. I'm so happy that she has that in you."

Two ideas competed in Stolas’ head. It reminded him of how, as a child, he had tried to mix his preening oil into water and observed curiously their inability to combine. 

I would never make Octavia feel like that, no matter what she did, said one. It would be wrong.

But you deserved it, said another. So, some children deserve it. What makes Octavia so special? If it was good for you, would it not be good for her?

And he understood, logically - that both could not coexist. That he had to give up one, or the other. 

But he couldn't. He could not. And so instead he tried in vain to mix oil and water and succeeded only in creating some vile concoction that burned like a blaze. 

"Doctor Smith," he instead said, softly. "What you're asking me to do is to rewrite every book in this library."

"This library is your mind," they reminded him. "And its contents are being filtered through that. If you can learn that you did not deserve to be treated badly for being different, the books will reflect that. And to be honest, what I saw did not seem in need of rewriting, merely reexamination. Because I saw a child being terrorized by the careless expectations of a father that saw him more as an asset than a child. Not a single word needed rewriting for me to understand that."

Gently, they tried to take the glass of absinthe from his hand. 

Stolas did not let them.

It was a lifeline. In a way Dr. Smith simply was not. The doctor... he knew... was helping him in a healthy way. 

But the absinthe... 

The absinthe was what made it stop hurting. 

And so, the doctor settled for merely resting their hand on his. "I know that isn't easy to believe,” they continued. “But it's easier than rewriting a library. It's just a matter of... recategorizing it."

He didn’t respond to that. "You saw how I reacted to Stella," he said instead. It wasn't a question. "In your office."

"I did," they said, their grip tightening a little. "And I saw to it that she will never set foot in my office again. Or indeed in the fucking building, if I can help it. This is a safe place, and she is not welcome."

Stolas pulled back and took another sip.

"I... I don't know why I reacted so strongly to seeing her," he murmured. "Like a child. We lived together for seventeen years... I've heard her voice more than my own, and certainly she had never shied from letting her hands speak instead. So why?"

"Because she abused you for seventeen years, Stolas," they said gravely. "And you were seeing her again after not having to see her for so long. You looked at her, and all that unsafety came flooding back. It was a natural reaction to something so horrible as her re-entering your life."

He put the glass back down. His mind was getting hazy in a way that felt like a warm embrace. 

"You keep saying that word," he mumbled. "That's not what it was."

"Wasn't it?" they asked, softly.

"No." 

He poured another glass. 

"Abuse is - I don't know - a very strong word. To beat someone severely, or into unconsciousness, or cause any kind of ... lasting damage. That was never the case."

It would have been very difficult for her to cause you lasting damage, at least physically, they thought. And clearly you aren't taking the lasting psychological damage into account.

But there would be time for that. "I won't use that word here if you don't want me to. But can we agree that she treated you very badly, Stolas?"

He hesitated. "Our marriage was... not what I would have preferred," he said very carefully. "Yes."

That wasn't much, but it was a start. "Perhaps that's something we should examine the next time we are here. But for now, I think we should return to the office.”

And he took a deep breath, nodded, and drank another glass.

Slowly, the office came back into focus. 

The first thing Stolas noticed was that he no longer felt drunk. 

The doctor’s dark eyes regarded him seriously. "Your intoxication is gone, because we have re-entered reality. I must ask that you do not attempt to replenish it tonight. I know it... works in a way," they added sympathetically. "But at least tonight, I'd like you to find comfort elsewhere. This is not a safe way for you to seek comfort."

Stolas swallowed. Now he suddenly looked - nervous. 

"I... I don't think I can do that," he mumbled, looking away. He didn't like being put in the position to lie.

They hummed, considering that. "Do you have absinthe at Blitzø's apartment?" they asked. "If not, it would simply be a matter of going straight home, doing whatever might comfort you there, and going to sleep. And if you are not capable of that, Stolas..."

They took a deep breath, then looked at him resolutely. "I will not continue the mindspace sessions if they are pushing you to drink to excess. Especially if refraining for a single night is something you cannot do. I will not allow that to be a direct consequence of my work here."

It would be so easy to lie. 

Though.... though he also supposed it would not. 

"...I do have some at the apartment," he sighed. "A... fair amount. But it... it's really not.... I don't see why..."

"They... the sessions aren't pushing me to drink any more than I would. I promise." 

And that was truthful. 

He would have been drinking the pain away one way or another regardless.

They nodded again. They had suspected this, but the reality of it was coming into focus. "I see. Regardless, this pain, right now, is pain I have allowed you to experience for your therapeutic benefit. Therefore, I must insist you do not drink tonight. I will not ask more of you now. But I will ask this. Do you understand?"

"Don't - don't say it like that,” Stolas said, softly. “That you're giving me - or allowing me - pain for my benefit. Or to teach me a lesson. Just... please... not those words. Not like that."

The doctor could feel a sudden wave of feeling they had not expected. "I'm so sorry," they said, so sincerely. "I will not ever phrase it like that again, if you do not wish it. I will never do anything to you without your consent, Stolas. I promise you this."

"I know," Stolas said. And it surprised even him that he did, in fact, know. 

Breathe in. He counted it out by tapping his finger slightly on the chair.

Hold.

Breathe out. 

"It's not your fault," he said softly. "Sorry if my words were - rather strong. I understand what you mean - that exposures are meant to cause discomfort; that I'm learning to exist within it; that sometimes things that are good for us hurt." He took a deep breath. "When I was in the hospital, after Stella hired that assassin, it hurt immensely when they changed the bandages on my shoulder wound. I had to have a nurse hold me down. And yet I understood that it needed to be done so that my wound could heal, and that the pain was an unavoidable step to that. I am not a child. I - I understand." 

One of their eyebrows shot up at the phrase "Stella hired that assassin", and they gently coaxed it back down. Not abuse, clearly, they thought. 

Being a therapist was truly an exercise in restraint.

Stolas felt silly. Ashamed. But he wanted to explain. "Those words... make it hard for me to remember what I'm meant to be learning."

"I understand," they said. "And again, I am very sorry for my phrasing. Still, I must ask that you do not drink tonight, Stolas. I..." They paused, clearly considering their phrasing very carefully. "I would not be able to continue these mindspace sessions with you in good conscience if I knew I was enabling that."

Stolas rubbed one hand with the other a few times. A nervous habit. His fingers brushed against his feathers, but pulled away.

He wanted to continue. Even if it hurt. He felt like he was finally - living less afraid, day by day. And he didn't want to lose that. 

"I... I can... try," he murmured. "I don't know if I'll be... successful. I've tried in the past...  and I could not resist. I - for today - I'm willing to try.'

"All right," they finally said. They knew that they couldn't expect more from him tonight than that. "I recommend that you look for another way to occupy your thoughts, with someone else if possible." They smiled at him. "I'm sure Blitzø would be more than happy to keep you company."

And then Stolas groaned slightly. "You want me to tell Blitzø to keep me from drinking and entertain me?" He sighed. "Dr. Smith, do you understand how many times I've seen Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron?"

"I can guess... many," they said, smirking. "But it doesn't sound like the worst way to spend an evening." 

Their expression softened. "I leave it to your discretion, though. Just... take care of yourself, Stolas. Your well-being is very important to me."

Stolas had not gotten used to how genuinely it felt like they cared.

And deep down, it almost frightened him. 

He hesitated at the door. "You said no absinthe," he tried, despite knowing it was futile. "Would just a bit of wine -"

This time, Dr. Smith did not stop their eyebrow from arching dramatically. "That seems like something worth considering tomorrow night," they said firmly.

Stolas paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm sorry, if I ..." 

"You didn't," came the gentle answer.

Stolas didn't believe them.

And as he turned the handle, he wasn't sure if he ever would. 

Chapter Text

All the way downstairs, his mind searched for a loophole. And yet he knew what his therapist was going to ask next week, the moment he walked through the door. 

Hallway. Elevator. Hallway. Stairs. Parking lot. Car- 

"FUCK," squawked Stolas as he banged his head into Blitzø's van's doorframe for the thousandth time. He groaned and let himself fall into the passenger seat. 

"Hi, Blitzø,” The bird groaned. “Sorry. Bit - bit of a mess today."

Blitzø patted his hand. "Tough session?"

Stolas just sighed. He lay down across the front seats, ignoring the pain of keys, cups, and controls digging into his back, and put his head into Blitzø's lap. 

That was his safety, here. His comfort. His library. 

Blitzø stroked Stolas' head feathers, slowly and rhythmically, until his upper eyes turned into the tiniest crescent moon slivers.

"It was about my parents,” Stolas finally said. “It was... hard. I.... I had to stop," he confessed quietly. "I didn't have to stop last time."

"So, you called a red," Blitzø said with a shrug, smiling down at him. "We both know there's no shame in that, right?"

Stolas’ feathers turned a soft muted pink. "I can’t use the stoplight system in therapy, Blitzø! Not – not without thinking of – “

Blitzø grinned sharply. "Guess I'm pretty unforgettable, huh?"

“Very.” He kept his eyes closed, nestling into Blitzø's touch, soft hoots escaping him as his feathers were pet so very gently. 

"I want some tylenol, and some rat skewers from that takeout place with the honey dip, please," he asked softly. He knew it was on the way. 

So was the liquor store, so he could -

Dammit, Stolas. 

He looked up at Blitzø. "And maybe, um... what fancy drinks are there that people enjoy in Imp City?" he asked carefully. "Besides... besides alcohol?"

Blitzø was already digging around for some tylenol in the glove compartment when he paused at the request for fancy drinks. His heartbeat quickened a little bit at the "besides alcohol" comment with a strange combination of nervousness and hope. He did feel like Stolas had been hitting the sauce pretty hard lately, but he had been nervous about saying anything. Whatever got him through it, right? Besides, who was Blitzø to talk, when he was fucking undefeated at solo keg stands? 

Still, if Stolas wanted something non-alcoholic, Blitzø was ready to jump at what he hoped was a step in the right direction. "Sure, Stols," he said, handing Stolas the tylenol after checking that it wasn't expired. "What were you thinking? There's a place I know with fucking ridiculous milkshakes. Or did you want like... mocktails? There's a few bars that make some fun ones I think you'd like."

Stolas sat up, accepting the tylenol. He opened the bottle, about to shake half of it into his hands by instinct like he used to do with his Happy Pills. 

And then he carefully shook out two onto his palm instead, washing them down with a sip of Blitzø's coffee. It wasn't ideal. But it was something. 

There's a few bars that make some fun ones you'd like.

Oh. It would be so easy, wouldn't it? To go to a bar, even without meaning to drink, to plausibly slip up, or sneak a sip of Blitzø's drink, after all, he could say he hadn't ordered...

Stolas.

He sighed.

How was he supposed to tell Blitzø that what he needed was something to hold in his hands so he wouldn't reach for something else tonight? 

He had promised he would try. And going to a bar hoping to make a "careless mistake" was not trying. 

"Not a bar," he mumbled. "But maybe... out of the house?"

"Yeah- yeah, we could do that," Blitzø said, trying to figure out what was running through his birdie's mind. "I know you want the rat skewers, but maybe we could go to like... a restaurant afterwards? And just get the fruitiest fake drinks they'll make us, with little umbrellas and shit?" He ran his fingers through Stolas’s head feathers quickly, trying to smooth them out. "It would be nice to like... go on a date with you and everything."

A date. 

Stolas looked at himself. His sweater was Loona's. His sweatpants were thin. His feathers was barely styled, and his baggy eyes were uncovered by makeup. 

His mind was a mess. 

... he realized, suddenly, he couldn't remember the last time he and Blitzø had gone on a date. 

And he was shocked to realize he was up for it despite the day he had had.

"... yeah," he murmured. "Yeah... okay. As long as we can, um... stop by home so I can change, first? And... maybe Loona may have some makeup?"

He looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. "I think maybe... I'd like... to look nice."

"Uh, you always look nice, but I wouldn't say no to getting a little dressed up," he said, putting the car into drive. "You're cute when you get yourself all fancy, you know. Getting all excited about it."

"The last time..." 

When was the last time Stolas had "gotten himself all fancy"? Let alone for a date?

…was it bad he couldn't remember?

Was it... before the trial?

Surely not?

Had it been?

Blitzø glanced over at Stolas. Even with his eyes... mostly on the road, he could see that Stolas was getting in his head.

He reached over and took Stolas’s hand, running his immaculately striped fingertips across Stolas’s, which were painted with his messy but earnest little daffodils. "New beginnings," Blitzø said quietly. "Right?"

Stolas smiled faintly. Somehow Blitzø always knew what to say. "Right." He took a deep breath and squeezed Blitzø's hand. 

Stolas sat down on the edge of the tub, in front of the mirror, and took in his appearance - the feathery mess on top of his head, the ashy face, the chapped beak - and then got to work, hoping Loona would not mind. 

He tried hard to think about the makeup, and not the couple of bottles stashed one room over.

Thirty minutes later, he was staring at a watery approximation, at least, of his former self. Mr. Unfluffable's anti-frizz spray clung to his feathers, smoothing them neatly. They had grown longer than they ever had, but he did not mind, carefully curling them around his finger into ringlets instead. A layer of concealer and a light dusting of foundation covered up the dark circles and the ashy cheeks. The red of his eyes popped against the purple shimmer on his eyelids and a few swipes of drugstore mascara.

For the first time in months, Stolas felt like he was seeing himself. He looked a little bit like his old self - and a little bit not. As if that Stolas didn't exist anymore. 

Left behind in a dusty library half a ring away. 

And even as his heart, exhausted by that day's events, weighed heavily, Stolas smiled a little. 

He pulled on the outfit he'd chosen. It wasn't much - surely no match for the beautiful things he once owned. But he liked this sweater. It was black, and therefore elegant, and framed his chest fluff nicely in a heart-shaped cutout - a Sinsmas gift from Millie. Followed a set of lighter grey pants, a small white belt, and a glittery hair clip he carefully affixed to his head feathers. 

He could do this.

Couldn't he? 

Maybe? 

Out on the couch, Blitzø fiddled nervously with his mother's charm, now affixed to a bowtie, as he waited for Stolas to finish up in the bathroom. His outfit was similar to what he wore on that Full Moon, but hopefully different enough. His bowtie was black, his shirt was red, and he was wearing a belt instead of suspenders. Classic, he'd thought. Timeless. Hoping that a timeless outfit would make up all the time they had lost. 

Blitzø's eyes turned to full moons in their own right as Stolas came out the bathroom. On a rare occasion, the imp was nearly struck speechless. 

Stolas looked nervous as he blushed, giving a little twirl. "Um - how do I look, Blitzø?"

Blitzø chuckled softly. "You look so fucking pretty, Stols. Like, it's not even fair." He extended a hand to him. "C'mon, let's go drink some fruity shit."

Stolas did not feel pretty. Blitzø was surely mistaken - that he hadn't cared for himself for months, and his feathers showed it.

But he was trying. And it was easier to believe those words from Blitzø than from himself, at least.

"You... you look very handsome as well, Blitzy. ... thank you." 

The couple squeezed into the van. A few sharp turns and muttered swears as the owl hit his head on the top of the car door were enough to bring them to a restaurant Blitzø had marked down for himself a while ago, in case Stolas ever felt up to it again. The bird let Blitzø take his fingers delicately, despite glancing around nervously for onlookers.

Getting a good table wasn't as easy anymore as Stolas waving his card around, but with some luck and a bit of sweet-talk to the waitress, Blitzø managed it. Moonlight streamed in through the arched frame, lighting the menus as Stolas' fingers traveled slowly down the list. He'd never really been somewhere where his order hadn't already been put in for him by his staff, and it was a little new - and more than a little exciting. His brain was still pounding with the weight of the day, but it was starting to get under control, even though his chest still felt tight.

While avoiding those words, he knew that the pain was there to help him become okay, even when his surroundings were not. And this... getting dressed up, going out on a dinner date, even allowing the possibility that he might be able to handle a night of sobriety, all of these things had, only a few months ago, felt hopelessly out of reach from the pile of blankets on Blitzø's couch. 

Maybe you can do this, said a very quiet voice in his head, and Stolas smiled a little. You can do this. Today can be happy. Look at him. Look at his beautiful, yellow eyes - 

"Stols?" 

Blitzø was tugging on his sleeve, and the prince looked up to realize the imp waiter was speaking to him, annoyed to be getting ignored by a Goetia of all people. Stolas flushed. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I'll have, um -" He glanced at the menu quickly. "The lamb, and do you happen to have any roasted vole?" 

"Of course," the imp said, scribbling it down. "And to drink?" 

Stolas' hand flipped open the drink menu.

Wine beckoned to him from the first page.

...And from the second.

Whiskey on the third.

Cocktails on the fourth. 

"Um -" he felt a bit hot, suddenly, and stammered. "C-could I have a second on that?"

"I'll have the cheeseburger meal," Blitzø interjected, trying to take some heat off Stolas. "Rare as you'll do it. And then rarer than that, if the chef isn't a pussy."

Blitzø then flipped to the back of the menu, where the mocktails were. It's not like boozeless booze was the most popular thing in Imp City (or anywhere in Hell, for that matter), but he specifically chose a restaurant that had at least a few of them. In particular, there was this insane one with a name he didn't want to read or pronounce. It was like a scorpion bowl in a clear vessel to show off the layers of colored juices and shit forming a rainbow, with multiple fruit garnishes and umbrellas along the rim. Full of sugar and precisely zero alcohol.

A year ago, Blitzø would have taken out a hit on himself before drinking one of those in public.

It was perfect.

"And I'll have that," he declared, jabbing the picture with his finger before looking over at Stolas. "Still need a minute, Feathers?"

Stolas turned to the back of the menu, where Blitzø was pointing at. 

It seemed childish. Fancy, but so...

Lacking in the thing he needed to get Paimon's voice out of his head. 

Was this a terrible idea?

He hadn't gone out in months.

He'd never actually been to a restaurant with Blitzø except for that awful night at Ozzie's - crap - was this their first real date?

And he was banned from drinking. Like he was a fluffy down nestling. It was embarrassing. No one ordered mocktails unless they wanted alcohol and could not have it, and it felt like broadcasting “I've got issues” to the entire restaurant. And Blitzø.

He looked up to realize he'd gone quiet again, and everyone was waiting. He blushed, quickly handing the menu to the imp.

"Um - I'll have the same thing he ordered," he murmured. He didn't know anything about mocktails anyway, and he didn't want to make a fuss. He didn't want to ask what things tasted like, which might taste like the ones he liked, and have the imp wonder why a grown male owl wouldn't simply order the real thing.

Blitzø watched sympathetically as Stolas tried to make himself as small as possible, which was an exercise in futility for an eleven foot tall bird in Imp City. After the waiter left, he took Stolas’s hand, giving it a little squeeze. "You doing okay, Feathers?"

"Mm-hmm." He smiled politely. It didn't reach his eyes. 

He was enjoying being here with Blitzø. And having gotten dressed up. But it was a lot. More perhaps than he'd remembered. And... and he wished he could just enjoy himself instead of having to treat himself like a patient.

"Sorry. It's not you... this is really nice, Blitzø. I promise."

"Okay," Blitzø said, deciding not to push it. Unsure how to make the situation more comfortable for Stolas, he decided instead to go with his tried and true (or like... half-true) method of running his fucking mouth. "So our hit today was at a fucking convent,” he said. “The Mother Superior was assassinated by another nun trying to take her place, so she decided to return the favor. Isn't that fucking wild?"

Stolas smiled a little. His fingers played idly with the beaded bracelet on his arm. He now seldom left the house without it. 

"That is rather amusing," he said softly. "I... I do have to ask. It was not the Sisters of Saint Antonina the Merciful Convent, by chance, was it?"

"Uhhhhh..."

Blitzø wasn't really the best with details like "names" or "places" when it came to hits, so it took him a second to remember. "Yeah, actually, it was. Why do you know this random fucking convent we shot up today?"

Stolas smiled a little, and now, it was real. 

"One of their sisters... Sofiya, I believe... summoned me once. Had demonic tomes in her bedroom, the Lesser Key, the sigil, everything. I always thought it was amusing to be summoned by a nun. Especially since she didn't sacrifice anyone: she brought me cake...chocolate cake. And she merely wanted prophecies." 

He took a sip of the water that the waiter had brought. "Specifically, she asked if it was in the stars for her to ever become Mother Superior -" 

And then his eyes widened, and he stared at Blitzø. 

"...oh."

Blitzø's smiled apologetically at him. "Uh... sorry I killed your nun friend? But she's down here now if you wanna like... hang out." 

His grin grew a little sharper and more comfortable, now that he had a joke locked and loaded. Not a good joke, but since when Stolas cared about that?  "Maybe you guys could like... go to a bakery and talk about stars and shit, like how... before with the cake and prophecies. And it's probably better than what she got you anyway. Called Devil's Food for a reason and all that. Some bakeries really lean into that shit."

"Oh, we could have Devil's Food Cake," said Stolas. 

And then he giggled with the smallest little hoot, covering his beak.

Fuck yeah, successful joke! Blitzø thought, his grin growing wide and triumphant. And Stolas’s laugh, even such a tiny one, was one of the best there was.

"You always know how to make me laugh, don't you, Blitzy," Stolas said softly. He smiled fondly. "You always did. It was the very first thing I loved about you, all those years ago." 

He smiled weakly. "Do you remember? When you came to my palace and we played treasure hunt?”

Blitzø's expression suddenly changed into something more surprised. Of all the things he expected Stolas to bring up, that was not one of them. But he covered it up with a grin quickly enough. "Yeah, I remember. I was honestly surprised you thought I was funny. Most people... didn't. Especially not compared to Fizz."

"It was brilliant," Stolas said, smiling. "Not many would have had the comedic balance required to make such a dark joke about laminitis. I thought it was much funnier than the - say - shallower, childish jokes presented otherwise. When comedy takes on a dark edge... it becomes philosophy. At least, that was what I thought."

Blitzø stared blankly. What the fuck was "laminitis"? If he didn't know what it was now, he didn't understand how he could have made a joke about it as a kid.

"A joke about something dark, or otherwise taboo or unmentionable, makes that thing real, and yet lets us overcome it. I think that it - "

Oh well, no need to burst Birdie's bubble, he thought.

"So thus I admired that you were never afraid of touching on topics that were real, Blitzø. That could be painful or frightening."

I'll just look it up later, if I remember what the fuck he even said - 

"...and things of that nature. But you always knew how to make them funny instead. In that way, you have always - since that very first joke, been my source of light in the darkness." 

WAIT HE'S STILL TALKING SHIT SHIT SHIT - 

Naturally, the moment Blitzø snapped back to attention was the moment to hear he had been Stolas’s source of light in the darkness, over a joke he didn't even remember making about a word he didn't fucking know. And sure, that wasn't quite enough to make Blitzø.exe crash unexpectedly, but he sure didn't have a lot of processing power left.

He smiled in a way that he hoped didn't look as nervous as he felt. "Thanks," he said, wondering how he could be such a stupidly mouthy bitch and not have anything better to offer than that.

Fortunately, the arrival of the roast vole and drinks meant he didn't have to. As was customary, he slurped down as much of his drink as he could to avoid having another feeling, only to remember that there was no alcohol in it.

Despite that, it was surprisingly not disappointing. "Holy shit, this is actually pretty good," he said. "I think I'm gonna get diabetes tonight from it, but honestly? Worth it."

Stolas tasted it carefully. It did taste - disappointing to him, mostly due to the lack of alcohol. Otherwise sweet. But he smiled tensely. "Yes, it... it's nice." 

He pushed down the desire not to bring more attention to the fact that he wasn't drinking, for a moment. "You know - um - if you wanted to order something else for yourself - that's perfectly fine." The owl swirled his straw in his cup, taking another sip as his body demanded alcohol instead. 

Blitzø tried to think of how to protest without lying. It wasn't that he wanted a real drink, honestly. While he had flirted with the idea that he was an alcoholic on the rare occasion that he felt like doing self-reflection, he was really more of a binge-drinker than anything else. And he generally saved that for Special Occasions (a/k/a Very Fucked Up Occasions). Other than that, he was pretty casual about alcohol and rarely craved it. But he was drinking this insane thing more as like... a metaphor of support than a preference, and he didn't know how to say that without sounding patronizing as fuck.

Luckily, Stolas changed the subject to something else before he had to think of something to say. "But I do mean it, Blitzø. You were a very charming child. Although..." He looked up at him - half-teasing, half-seriously. "You know... I did get a lot of... questions, the next day, about exactly where everything in the palace went, and why it wasn't under the window as I believed I had left it. Rather curious, don't you think?"

Unluckily, the new topic of discussion was one of Blitzø's deeply held childhood shames. Somewhere in the realm of "Remember that time you were four and kicked a frog to see what would happen? Remember? Good, now feel like a piece of shit about it."

He smiled again, and he knew that he looked nervous now. "Yeah, I, uh... sorry. About that. I mean... I guess even as a kid, you knew I was full of shit. Throwing treasure out the... window... not my best scam, I gotta say."

Right, because you're a fucking scammer. That's what you do. That's the only reason you have anything you have. Soon enough you'll get what you deserve, which is nothing.

Somewhat startled by his own brain, he took a weird slow breath and tried to reset. Boy howdy, the intrusive thoughts are feisty tonight, he thought, and on some level he already knew that Dr. Smith would be proud of that, that he had put that in his own words. Something they said quickly followed it: try responding to what he said, not what you thought.

"I, uh... it. Well, it wasn't my idea. My dad told me to do that. The... the stealing part of it, I mean. But, like... I still did it. So... sorry."

Stolas smiled softly. 

"Blitzø. I ... yes, I figured out about halfway through our little game what you were doing." He picked up a roasted vole, beginning to carefully eat it, trying not to get oil on his freshly combed feathers. "In that way, I am equally to blame." 

"I also... understood, after years... that it could not have been your idea. No child comes up with such a scheme; no child worries about things such as economic inequality. And if I knew then what I know now, and the social rift between us, I would have given you those things freely. I only hope that the money bettered your situation, though based on what you said about your father, I suspect not." 

Stolas carefully wiped his fingers on a napkin, then picked up another vole. He always set some aside for Blitzø, even though the imp didn't really enjoy this dish.

"Though I do have to tell you... it was not very hard to figure out your dastardly plan, my love," he said with amusement. "All the staff, and my father, understood immediately what had occurred. My father wanted you brought in to answer for it. He was quite insistent. "

Blitzø's eyes went wide. "He... did?" he asked, his voice surprisingly meek. Like there was some part of his brain that was still a child that couldn't seem to stop getting in trouble. "I... but... but no one..." He tried to organize his thoughts. "No one... brought me in. To answer for it. And like... you came right at the beginning of that stop. We were there for days after that."

"Yes. I know, Blitzø." 

Stolas took a sip of his drink that did nothing to make him feel better, and smiled tensely. 

"I had very much enjoyed your company," he said simply. "And I did understand... just enough... to guess you would suffer consequences on a different level than I." Stolas then simply shrugged, picking up another vole. "So I told them it was I who had gathered everything and brought it to the circus tent, of my own foolish and misguided idea to help your family. You merely accepted what you earnestly believed was a generous gift from a naive idiot of a Goetian prince. And how then could you be blamed for an idea that had been mine alone?"

The owl thought of his father's rage that day and stared into the drink that couldn't help him forget. "Thankfully, no one wanted to go to the circus to check."

Blitzø looked at Stolas with a wide, vacant stare.

"Why? You... Stolas, you took the fall for me? Why would you do that?"

"Blitzø." And Stolas smiled softly. "Don't you understand you were the first friend I had ever had?"

He reached across the table, and took his hand.  

"I had read enough books about friendship to know that one never betrays their best friend."

Blitzø just stared at him.

Lucifer, what a wild thing to say.

But then, Stolas had tried to tell him that before. When he had first stolen the book (which might as well have been a fucking thousand years ago for how long ago it felt), Stolas had called him his first ever friend. It was why he had fucked him in the first place. 

He was planning on just acting out the beginning of a romance novel and then tearing out the pages that you bought the book for. But Stolas had seemed to... well, not just want it, he obviously wanted it. His fucking dirty talk was somehow censored in Blitzø's brain. But... he really seemed to hold some personal significance to getting railed by him specifically. And... well, why not give him that, at least?

But he had always kind of thought he meant "first ever friend" in some kind of... symbolic way. Like, All my other friends at Rich Person Boarding School Or Whatever are so boring, but you entertain me. Not... not like...

Not like his actual first friend. Not like he had only ever read about friendship in books before him.

What the fuck?

Had Stolas really cared about him that much? "I..."

He paused, trying to make the words right. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that to you. I think in my head at the time, I thought that... princes basically had infinite money. That it was... that it wouldn't matter that much. I didn't mean to... do that."

"I know," Stolas said. It was quiet, and gentle, and he looked into Blitzø's eyes with an earnestness he couldn't replicate if he tried. 

"We were kids," he said simply. "And you did not make me lie to my father for you - just as you did not make me lie to Satan at that trial. " He smiled. "I... suppose it became a bit of a pattern. But both of those things were my choice, Blitzø, and so were the consequences to those choices. I will not have you apologize for my actions. Especially not when we were young children." 

"Besides... I had such a good day. It was the only day... in my whole childhood... that I had someone my own age to spend time with, until I began to court Stella. I relived that day countless times in my memories. And each time, I would not have changed a thing."

He smiled at Blitzø fondly. "And I have long, long since forgiven you, Blitzy."

Something about that made Blitzø's head spin. And it kind of made him want to cry.

How? How had Stolas saved his life twice for stupid shit that was his own fault?

"Thank you," he said, also earnest. His smile was asymmetrical. "I... I'm not sure what to say. Weird for me, huh?"

"Very weird," Stolas laughed softly. "Disconcerting, actually. Please, darling, go on one of your usual tirades while I finish these voles." 

"But..." He smiled softer. "You're welcome." 

He took another sip of the drink. It was growing on him. But the memory of both that day, the trial, and the strange, fuzzy pain twisting its way through his system since he had seen his father that day, had him sincerely wishing there was alcohol in his glass. He sighed audibly, looking at the drink with disdain, before picking up the last rodent, assuming Blitzø did not want any.

For once, Blitzø didn't feel like he had a tirade in him, and yet wished he did. He just wished that, for once, he had the right thing to say.

Something that wouldn't upset Stolas. Something that wouldn't make Stolas regret being seen with him.

Something that wouldn't make this feel like this was Ozzie's all over again. Like he hadn't just been exposed by his best friend that he had left for dead and his ex that he had robbed and ghosted and the literal Sin of Lust as the selfish, worthless piece of shit he was.

No. This was different. He would make it different.

New beginnings, right?

"I love you, Stolas," he said.

It wasn't the first time he had said it, but it still felt weirdly vulnerable to just... say it like that. Like he deserved to love Stolas. Like he almost deserved to be loved by him. He grinned helplessly. "That’s it. Not much of a tirade, I guess. But it's... it's true."

And Stolas froze, and looked at Blitzø. Slowly, his hand put the rodent down as a tear slid down a feathered cheek.

"Oh," he said softly. He had heard it before, and felt it in each of Blitzø's gestures.... and yet hearing it, just like that, was... 

Was... 

I love you too, he opened his beak to say. 

But it wasn't what came out. 

"... even still?"

Blitzø blinked. "What... do you mean?" he said slowly, truly and literally asking. Because he didn't understand what he meant.

Stolas smiled weakly. 

"You... you didn't sign up for..." 

He took a deep breath. 

"I've been..  a mess, Blitzø. A mess you have to care for. That's not the Stolas you may have fallen for."

Of course, it was then that the rest of the food arrived.

Blitzø looked at his cheeseburger and fries in front of him. Apparently the chef here wasn't a pussy: the burger looked it hadn't been cooked for more than a few minutes. Which was honestly how he liked it.

But he suddenly didn't feel as hungry.

"I fell for you," he said softly. "And this is you. Stolas, I don't know if I've told you this, not exactly, but I'm so happy you're back in my life. After that Halloween party, I was... I was a wreck after that for like... a while. Millie basically had to peel me off my bean bag chair and beat some sense into me. Metaphor-wise. And also, literally, but only because I got possessed... it's not important. Stolas, she... she convinced me to fucking go to therapy. And obviously, that... worked out okay for me. At least, I think so. It's... I... I want to be with you now, Stolas. Because I love you. That's it."

Stolas didn't even give his lamb a second look. His eyes were frozen on Blitzø. 

And then he finally smiled, looking weakly hopeful. He reached out, and took his hand like he never wanted to let go. 

And Blitzø smiled back like he had also just learned to hope. And he held Stolas's hand like he never would let go.

His burger was lukewarm by the time he finally ate it.

He didn't care.

It was halfway through dinner when Stolas spoke up again. 

"You... I know what it means for you to be vulnerable with me," he said softly. "Thank you, Blitzø." 

He took a deep breath. "I... I think I can be vulnerable with you too tonight. If that's alright. I... I think I'd like to."

"I'd like that too," Blitzø said simply. He didn't know what Stolas was about to tell him, but he was prepared to listen, and to support him. No matter what.

Stolas took a deep breath. 

"Um - I asked to go out, do - this, tonight, because, um..." 

He clasped his hands and let his voice get quiet. He didn't want to tell the whole damn restaurant. 

Only Blitzø. 

"Doctor Smith told me not to drink tonight," he murmured. "And I thought that... at the apartment... that might be... hard. And... somewhere else... and with you... might be easier. And... and I guess... some nights, like tonight... I find not drinking alcohol... difficult. And I have... for a while."

And he looked down at his hands - and his nails, and the chipping daffodils - nervously waiting for the inevitable questions that would follow that.

Blitzø nodded, slowly, just once. "... okay," he said quietly.

It wasn't exactly surprising. There were nights when Stolas was more drunk than Blitzø had expected. And mornings when Stolas was more hungover than Blitzø had expected. Including mornings when Blitzø hadn't even known that Stolas had been drinking the night before.

And that frightened him. Because it was a pretty small fucking apartment. So if there had been multiple nights that Stolas had gotten drunk without Blitzø knowing, it made sense that...

...it made sense that Stolas had been hiding it from him.

It was part of why he had eventually just driven Stolas to therapy the first time. There were times, especially in that first month after Sinsmas, when Blitzø had been scared to go to sleep because he had been scared that he might wake up...

He didn't want to finish that thought. He was in public. He really didn't want to start crying. But alcohol had been... one of the things he had been scared about.

But he thought Stolas had been doing better. He was taking his meds now. He had tried to cook breakfast. He had asked to paint Blitzø's nails. He had asked to go out that night.

He had seemed... like maybe he was getting closer to being okay.

But... Dr. Smith had told him not to drink that night? Dr. Smith had so rarely told Blitzø to do anything. He would have stopped seeing them if they were in the habit of telling people what to do. The only times they had told him to do anything is when they thought... he might actually hurt himself otherwise. Accidentally or not.

So that probably meant... that whatever had happened in their session, they had thought that if they didn't tell Stolas not to drink tonight, he might drink enough to get himself sick.

Or worse.

He wasn't sure what to say, at first. "That... has that been a problem... have you been having a problem with that... has it been since before the trial? I... I didn't live with you before then, but... it kinda seemed... especially at Verosika's party, it seemed... like maybe it had been."

Stolas clasped and unclasped his hands. And then finally he nodded. 

Having a problem. He wanted to protest that. He did not have a problem, only... only he'd been asked not to drink after one emotional day, and it was excruciating. 

"Since a little before I got married," he just said, softly.

"It's... what I do when I'm upset. It always has been."

Blitzø nodded again. "Okay," he said again, like a broken fucking record.

"Thank you," he decided to say, matching Stolas’s volume. "For telling me. I... I know that can't have been easy. And I just... I just want to help, you know? And I'm glad you asked for my help tonight. But I know..."

You never have the right words, a shitty part of his brain told him. You're going to fuck this up, like you always do.

He shook his head slightly. Not helpful, a less shitty part of his brain said, and it was right. And so he moved forward. "Fuck, Stols, I know you can't just turn something like that off. I'm not gonna ask you to. But like... I'm helping tonight, right? So... if you feel like... if you have nights like this again, can you tell me? And we can talk about it, or not talk about it, if you don't want, but... just so I know... where you're at, I guess. I won't tell you not to drink, but I just wanna know when you're feeling that upset. So I don't... so I know."

He dragged a hand across his face. He wanted to dig his nails in, but he thought  about how Dr. Smith told him not to, and he thought about the stripes Stolas had painted on them so carefully.  "I'm sorry. I'm not saying this right. I guess... can you just let me know when you're having a hard day?"

Stolas looked up, his expression that of someone who had expected to be scolded. 

And instead... Just like always... all Blitzø did was help. Was offer to be there for him. 

Stolas nodded. "Okay," he said softly. "I'm not... quitting, or.... or anything... I think... I - I don't know... if I can." He took a deep breath. 

"But... I know it's not good... to deal with my feelings that way." He smiled weakly. "And yes, you are helping. So very much." 

"I... I'll try to tell you when I feel that way," he murmured. "Okay? I think... I'm really sorry... but it's all I can promise. I don't want to... to lie. I don't want to lie to you about anything anymore." 

He sighed. "So... anything you want to ask... I'll tell you honestly. I promise. You... you deserve to know... even if it's somewhat embarrassing for me to discuss. And... I promised Dr. Smith I would sincerely try to refrain tonight, and... would appreciate your support in that once we're back home."

"Okay. That's all I'm asking for, Stols. I won't expect you to do more than you can." He smiled somewhat tentatively. "Thanks for being honest with me. I'll be honest with you too. And at least for tonight, I can keep you... distracted, I guess."

Stolas smiled. It was a little sad, but it was honest. 

"That would be nice," he said softly. He indicated the drink he'd almost finished. "This is... not bad, Blitzø, but... I think tonight... all I can focus on is what it isn't." 

He sighed. 

"Though the food is lovely. And so is your company. What if we... finished our meals, and then perhaps got some dessert and watched Hellanovela?"

"Sounds good to me," Blitzø said quickly. Then he grinned. "You wanna get dessert here, or you wanna hit up a bakery? We could even get some chocolate cake if you're feeling nostalgic."

Stolas considered it, then a light dusting of pink covered his cheeks. 

"There's a place nearby that does simply lovely little egg custard tarts..."

"Sounds perfect," Blitzø said. "Lemme just flag someone down for the check, and we can get out of here."

"Oh - they'll send it to us by mail, won't they?" asked Stolas, finishing the lamb. The food really was quite good.

Blitzø stared at Stolas, trying to understand what joke he was making before realizing he was serious. And that made him chuckle a little too. "No, Stols, they give you the check and then you pay it before you leave. Gotta tip, too, if you don't wanna piss off the people handling your food. I was a waiter for a while, and trust me, there's no sympathy for people that don't give tips. Pretty sure I've done at least one hit where a bunch of waitstaff chipped in to straight up murder a guy for it."

Just then, he caught the waiter's attention, who nodded and walked off. "Here, I'll show you what I mean."

"Oh," said Stolas. He looked curious. "Alright. Then...  I know I don't have my own money, yet, but... could I do the... the paying? And the tip? For practice?"

He smiled fondly at him. Sure, he was a former rich bitch with a lot of missing skills, but the earnestness with which he tried to learn everything was pretty cute. "Sure thing."

The waiter came back with the check, and he scooted over to show it to Stolas. "So they show you all the shit you bought, and the total with the tax and everything is here. And then this line here is where you write the tip, then you add up the total. Or you could leave cash, but most people don't walk around with a lotta cash unless they're criminals or looking to get robbed. Anyway, you gotta leave at least 20% of the total as a tip if you don't wanna be an asshole."

Stolas considered it. He didn't quite understand everything Blitzø said, but he understood the meaning of the word tip. 

Well, it was a very good meal, and they had really been able to connect over it. So if the tip needed to be at least 20% of that value... it was a difficult thing to come up with on the spot. But Stolas would do his best. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember if he'd seen anything about this particular imp that waited on them when he used to do prophecies. His memory was, at the very least, impeccable. 

Stolas wrote the total in careful handwriting, adding the food and the tax, and then added the tip below. It was a few tips, actually. Rather good ones, if he was honest.

Tell Susanna how you feel - she may be more agreeable to a relationship than you believe. I would also search for new work. In a few weeks, you will be blamed for a mishap with an important guest which is not your fault, but the chef's, but he will not be punished being the owner's nephew. I would also visit your mother on October 11th, between 5 and 10 PM, to avoid an unpleasant incident involving Mr. Mittens and the oven door.

Signed, Stolas, the Former Prophet of the Ars Goetia.

Blitzø wondered what kinda fucking calculus Stolas was carving into the check. Then he peeked, and burst into laughter.

"It's... it's money, Stols," he said, trying to stifle his laughter. "A tip here is money. So like... the food and shit was $80, so you gotta tip at least like $16 on top of that. 20%, you know? So at least $96, but you can round it up to an even hundred if you want. If, uh... you still have room on that thing."

"... and the money... serves as advice?" Stolas said, a little befuddled. "This seems much more useful." 

"No, it's like, uh... you know how words can mean more than one thing? Tip here just means money. Like... money for a service, since waitstaff are paid shit. And as, uh... useful as these tips are, I think the dude just needs to pay his bills." He grinned widely. "Don't think he'd mind having both, though."

"Ah! Okay. I understand." He did as Blitzø suggested, and put an even 100 on the total line as Blitzø leaned over to read what he wrote.

Blitzø's eyebrows shot up. "Did you know all this shit just by looking at him?!"

"Not by looking at him, Blitzø, don't be ridiculous. He was wearing a name tag, and I remember every name that has come up as part of someone else's star chart, however distantly. His sister-in-law works for the cousin of one of my half-siblings that asked for a prophecy a few years back. I am not a mind-reader." 

And then he looked back at the bill, and hesitated. He did some quick math in his head. 

"Blitzø," he said, suddenly looking a little embarrassed. "When you took me shopping and I picked up dish sponges for five dollars, you told me to put them back and grab the ones for three because they were on sale. And... and here you are spending a hundred on a dinner with me." He looked guilty. "That's.... quite a lot, isn't it?"

Blitzø shrugged. "It's more than I would normally spend on dinner, yeah. But this wasn't a normal dinner." He gave him a little smile, like they were sharing something special. "And I'd say we got our money's worth, right?"

"Right." Stolas smiled, blushing. The idea of someone doing something like that for him still gave him butterflies. 

As the waiter came by, he smiled and offered him the check. "Thank you for your service. We have left the money for the food and also several tips of different natures, I hope that is sufficient?"

The waiter stared at him before slowly taking the check. "I'm sure it... is..." He trailed off as he read the "tips", going from looking confused to genuinely disturbed. "What the fuck? How do you know about any of this?!"

Stolas smiled gently. "I did a star reading for your sister-in-law's former boss' cousin, Prince Sitri. You came up on the periphery, and I often grew curious about those lives I knew less about. You stood out then as a brighter comet, passionate and earnest. I saw no deep darkness on your horizons, despite a very busy and long lifetime, and I wish you the best of happiness."

"I... suppose you might already know who I am. But I once used to be a prophet for kings. But royal lives were very dull, and so I took an interest... forgive me if it feels inappropriate."

"I also saw that we would cross paths, one day. I suppose that is why you happened to serve us tonight. I don't believe we will see each other again."

And he smiled politely.

"Uh... thanks," said the waiter, looking dazed. "I'm... I'm just gonna..."

They both watched as he carefully put the check in his pocket and walked directly out the front door, leaving several tables wondering where their waiter had gone.

"So, I'm gonna assume that went well and not worry about it," Blitzø declared cheerfully as he took Stolas' hand. "Let's go get some dessert."

"Oh my," said Stolas, taking the hand as he stood. "Did I not do it correctly? It seemed I rather flustered the poor dear. This payment thing is rather complicated."

Soon enough, however, they were home. Egg tarts were acquired to excited little chirps. Then, after a long drive and a climb (as the elevator had once again broken down), they were at the apartment door. 

And then Stolas turned, draping himself fetchingly across the doorframe - or at least, as fetchingly as he could without breaking the poorly-installed door.

"Well, Blitzy... I think it's customary to kiss after a first date. If you'd like another, that is. That's what they do on television." 

"And.. I think this was our first real date, if we don't count Ozzie's. "

Blitzø smirked at him. "Thirsty bird," he teased quietly, reaching up to Stolas’s shoulder and pressing down on it, prompting his beautiful feathery skyscraper to get into kissing range.

Stolas simply slid his arms underneath the imp. He wasn't very athletic, but he managed with both hands to pick Blitzø right off the ground, kissing him. 

There was no tongue. No wanton desire. Just... a kiss. Soft, loving, and longing. Taking a while to express what words could not, holding the imp close to his chest, before finally breaking away and putting Blitzø down. 

And Stolas blushed like a schoolgirl in one of Blitzø's horse animes, then carefully unlocked the door to step inside. 

He felt at peace. 

He was happy. 

He was - 

There's absinthe inside that plant pot, Stolas, and a few bottles of wine in the kitchen.

His fingers reached for the beads on his wrist.

Blitzø was already plopping down on the couch and turning on the TV. "Get your ass over here so I can finally see what happens when Gabriella finds out that Ramón is still alive," he said, already scrolling through the episodes. "Although maybe not for much longer, if he doesn't cut ties with the cartel."

"Ramón. Right." Stolas tore his eyes away, with difficulty, from the monstera whose pot was much taller than it needed to be. "Yes. Yes, of course." 

He sat down carefully on the couch.

There's whiskey under the couch too, Stolas. You could wait for him to fall asleep... reach down...

He quickly busied his hands, unwrapping the egg custards. "Spoon or fork, Blitzø?" he said, in that overly cheerful voice that Stolas took on when his mind was somewhere else.

"Fork," Blitzø said. "Better for stabbing, obviously."

Blitzø started the episode, but pressed pause soon after. Something wasn't right - he could feel it. Something felt off. His gaze followed Stolas' to the houseplant in the corner.

"Something wrong with the plant, Stols? Do you need to water it or something? It looks fine to me."

Stolas smiled, the tension visible in every line. "No - no, it's fine. I - just - just looking at it. I can look at my plants, that's sort of the point of having them, isn't it?"

You promised you wouldn't lie anymore, churned a thought in Stolas' head. 

You also only promised you'd TRY, said another. And you fulfilled that. You tried real hard. Don't you deserve a little reward? He won't notice, if when he goes to the bathroom, you take a little sip... 

"But you... you didn't look happy," Blitzø said. "You normally look happy when you look at your plants, unless they're sick or something. But you looked kind of-”

"Fork. You said you wanted a fork, didn't you?"

Stolas walked into the kitchen. He thought about the wine a moment - just a moment. And then he grabbed a singular spoon, sitting back down on the couch before looking at Blitzø. 

"Oh - you said fork, didn't you," he said, getting up again. "Silly me. One moment- 

"Stolas, wait," Blitzø said, putting a hand on his hip to try to stop his frantic retreat. "What's going on?"

You said you'd be honest with me. The words were perched precariously on the edge of his tongue, like starlings on a wire.

Stolas looked at Blitzø. 

It was easy to say he would be honest. But really doing so... felt like inverting himself. Pouring his intestines, his lungs, his stomach, all covered in delicate, sensitive lining, into Blitzø's waiting hands, and trusting the imp not to pierce him like a vole skewer. Lying felt safe. And the truth... the truth would allow him to be seen - every scarred and twisted inch hidden under his feathers. 

And yet Blitzø had told him he loved him. And so he took a deep breath. 

"I- " He looked down at his clasped nervous hands.

"I really want a drink, and I'm struggling not to get one," he mumbled. "That's what's going on."

"Okay," Blitzø said. "I mean, I said I'd help you with that tonight. But I... I can't do that if I don't..."

Blitzø didn't know how to say it. He was glad Stolas told him the truth this time, but he was honestly a little shaken by the thing with the plant. How he felt like Stolas had tried to bullshit him immediately. So of course he just said it, like a fucking idiot. "Stolas, is there booze hidden in the apartment?"

Stolas just seemed to curl in on himself, shame gnawing on his stomach as he looked away from Blitzø. But after a moment, he forced himself to nod. 

"Okay," Blitzø said. "Okay. Thank you for telling me. I..."

He looked over at the plant. He knew what was in there now, in a fucking plant pot. But he didn't want to go over and confirm it. Somehow, that felt like he would have to ask why Stolas had answered his question with a lie, after Stolas had just promised not to do that.

And that wouldn't be good for either of them. Better to hope Stolas would keep telling him the truth now.

"How... how much?" Blitzø asked hesitantly.

Stolas' fingers played with the bracelet, straying dangerously close to his wrist feathers. 

"...a lot?" he said softly.

"A lot," Blitzø repeated quietly. "Okay. That's... we don't need to talk about it tonight. But... just sit with me, okay? A spoon is fine. We can watch Hellanovela, or whatever else you want. Just... stay here with me."

Stay where I can see you, he didn't say.

Stay where I can do what you asked me to do.

Stay where I know you can't sneak off and fucking drink yourself to death with the booze you bought with the money I gave you that you hid in my fucking apartment.

"...okay," said Stolas, softly. 

His hand squeezed his feathers, almost compulsively needing to pull, but he sighed and let go. Blitzø was all excited to have stars painted on his nails and to do little horses - somehow - on Stolas' tomorrow. 

Fourteen days. He couldn't fuck that up too. 

"... are you upset with me?" he asked softly instead, still not looking at Blitzø.

Blitzø sighed. He wanted to hug Stolas, but wrapped his arms around himself instead.  "I'm a little upset," he said quietly. "But just because I'm worried about you. And because... because you said you'd be honest with me. And... you are now, and I know how hard that must be. But I just... the very first question I..."

He shook his head. "It's okay. I know you're trying. I know that this must be really fucking hard. All I want to do is keep you safe. It just scares me when I think I can't do that."

Guilt wrote itself over Stolas' face like chickenscratch into bark - and almost somehow with that same painful sound. 

Why did everything have to hurt? Why couldn't this be easy? 

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "My... my instinct is..." he sighed. "People in my life... never wanted me to be honest, just to be proper, and... and so sometimes I suppose I... I panic. And I lie. Sometimes without really meaning to."

He took a deep breath.

"I... I want to do the best I can. And I'm trying to. But... but I might slip up. This is... this is very new to me, Blitzø. Talking - like this. My brain keeps telling me you're... you're going to get angry, and start screaming, and throwing the plants, and I know, I know you won't, I just - I -" 

He curled into Blitzø's arms, hiding his face in his shirt as the imp returned the embrace, softly trailing a hand through his feathers. 

"I'm sorry," Stolas mumbled. "I'm trying to do better. I'm just... not very good at it."

And for possibly the millionth time, Blitzø vividly imagined murdering Stella. It didn't matter if she would heal without angelic weapons. That just meant he could kill her again and again and again and-

Not helpful. Satisfying, sure, but not fucking helpful.

She wasn't fucking important. Stolas was who was important, and he tried to show him that as he held Stolas close. "It's... it's okay," he said softly. "It's okay to make mistakes with me. As long as I know you're trying. As long as you know I love you."

"You..." Stolas tried his best to think how to say it - how to explain. "You've had relationships before me, Blitzø. You had a chance to... to figure out what part of a mess was you, and what was them... to make mistakes and not have them follow you forever... to..." 

Blitzø laughed bitterly at Stolas’s first assertion. "Bold of you to assume I wasn't the whole fucking mess every fucking time," he said. But he stopped himself from going further. This was about Stolas. 

Stolas smiled weakly. "Don't you dare speak to my Blitzy like that, saying mean things," he mumbled. "Or else I'll be very upset."

Blitzø laughed a little at Stolas’s mock sternness. "Sorry. I'm working on it."

“I know.” Blitzø felt him sigh in his arms. 

"You're my first everything, Blitzø," the owl whispered. "My first kiss that meant something. The first time I had sex and enjoyed it. My first friend. My first crush. My first love." He smiled weakly. "Tonight... tonight was my first date, Blitzø. Not just our first real date - the first real date, where both people wanted to be there, I have ever gone on. And so this... this is the first time I've tried... this. The first time I've spoken about feelings. The first time I shared my pain. And the first time being honest... about this, too." 

He held the imp close as he took a deep breath. "Though.... Stella knew, you know," he mumbled. "I found out later she made it a game. She and her friends would make bets on who could get me to drink more on a given night with their mockery - who could find the words that hurt me the most. That... that is the only thing I have known. And... and this is ... I'm ... scared. I will make mistakes, and I always feel... like it'll be one too many." He squeezed him tighter. "Even though I believe your words. I promise I do."

"I get it," Blitzø said softly. "This is all new to you. And how much of a hypocrite would I be to write you off for fucking up? It's never gonna be one too many, Stolas. I'm not going anywhere."

The owl looked up.

"Do you want ... do you want me to show you where everything is?" Stolas asked, slowly. "So it can be.. honest, so you know where I can get it from? Would that help... you trust me?" he said hesitantly.

Blitzø gave him a smile that he hoped would stop him from crying.

"Yeah, Stolas, I would really like that. Thank you." He pulled him into another hug. "I'm really proud of you, you know," he murmured. "Even if you fuck up sometimes, that's not gonna change that."

"....I know," said Stolas softly, hugging him back - and he realized that at that moment, he really did know Blitzø meant it. "Thank you, Blitzø.'" 

Once they pulled apart, Stolas sighed and stood, beginning to show Blitzø his hiding places. It felt wrong - and scary - knowing they weren't his secrets anymore, that Blitzø could decide to simply take it away. 

But he trusted him. 

And so, one by one, he showed him. Absinthe in plant pots, whiskey under the couch, some more in the bathroom behind the cleaning supplies, the flask in Stolas' jacket, even the couple of bottles he had managed to squeeze behind a loose floorboard for 'emergencies'. And with each one, he kept waiting for it to be one too many and for Blitzø to finally blow up - and although he could see the imp was upset, the rage never came. 

He pushed the board back into place. 

"That... that's all except what's in the kitchen openly," he murmured. "That's it. I promise."

Stolas’s assertion had been correct: Blitzø wasn't angry, but he was pretty upset. The bottles under the fucking floorboard really solidified how much of a fucking thing this was.

"All right," he said. "I believe you. And thank you for showing me. And... if you end up finding a new place to put one... will you tell me? I don't want us to have secrets like this anymore."

"Yes," said Stolas, sitting back down on the couch. "Yes - I will." 

He looked down at his hands. "You're upset. I can see you're upset with me."

"Yeah, I... it's a lot," Blitzø said quietly. "I knew you were drinking more than I saw you drink, so I figured that you were drinking when I... wasn't paying attention. And I'm usually pretty good at noticing stuff, so... I figured you might have been kind of... hiding how much you drank. But I..."

He clenched and unclenched his hands.

"It just kinda... did I ever tell you about my sister? About... how she... I mean, it was different, it wasn't just booze, but... she hid stuff like this from me too. And it... it really scared me."

"You... you told me you have a sister," Stolas said softly. "Barbie, I think you said. And that you don't... really talk now, that you had a fight. But not much else."

He looked hesitant. "I'm sorry. I ... I didn't feel like I was going out of my way to hide something. I knew I... drank a little more than you, but I never thought it would be something that... that upset you. Or something that I couldn't... easily stop, I suppose. They didn't begin as hiding places. Just storage, since I didn't really have a space of my own. And then... then you began to look so worried if I was hungover in the mornings... and I thought if you saw it all, you'd worry more. I didn't want to worry you. I... I never thought it would scare you."

"Yeah, it... it's really scary, when someone you love hides how much they're using,” Blitzø said. “Hides stuff all over the place, and you don't know what might happen if..."

He shrugged, not letting himself finish that thought. "She almost OD'ed three different times that I know of," he said quietly.  "I found her two of those times. The first time I... I really thought she was going to die. And since... since she always blamed me for needing to use so much in the first place, I..."

He swallowed, and he could feel the tears leaking out, slowly but surely. "I would have been the one to kill her. I would have killed my mom AND my sister. So I tried everything I could think of to get her clean. Got her into rehab, got her jobs, even tried going sober myself for a while to like... show support. But none of it mattered. She hates my fucking guts, and after I stopped giving her money for drugs, she wouldn't even see me. I'm still scared that she'll be dead the next time I see her."

He sighed, wiping at his tears. "I'm sorry. I know this is different. I know you're not her. But... but I can't lose you, Stolas. I just can't."

Stolas just stared at him. Slowly, his eyes began to water. 

"Blitzø," he murmured. "I'm so sorry about your sister. But... This - this isn't like that. I… maybe I do drink a little... much sometimes. But I've never - I would never - it's not a, an addiction, it -"

Blitzø looked up at him, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. "Stols, this isn't just about drinking a little much. It's the fact that you couldn't stop thinking about it. It's the fact that you've been struggling to stop yourself all night. It's the fact that there's booze under the floorboard, Stolas. You get how that's different, right?"

"I - " Stolas looked uneasy. Uncomfortable, by a pointed question like that. If Goetia talked about such topics, it was always veiled, always implied or metaphorical. He never had to confront it like that. 

"I don't think it's - that big of a deal, is all- we all have things to, to help- "

Blitzø didn't look angry, but he did look frustrated. And somehow, more than that, he looked sad. "Yeah, Stols, I know," he said quietly. "I know we all have our own things to help. But if people aren't careful, the things that help us can become the things that kill us."

"And look... I'm the furthest thing from perfect there's ever been. I do shit that scares people I love because I can't think of what else to do. But I'm really trying not to do shit like that anymore. And I just hope... I hope you are too."

Stolas looked torn. "I... I'm not quitting, Blitzø," he mumbled. The idea terrified him, far more deeply than he wanted to admit. 

Maybe, of course, because that meant he had a problem, but he didn't want to voice that. "You... you said that was okay, and now -"

"It... it is," Blitzø said quickly. "It is okay. I'm not gonna ask you to stop drinking. I'm not taking anything away. But I just... I just wanna know that you're safe. And this... the way this is right now... I don't know how to keep you safe. I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life. I'm just..."

I'm just trying to keep you alive.

But he couldn't say that. And what else was there to say? 

"I just... I just want you to be okay," he said weakly, knowing it wasn't enough.

"I know," Stolas mumbled. 

There was a long pause. 

"I'm not," he said softly. "I'm not ... okay. And that's not... just... this. It's... everything. A lot of things. But none of those things... none of those things are your fault. And.... and I'm getting better. Right? I'm getting better." 

He sighed and lay down on the couch, putting his head into Blitzø's lap. "I get to paint your nails again tomorrow," he murmured. "Fourteen days. You promised."

"Of course," Blitzø agreed softly. He could already imagine the expression on Stolas’s face as he carefully painted stars on Blitzø's nails. Stolas had such a talent for it, such a beautiful immaculate precision, and Blitzø was a little embarrassed to admit he loved Stolas giving him such complete, devoted attention. Like he was something worth being beautiful. "I can't wait."

He pet Stolas’ feathers for a moment before turning Stolas’ head gently in his direction. "I'm not gonna make you do anything," he said. "Just... tell me what you want me to do. We can... we can just stop talking about it for now, if you want. You... you have been getting better. And I don't want you to think I would make you do something you didn't want to do. So I'm just gonna... follow your lead on this, Stols. Whatever you need from me."

And Stolas just looked at those eyes. So soft. So caring. So.... everything he ever wanted.

"I don't want to drink tonight," he said softly. "I will tomorrow, but... I'll set limits so it doesn't go out of hand. And if you can help me with that... that would..."

"I will," Blitzø said without letting him finish. "Whatever it is, I will. Thank you."

Stolas just nodded. And then he curled up on the couch, snuggling his head into prime imp petting range. 

"Hellanovela?" he asked softly.

Blitzø didn't even say anything. He just started the episode, petting Stolas’s head feathers through a recap of Gabriella's tearful farewell to Ramón and watching Stolas nibble on custard and then the owl's upper eyes turn to little glowing crescents.

He was woken up briefly by Blitzø's frustrated yells at the TV as Gabriella dismissed the appearance of Ramón as an apparition, and then again by the clack of Loona's keys, but he was soon passed out on Blitzø's lap with little snoring hoots. Despite everything, there was a light smile on his face, and his fingers had interlaced with Blitzø's without him noticing.

It wasn't perfect. Neither of them was. 

But for tonight... perhaps at least... they were okay. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes Stolas liked to take his time forming his thoughts, finding the perfect word, buried deep in the Goetian thesaurus that took up most of his frontal lobe, to describe precisely how he was feeling. 

Other days, he woke up and thought, "I feel like crap". 

His hands trembled a little the morning after their date, and he was able to eat only a tiny bit of the triple-and-a-half-boiled omelet Blitzø had tried to make. By noon, the hammering in his head had gotten worse, and once he finally decided that four PM was late enough, he sighed as his first sip of wine took it all away in a moment. He didn't like what it said about the hold alcohol had on his person. He shuddered to think what Octavia would think, and yet couldn't bring himself to put the glass down until he had finished it. 

But he told Blitzø three glasses. And three glasses he drank, before painting careful stars on Blitzø's fingernails with a glittery top coat.

And, at least that day, he did not reach for more.

One week later, he was back in the waiting room. 

Today is talking, he reassured himself. Just talking.

He could do talking, couldn't he?

Soon enough, Dr. Smith opened the door to their office, smiling calmly at him. "Hello, Stolas. Please, come in."

He walked into the comforting darkness of the office, sat in his familiar chair. There was another question on the doctor's mind, they both knew. But the doctor did not allow it to supersede their regular first question. "How are you feeling today, Stolas?"

Stolas sat down carefully, keeping his hands in his lap, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. 

He considered the question now, instead of just saying fine. "I feel tired, but otherwise not too awful. Somewhere in-between. Somewhat, I suppose, listless.”

Dr. Smith nodded and smiled gently, like Stolas honestly telling them how he felt was a gift. Because they knew that in a way, it was. "Thank you for telling me."

They wanted to simply ask about what had happened after he had last left their office. It would be unprofessional of them to say so, but they had been somewhat worried about him. Especially as they had realized how deeply seated his dependence on alcohol was, and how triggered it was by the exact sort of feelings that the two of them were exploring in the mindspace together.

And they would ask, but not right now.

"Your nails, again, look lovely," they said instead. "Forgive me, but are those red gladioluses? Not that they aren't well-rendered, but my vision for color and fine detail is somewhat affected by the darkness."

They also noticed the feather growth on his arms, but they didn't mention that.

Or rather, they suspected that they were mentioning it, in a more oblique way that he might be more comfortable with.

"Oh." Stolas looked at his nails and smiled faintly. "Yes. They are." The flowers had been carefully painted, as recognizably as Blitzø could get them. 

Twenty. He was at twenty. The feathers were beginning to be more than pinpricks of itchiness. A couple that had been torn out earlier were now nearly fully grown again. And even the ones that had been more recent victims were now getting longer and fluffier, day by day. Looking at them helped, too. He saw how hard they were working to grow back. And he didn't want to hurt them when they were trying so very hard.

"An excellent choice," Dr. Smith said, still smiling their gentle smile. "Quite fitting, I'd say."

They moved on before Stolas could have too much cognitive dissonance about the compliment. "Are you comfortable discussing how your night went after our last session?" they asked gently.

Stolas took a deep breath. 

"I didn't drink," he murmured. "Blitzø and I... went on our first real date out together and we got mocktails instead. And then  we came home and... and talked. And I told him about... my drinking habits, and... now I'm... he's helping me not overdo it as much."

He paused, but Dr. Smith sensed he had more to say. After a moment, he said it. "I... showed him where I hid alcohol in our apartment. " 

That in itself was an admission. 

"And he doesn't... make choices for me. He just... I tell him beforehand how much I plan on drinking a given night, and then he stops me getting more after that."

"That’s a wonderful idea," they said. "I'm so glad that you are the one setting limits for yourself. And I'm also very glad that Blitzø is helping you maintain your limits."

They leaned forward slightly. "How did Blitzø respond to your conversation regarding your drinking habits?"

"He... um..." 

Stolas looked uncomfortable. 

"He was... upset with me, even if he didn't get angry. He was scared. And he.... he told me about his sister, who has been in and out of rehab for drug use, and... how that scared him... and how I was doing the same." 

He fumbled with his bracelet. "I think he was... over exaggerating my issues. I don't think I'm like Blitzø's sister. But I suppose it reminded him of it a little."

A little? Dr. Smith thought sardonically, but of course didn't say. Restraint and all that.

"I think it's wonderful that you were able to see that part of his reaction was due to his personal associations. What about this situation do you think triggered those associations for him?"

"Well... he said... " Stolas sighed. "The hiding of it... the dishonesty. I think he feels better now that I'm making more of an effort to be transparent and honest. I think he gets scared if it's... if I'm... unpredictable. Like she was. If he has to watch me constantly."

"That makes a lot of sense," they said. "I imagine that the two of you trusting each other helps things immensely."

They shifted in their seat. "I'd like to talk to you about the limits you've set for yourself with alcohol, if you're comfortable with that.”

"I - okay," Stolas said softly. He did seem like he hadn't been expecting that. "It's more of a... day by day decision, I suppose. There's no real... system."

"That’s all right. It doesn't need to have a system. I'm just curious how you are choosing to determine your own limits around alcohol now." It was important that they had a sense of how much control Stolas had over his drinking, especially with the work they would be doing going forward.

Stolas hesitated awkwardly. "It's... based on how much I feel like I need to get through the day, based on how I feel," he mumbled. "I guess." He winced at the way that sounded. 

But Dr. Smith was glad that he was putting some thought into it. Which was better than the complete avoidance of the subject he had been doing before.

"I think your instincts to set your own limits around alcohol are very good ones," they said. "I don't think you are going to make any changes that you did not explicitly decide for yourself. So it is important that you decide what you want, and the people that love you can help support you through that."

They looked down slightly. "I do apologize for... essentially forbidding you to drink for that night," they said softly. "I know that that felt... patronizing. I am not generally in the habit of forbidding patients to do things as a part of the therapeutic process. But I believe..."

They paused, trying to think how to phrase this without triggering Stolas like they had before. They were nothing if not careful. "I believe it was an overcorrection from my... indiscretion in approaching our last session. I understand there is... a connection between the feelings you are exploring in these sessions and your desire to drink. I want to make sure we are proceeding responsibly with this process. And it is important to me to know all of your relevant limits regarding the exposure therapy.”

Stolas nodded, slowly.  "I.... I understand," he said hesitantly. "What kind of relevant limits?”

"Essentially," they said, "I want to determine the level of anxiety that would cause you to drink unsafely. We would then avoid meeting or crossing that level of anxiety, so that you will not feel the need to drink unsafely as a result."

For maybe the first time, Stolas felt like he wasn't quite understanding what was wanted from him. 

"I'm.... I'm sorry," he said sheepishly. "I don't know how I would determine that. It's not something I've considered.... just intuited. Could you explain?" 

He looked a little hopeful. "Is there a chart?"

They nodded. "I apologize for being unclear. Let me try to explain this in another way."

Chart. Okay. They could do a chart.

They got up and turned a nearby window into a whiteboard, taking out a marker and drawing a simple line chart. They labeled the bottom of the chart "time" and the vertical axis "anxiety", then drew a wave pattern across it.

"When your anxiety gets here," they said, pointing at the crest of the first wave, "the way you have found to decrease it was by drinking." They indicated the wave's descent, then pointed to the next wave. "You now have an association that drinking decreases anxiety."

They erased the waves and drew a second curve that rose quickly and declined slowly. "The idea of exposure therapy is that if you sit in the anxiety without drinking, the anxiety will slowly decrease on its own. Thus, over time, your brain will lose the association between drinking and lowering your anxiety. However..."

They drew a dotted line horizontally near the top of the chart. "My concern is that if your anxiety gets too high, your desire to drink to unsafe levels will be too strong for you to resist. A sort of... unsafe threshold."

They capped the marker with a little click. "I am trying to determine where that anxiety threshold is, and to avoid reaching it. Please feel free to ask questions regarding this if I am being unclear."

"It.. it's clear," he said softly, understanding. This was similar to the initial explanation for exposure therapy. "But I guess I... don't know how much anxiety will make me drink what amount and... what's considered unsafe. I am a Goetia. Until recently... nothing could hurt me very much to begin with."

"Yes, but... that is different now, isn't it?" they asked softly. "I suppose that was a key element of this that I did not initially consider - my apologies, Stolas."

They sat back down, looking thoughtful. "But especially now that you are mortal, at least temporarily, there is an unsafe level of drinking for you. I don't know what it is, and it makes sense that you wouldn't know either, as you've never really had to consider it before. But, as you are not quitting, we need to determine what levels of anxiety would cause you to drink unsafely. And we will need to have a contingency plan in the event that we accidentally cross that threshold."

"How... How do we determine that, then?"

The Sinner looked thoughtful. "My first thought is that as we continue this, you try to be aware of when the anxiety makes you want to drink, and how strongly. At a certain point, we will stop or slow the session for harm reduction. But if one or both of us think you have crossed that threshold..."

They paused, trying to consider the best way to phrase this. "I will not forbid you from drinking after a session anymore, if you are not comfortable with that. But I will try to determine a plan with you on how you will prevent yourself from drinking an unsafe amount in the immediate aftermath of the session. Does that sound reasonable?"

"I... suppose," he said softly. "Theoretically. I don't know how that would work in practice. Could we... could we practice before doing it in... in the mindspace? So I can understand?"

"Yes," they said immediately. "I think that's an excellent idea. We could do more traditional exposure therapy to practice this. That way, I imagine the effects of the anxiety would not be as... potent as they would be in the mindspace. But it would be a similar process."

They imagined the steps in their mind as they listed them - like rungs on a ladder. "We would find something that causes you anxiety, and we would discuss it. You would exist in the anxiety for as long as you can safely tolerate. And again, we can always stop if you need to. But while we do, I would like you to check in periodically with yourself, not just about your anxiety level, but how strongly you want to drink to alleviate your feelings. And we will use that information to determine if or when we should stop, and what your plan is for after the session. Does that sound amenable to you?”

"Yes," he said softly. "I suppose. I can try that.”

"Very well," they said, smiling encouragingly at him. "Then the first step is choosing a topic that will cause you some anxiety, but that you can tolerate discussing. Something lower on your list, perhaps."

They put a finger to their chin thoughtfully. "I remember that previously, you mentioned that you wanted to discuss some memories involving Blitzø. Would that work today, or do you want to try something else?"

"Yes," he said softly. "I think I put on there... on my list... the night of our... breakup. Of our last Full Moon rendezvous.”

They nodded, settling into their seat. "Yes, I remember. Tell me about it, in the most detail you are willing to share. Start wherever makes the most sense to you.”

Stolas sighed, then closed his eyes. He tried his best to remember. 

"Well... we had a deal, Blitzø and I. That he would get the book - my grimoire - that he needed for his work in exchange for... for bedding me. And I realized I... I wanted more out of the relationship. That it wasn't fair to...  to hold his livelihood over his head. That in truth, I didn't know if he enjoyed our nights together, and if I was merely a chore for him to complete. So I arranged an alternative method for him to go Earthside."

"Then when he came to… fulfill our arrangement, I... I told him so. I gave him an Asmodean crystal, and told him he had no obligation to see me anymore - that he only had to see me if he wanted to see me. That I had feelings for him. Deep feelings. That I... I care for him." 

He took a breath. "And he... he... decided it must be a game. A role-play. That I did not... could not possibly... mean it."

Dr Smith nodded, giving Stolas the complete attention that he deserved. They felt his anxiety creeping up, but not spiking, at least not yet. They decided to push him forward, gently. "Then what happened?"

"Then, well... I stopped him. It hurt so much to see him pretend to confess his love... to not believe me. I told him I had my answer... and thanked him for.... I wished him the best with his business, and walked away. Then he… he followed me down the hall, and began to yell at me."

And there it was. The yelling. They suspected that the yelling was a big trigger for both his anxiety and his drinking.

It was early, perhaps too early, but they wanted to check in just in case. Ideally, they would stop discussing this before his anxiety made him want to drink too much. "Anxiety level?"

Stolas took a deep breath. He had mentally replayed this particular memory before. He'd near tortured himself with it. It had made him reach for the absinthe at Verosika's party - and attend the party at all. 

But it did mean he was somewhat habituated to it, if even a little.

"Three," he said softly.

They nodded. Three wasn't too bad. They could keep going. "What did he say, when he yelled at you?" they asked.

"He said... he said..." 

He took a deep breath. 

"He said he couldn't believe I was serious. That... that I was... a - a pompous rich asshole."

"That must have been very hard to hear, coming from him," they said softly, evenly. "Even though I suspect his words were more reactive than carefully considered. It still must have hurt, to hear him say that about you, after everything."

"Yes," Stolas said softly. "Yes, it did."

"He told me how... how much I looked down on him. How... how he wasn't going to allow it, anymore... how my confession of love must be one more way to manipulate him... how I enjoyed toying with his feelings, because I thought he was smaller and not as important." 

Slight tears formed in Stolas' eyes. 

"Did it hurt? Yes. Lucifer, yes. To know the man I loved... that I thought so highly of... thought so low of me. When it felt that all I had been was open and honest. Even... even if now... I understand why he said those things. That I did speak as if I looked down on him. That I..." 

He sniffled. 

"That... that he was right. That I..."

"It was a miscommunication," the doctor said gently. "A major one, and a painful one, but not one with malice on either side. Even though I'm sure it didn't feel like that at the time."

They considered asking him his anxiety level again - if they had to guess, it was a four now, perhaps creeping into a five. They decided to hold off just a little longer, see if they could find a plateau, or if it would just keep rising until the exercise was terminated. "Then what happened?"

"And then I could not handle hearing him anymore," he said softly, "and portaled him out of my palace. I didn't see him until the next morning. I was trying to... to distract myself from my pain. To read a book. And he... climbed into my pool patio, just... just to shout at me some more. All I wanted was a moment to myself, a moment of quiet, to process... " 

Reading a book, they noted to themself. A much healthier method of distraction than drinking. There was likely some drinking before that, but still, it was worth considering as an alternative, if his attention and mood were at a place where reading was a viable option.

Something to explore more later. Back to the task at hand.

Stolas swallowed. "I tried to tell him to leave. That it hurt to see him. That I wasn't ready to speak to him. But he was relentless. He kept... trying to come on to me. To resolve the situation with sex. To convince himself, I suppose... that it really was all I had wanted."

"It sounds like he was trying to repair the situation, even in a deeply misguided way," they said. "Do you remember what exactly he said to you that morning?"

"He wanted to... make up, yes. But all he kept doing was... flirting, and asking me to come to the bedroom with him, and resolve it via...  angry sex, and... and that wasn't what I wanted." He sighed. "I don't remember all of it. I remember asking if he'd ever apologized for his actions... and him telling me he was plenty capable of it, that he would apologize to everyone except me, because I.... I did not deserve it. And in the middle of out argument, he let slip that he had known about... a first assassination attempt on me, by my wife, and did not... did not tell me.”

Stolas looked down, his hands clasping. "After that I felt... nothing but anger. I had waited for him to come back, to apologize... and when he did come, all he had wanted was that. It felt like it was the only value he saw in me." He sighed. "I suppose I understand now... how difficult it was for Blitzø.... to accept he could be loved by someone of my rank. That I was blind to that difference between us. But I ... had a right to process my feelings without him, too. To be left alone. I was angry that he couldn't respect that." 

He sighed. "So I got an invitation that night to a party hosted by... all of Blitzø's ex-partners... to express their hate towards him. And I decided to go, even if it was initially just out of a desire to hurt him back. To vent my emotions somehow."

"I'm glad that we made... a lot of progress since then in how we talk to one another. Even if we still argue sometimes."

"You certainly have," Dr. Smith agreed. "For what it's worth, I am very proud of how much better both of you have gotten at expressing your feelings to each other. Even in our monthly couples' sessions, I can see the difference."

They tilted their head slightly. "What is your anxiety level now?"

"Five," mumbled Stolas.

And here was the new part of this, the part they hoped they were seguing into cleanly enough. "How strong, if present, is your desire to drink right now to assuage that anxiety?"

"Somewhat," he said with a sigh. "I mean, that's what I did after. I went to the party, and I got... probably more drunk than I had in my life. I remember singing karaoke... I remember Blitzø showing up and talking to me... I remember a cake made to look like Blitzø's corpse, complete with a heart... and I remember - um -" 

And then Stolas blushed immensely.

"...do you want to continue with that thought?" they asked, so gently. "You are welcome to if you'd like, of course. But we are primarily, in this exercise, trying to determine how your anxiety level affects your desire to drink. I don't want you to push yourself too hard."

"No, it's not that, it's - it's um -" He looked embarrassed. "I... had a bit of a... one-night stand... and it's - it was embarassing, even though he was kind. Goetia.. I... don't do that sort of thing... that's all. I... I was also... quite inebriated by that point. I don't know if I.... would have... had I not been." 

"I see," they said simply. "That sounds unfortunate, although I am glad it ended up being merely embarrassing for you, and not worse than that. Not that such a reaction is uncommon following a breakup, of course."

Time to push, they thought. Just a little. "Is it safe to say that your drinking... sometimes contributes to you making decisions that you would not make otherwise?”

Stolas' spine pressed a bit against the back of the chair, the vertebra sinking into the weathered tweed. 

"That was the only time that has happened, if that's what you're asking."

"That is not... really what I'm asking," they admitted. "I meant it in a more general way. If there is a correlation between drinking heavily and making decisions you would not make otherwise."

"... I usually drink alone," he said softly. "There's not much... decision to make." 

And then he thought back to that memory. Little Via, crying as she was scared of the clown, and himself, laughing... 

"I… I suppose there have been times when it... kept me from... from connecting with people around me." He sighed. "Like Via. Or... Blitzø did apologize to me at that party. He told me as much later, and I believe him. But at that time, I was too drunk to understand a word he said. I could have... lost my chance to get him back. I essentially did, if it were not for the trial."

"But you didn't," they pointed out. While his realization was a good one, they didn't want it to be soured by catastrophic, if somewhat realistic, hypotheticals. "From all you've told me, Blitzø is not only back, but extremely dedicated to you and your well-being."

Hoping that was enough to mitigate any catastrophizing, they pressed gently forward into more uncomfortable territory. "But I think it's good that you to realize that drinking to excess is related to making decisions that are not ideal for you. If you are to limit your drinking, it can't be merely because anyone else wants you to. It has to be because you want to. And if you think that excess drinking has an overall negative effect on your life, it is more likely that you will want to limit it for your own benefit. That its benefits are not worth its drawbacks, or at the very least, that you can gain its benefits elsewhere with fewer drawbacks. Does... that make sense?" they asked, still a little worried that they were being unclear.

"It makes sense," said Stolas softly. "But...they were isolated incidents. It feels like at the end of the day, you are... bending words however is needed... to get me to quit. To take it away." 

He knew that was a rude thing to say. But he could feel the small scratching of panic in his intestines, even if it wasn't acute. 

A scratch that told him, They're trying to take the only thing you can rely on to make it stop.

The doctor nodded, not taking offense, and showing on their face that they didn't take offense. They found that important. They had gotten very good at listening to rude statements, especially those said in attempted self-defense, and not taking or showing offense. It was something they had mastered before they had even died. And good thing too: in Hell, and in their line of work, it was an invaluable skill.

"I understand what you are saying," they said calmly. "But please believe me that I am not trying to take anything away from you, especially something that has helped you survive up until this point. The only time I will do that is on the rare occasions that I think using it would be truly unsafe." 

That I think it would kill you, they thought, wondering if that phrasing would trigger too much denial or anxiety. Things were too delicate now to risk it. "Beyond that, I will not take anything away from you. I am merely trying to help you consider it. You ultimately will get to decide what to do with your life. I will not do anything to you here that you do not consent to. And I have no control over anything you do outside of this office. That is all, ultimately, up to you.”

Stolas sighed. "But you won't push me in ways you think will make me want to drink," he summarized. "Isn't that essentially the same thing?"

He looked down, running a hand over the prickly fresh feathers on his arm. "I just... I have so few things... that I know take the pain away. And I've already given one up." 

It was blunt. It was straightforward. And it wasn't veiled in metaphor. But it was real.

"It is similar," they admitted. "But I don't think it's the same, Stolas. The way I am approaching your treatment in relation to your alcohol use is merely through the lens of harm reduction. To ensure that I am doing my due diligence in maintaining my Hippocratic Oath. I can place limits on what type of treatment I will provide, based on whether I think such a thing would be professionally responsible. But again, I cannot and will not control any action you take outside of my office. And perhaps just as importantly, I will not condemn you for the things you do to endure your pain."

They leaned forward, fixing him with a stare that some people called "intense" or "creepy". But it was the best way that they knew to express how earnest they were being. "My goal here is to help you become healthier, whatever that means to you. I will not condemn you if you slip up and cope in an unhealthy way. I will not yell at you, or belittle you, or try to shame you. Because you don't owe me anything, Stolas. I am only here to help you, in the way that you want and need. You are the one that determines how I will try to do that. If you truly do not wish to discuss your drinking, I will only ever mention it in terms of not crossing the threshold of unsafety, and that is all. And you can determine if we discuss it beyond that."

They paused for a moment, to breathe and re-center. "But to address what you said, I can only imagine how difficult it must be to limit your access to the things that take your pain away. One thing I'd very much like to do is continue to find other things that you can do to take your pain away. I know that none of this feels as... effective as alcohol, but I'd like to keep trying anyway, especially as you already seem to be finding ways to do that. I can see that even in the dark, Stolas. Your red gladioluses. Your strength. But even this, I will only ever do with your consent. Nothing should happen here that is not for you, and you are the first and foremost person to define that.”

Stolas looked at them, for what felt like a longer time than it was. 

And even when the dark eyes got closer, the red stayed, without moving away. 

"Do you know why I've always liked flowers, Dr. Smith?" he asked softly. "Because they represent well how feelings feel. One can say: I am strong. I want to begin anew. I love you. I am happy. But they're lies; they're always lies, because a person can't know that for the rest of their lives. All they know is how they feel now. I am strong now. I am happy now. I want a new start, now. I love you, now." 

He looked down at his nails. 

"And then the flowers die. And you can replace them with your new truth." 

There was a long pause. "Yes. I drink to cope. And yes, perhaps, sometimes it crosses the threshold of safety. But I had other ways.  I tore my feathers out until there were none left. I cried myself to sleep. I made my wife angry, hoping she would hit me and that it would hurt. I disobeyed my tutors for the same. I took my medication by the handful, not caring if it was one too many. And I know how long the fall, in seconds, would be from Blitzø's balcony to the ground." 

He clasped his hands tightly. 

"I'm not as strong as you think," he said softly. "Or as strong as I wish I was. These were painted by someone who believed I was strong, during a moment when I believed it too. But nail polish gets replaced, like flowers, and I don't know if I'll feel that way tomorrow. And... alcohol.... is the least harmful of the ways I've kept myself..." 

Alive. When he had nothing else.

"I can't," he mumbled. "If I can't drink, I can't do this. Any of this. I'm sorry.”

They listened patiently, their practiced kind but neutral expression hiding how upsetting it was to refer to his flowers, his growth, as lies. As though a flower's impermanence invalidated its existence. As though he was using such a personal thing to invalidate himself.

It hurt them, when their patients hurt themselves like that. Even if the patients didn't see it like that. Because they literally felt that pain.

But how they felt wasn't important. At least, not here, and not now.

"Do you think flowers are lies?" they asked softly. "Because they don't last forever? Are things lies because they die? Because that means that basically everything is a lie, Stolas. And I don't think that's true."

They leaned back in their chair. "I must have been unclear again. I never said that you couldn't drink, Stolas. I said that I would not do things here with you that I think, if I may be frank, will cause you to die. That is part of my professional responsibility. I don't think all forms of drinking will kill you. And I don't want to discount all of the work you have done to not hurt or kill yourself. I really am so happy that you have already made so much progress on that. And if drinking is not something you want to discuss, we will not discuss it. That does mean that I will put limits on what we do in the mindspace. But I will not stop seeing you, regardless of your drinking."

They folded their hands neatly in their lap. "You may stop seeing me, if that is what you require. But I don't want you to stop coming just because you are drinking. I won't even address it at all, if that's what you need. Because your progress may not be linear, but it is not a lie, Stolas. I hope you can believe that. But if you can't, please just believe that I am not giving you an ultimatum."

Stolas looked at them, for a while. It seemed like his mind was stirring; thinking; examining. 

"Okay," he said, at last. "I... I accept those terms." Stolas looked down. "I do believe everything is a lie, in a way. Or at least... temporary. Perhaps it is a view affected by my former immortality. But... I do believe lies can still be beautiful. That lies can feel good. I don't think it makes lies unimportant. Just.... that they don't always last forever."

Dr. Smith considered asking Stolas to consult the dictionary for the definition of "lie", but they decided not to. Stolas probably wasn't in the mood for a joke.

"All right," they said instead. "Thank you for discussing this with me today, Stolas. I know how difficult this must have been. And I appreciate you doing that work with me. In return, I will do everything I can to support your mental health in a way that you determine is helpful for you. All right?"

"Alright," he said softly. Then he sighed. "Sorry. I think... perhaps I may share with Blitzø... the fact that I don't always like to be told what to do. I understand if that makes me... rather difficult to work with, at times. I think I feel a little... on edge, today."

They smiled gently at him. "I can handle difficult," they said simply. They wondered idly if Blitzø had ever told Stolas about the time Blitzø had tried to kill them.

"Also, I do not find you generally difficult, Stolas. But on any occasions that you are, I believe that I can handle it. And I want to. Because I find that we must address the most difficult parts of ourselves in order to heal. And that is exactly what I am here for. In your own time, and by your chosen methods, of course."

They sighed slightly. Not the cleanest end to a session, but certainly better than it could have been. "I am afraid we are out of time. Can I look forward to seeing you at the same time next week?"

Stolas looked up. He nodded, but there was a noted tiredness in his eyes. "Are we.... will it be a mindspace session again?”

"If you'd like," they said mildly. "As long as you have a ride home prepared, it easily could be. We'll discuss it next week, all right?"

"Alright," said Stolas. He looked at the office - and then at his nails - and smiled weakly. "I am... " He sighed. "I know a lot of what I said probably sounded a bit... defeated. But I am trying. It just... perhaps it's harder than I thought it would be."

"I know," they said, smiling gently at him. "That's okay. It might be hard. But it will be okay."

About 15 minutes after Stolas left, Dr. Smith felt a familiar grating presence - metaphorically speaking, the lightning of an approaching emotional storm. They looked out the window, just quickly enough to notice the edge of a white feather. Not a moment too soon, someone was banging against the door, the buzzer's rings crescendoing into one another to cause an indecipherable cacophony. 

Dr Smith took a deep breath and focused on Stella. It was harder to do this without direct physical contact, especially from this distance. But it was not impossible, and within a minute, they could feel the fear and dread that they were projecting onto her begin to take hold.

The Goetia finally tore her hand from the buzzer, as if it had burned her. The therapist watched her stand there for a minute, feeling out her insides with their tendrils of fear and dread. Pink eyes turned to gaze into the window, and for a moment locked onto the doctor, glaring at them venomously. But as she found herself staring into an endless void where she had expected eyes, her smug expression turned to fear, then panic, then existential terror. 

Her skirt swooshed as she turned, and heels clicked rapidly across the pavement. 

Dr. Smith sat down in their chair, sighing and rubbing their temples with a faint, tired smile.

Nobody fucked with their patients and got away with it. 

Chapter Text

Twenty-five days. 

Stolas made it twenty-five days. 

That was the number written on the whiteboard hanging on the bathroom wall, decorated with little balloons and stars. Every day, Blitzø drew a different horse in the corner. Today's had a fluffy mane like clouds, and a little speech bubble coming out of it saying "Uve got dis prty bird!" 

And now Blitzø was gone on a hit, and Stolas was sitting on the floor, sobbing his eyes out. He didn't have this. He didn't have - whatever it was Blitzø had hoped he would. 

What he did have were five bottles of absinthe, lying empty at his feet. Taunting him. Mocking him. 

What he did have was water, rushing into the bath from a tap he'd long forgotten to turn off.

And what he did have were feathers, swirling around him in a mesmerizing dance of purple and crimson.

Blitzø finally came home after a long day. Not necessarily a bad day- all the hits had gone well, and they had actually made enough money that he could pay everyone on time. But he was exhausted from the back-to-back stakeouts, and all he wanted was some quality time with his lover.

He had picked up some of the egg custards Stolas had liked so much - he was too beat for an actual date, but dessert on the couch sounded perfect.

"Hey, Pretty Bird!" he called out, kicking the door closed behind him. "Guess what I got!"

What he heard in response was nothing. And he also saw nothing. Which was already concerning, because how did an eleven-foot tall bird hide in a tiny apartment?

The sound of the running water was, initially, a relief. But the image of sneaking in on the bird taking a luxurious bath was interrupted by the faint sound of sobbing that had become all too familiar.

It was only then that he noticed the toppled over potted plant. Its pot empty. The custards were quickly dropped and forgotten as Blitzø yanked open the bathroom door. 

The sights all hit him at once, like a train barreling down the tracks. 

Stolas.

Sobbing, bleeding Stolas.

Sobbing, bleeding Stolas, surrounded by feathers and absinthe bottles.

Blitzø fell to his knees, clutching Stolas’s shoulders, tears already blurring his vision.

"Stols, what happened?" he asked, and his voice already sounded like it had gone through a sander. "What happened?'

"I'm sorry," gasped Stolas. It was all he was capable of. All he was desperate for. 

His face was buried in his knees. Like he could not look up, could not see Blitzø's face, could not see the fucking disappointment - 

"I'm sorry," he simply repeated, growing more frantic. "Please - I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry - “

"Stolas, it's okay," Blitzø said in a frantic rush, feeling so desperately not okay. "I'm here now, Stolas, I just…”

He fell silent as the words slowed and jumbled in his mind. “Stolas, I... I don't understand. What happened? You seemed... you seemed okay before I left for work... what happened? Should I... did you need..."

He stopped talking. What was the point? He just held Stolas for a while, before some numb part of his brain told him to get the first aid kit.

Again.

"You're bleeding," he said softly. "Please, I need to see your hands."

But Stolas simply curled up tighter in his shame. He held his arms close to his chest, out of reach. He didn't deserve Blitzø's care, Blitzø's help. Not when he'd failed. Not when he'd thrown away everything Blitzø had worked so hard with him on. Not when he was so useless, so pointless- 

Stolas had woken up empty. But he was a good liar. He had smiled as he picked at the eggs Blitzo had prepared. He had smiled as he waved goodbye. He had smiled as he gave his imp a kiss and closed the door behind him. 

And then he had sunk to the floor. He hadn't even been upset. Just... empty. But how do you explain empty? Let alone empty for no good reason?

But that was okay. He'd been empty before. He could sit on the couch, and glue his eyes to the wall, or to mindless television, and watch the little hand on the clock go around and around. He sat and waited patiently for Blitzø to come home. Then, usually having been wrapped in a soft blanket and with his lap full of warm imp, Stolas would wait for the sun to set. He would wait for tomorrow and hope it would be better. It often was. 

Except today, the waiting had been interrupted. There had been a knock at the door. And Stolas had risen to answer it...

Stolas began to cry harder. 

"Don't leave me," he begged, and his voice was hoarse from crying. "Please - please - I'm sorry, Blitzy, I'm sorry - please don't leave me - ”

"I won't," Blitzø said, not able to control the tears flowing down his face. "I won't leave. I won't leave you, Stolas. Please, just tell me…”

Tell me why you won't give me your hands.

Tell me why you won't let me help you.

Tell me why you want to fucking die.

Tell me why nothing I do is ever enough.

“...please tell me what happened.”

"I failed," Stolas choked out. "I... I fucked up. T-that's what happened. I'm sorry..."

He was drunk. He was completely, unquestionably drunk, his voice slurred and muffled as he sobbed helplessly against his bleeding hands. "It's all just... just... one thing after the other, and.... and..." 

"Okay. Okay," Blitzø said. He wasn't even really sure what he was trying to convey, except that he had heard him. It was very clear that nothing was okay right now.

"Just... just breathe, Stolas. Did Dr. Smith teach you the... it doesn't matter. Just copy me. It's like... in for four- one, two, three, four- then just hold it for... yeah, okay, you got it, and then let it out slowly..."

Blitzø tried to guide Stolas through the breathing exercise that he barely felt like he understood. It took a few tries, but slowly, Stolas let himself be led into his breathing. The world came back into focus, little by little, and his hands loosened their hold on his knees, just slightly.

After a little while, Blitzø tried again. "Just... just tell me what happened today. Please?”

"I was having a bad day," he sniffled. "Broke one of your favorite horse mugs... then..." 

He swallowed. "I saw my... medication was running out, so I... I tried to be... useful. I called my old pharmacy, and... I never had to c-care about the money before. But... but now.... I d-don't think we - " 

Blitzø let out a strange imitation of a laugh. It was more like a groan mixed with a sob. "That’s fine, Stolas, I have like a million horse mugs. And... and we'll figure out your meds together."

He knew that the individual problems weren't the whole thing. It was the buildup of everything. Hell, he had punched holes in the wall for less. But he hoped it was helping anyway.

"And then... and then the mail came,” Stolas continued, like he hadn't heard him. “And I just... I just..." He trailed off into tears.

Blitzø tried to take Stolas’s arm again, as slowly and gently as he could, to assess the damage. Hesitantly, Stolas let him. 

Blitzø's breath caught in his throat when he saw the state of Stolas’s hands, his arms, his… everything.

It wasn't good. It was decidedly not good. He was bleeding. Large bunches of feathers, even newly-regrown, had been yanked out in handfuls, and deep scratches lined the featherless skin when that hadn't been enough. 

The mirror had been shattered, a few shards of glass on the floor beside Stolas. 

There were a few spots on his arms and his thighs where in desperation to escape the emotional pain, he had used the glass to dig deeper, to cut through skin and nearly through flesh, where blood was still flowing like wine. Where skin, a few broken quills holding on, peeled and hung away from his arm like a soaked bandage. In some places, small shards of glass were embedded in the palms of the shaking bird, and in the knees he'd been grasping tightly.

It wasn't the worst injury Blitzø had seen, not by a long shot. Not as bad as what he was used to patching up for himself after a particularly bad field injury, not a bullet wound or a knife slash. And honestly, it wasn't even the worst injury he had seen Stolas have, thanks to that fuckhead Striker.

But this wasn't from a hit. This wasn't from angelic steel. This was from a fucking mirror and Stolas had done it to himself.

Stolas collapsed into Blitzø's arms with a sob, the imp trying to hold him as upright as he could. His bones were hollow, but a wet bird could be quite heavy. Blitzø tried not to shudder as he felt Stolas’s blood seep into his coat, holding him close.

He wished he knew what to say. But everything he could think of would only make this, somehow, worse.

“What happened with the mail?” he whispered.

"I had set up... mail... rerouted... from the palace,” Stolas choked out through tears. “And... it's all… and everyone hates me, Blitzø..." He let out a broken sound. "I knew they did... I know I made it happen, but some of them... some of them said - said I should..." 

"Fuck them," Blitzø growled, holding Stolas close. "Fuck anyone and everyone that ever made you feel like this. Wanna fucking hurt them.”

"Don't... d-don't hurt anyone,” Stolas whimpered. “It's not... not their fault. It's just me... all of this... it's all just me. I deserve everything they said… and then… and then…"

He wiped his eyes, smearing blood over his cheek. 

"And then one of the letters I got... an error, I suppose... it was for Via..." He buried his face in Blitzø's shirt. "Nothing special, j-just a-an advertisement for taxidermy classes, but it.... it h-had her name.... on the envelope... and....and for a second.... I... I had thought... I had thought..."

He pulled back, shaking his head furiously. "I'm sorry... Blitzø... I d-don't know why, I just... I just couldn't... I know I promised.....it wasn't even anything - I... I'm so sorry..."

Blitzø looked at Stolas, still crying, still furious. He tried to calm down, to get rid of enough misery and anger so that he could do what he needed to do. Slowly, he grabbed some antiseptic from the first-aid kit, opening the bottle and dabbing some onto a washcloth. "This is gonna sting," he said, his voice suddenly heavy and flat. "But I'm not letting you get an infection."

Stolas just sniffled. Then he put his arm out with a dead expression, tears running down his cheeks.

Stolas didn't care if it hurt. Perhaps some part of him still even craved the pain. His shoulders trembled. But other than that, he held still for Blitzø to work.

"I have tweezers somewhere if you need them for the glass," he mumbled, not looking at Blitzø. "The ones I use for preening." 

"There's tweezers in the first aid kit already," Blitzø said, his voice so flat that it was almost monotonous. 

And then the dripping tap was the only sound. 

Blitzø was silent as he carefully removed the glass from Stolas’s right hand. Stolas just sat there in the silence. 

Sometimes his breath hitched as Blitzø's antiseptic stung a particularly deep wound, or wiped a little bit too harshly against delicate skin. He did let out a little sob, hiding his face, as Blitzø began digging glass from his palm, but it wasn't clear if it was from pain or shame. 

His fingers didn't curl, despite his tears. His palm lay flat. His body tensed instead as tweezers poked and prodded, pulling at glass fragments embedded deep in his hand, like a wound coil.

He spread his fingers, pushing his palm against the glass as Blitzø dug it out from his palm. The pain felt right. It felt like... like he was being punished. And shouldn't he be? 

Eventually, Blitzø finished removing all the glass from his hand, carefully washing and bandaging it. Stolas silently offered his other arm to Blitzø. To start it all over again. 

He hadn't spoken in a while. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He'd already said it. But now, somehow, it felt heavier in the silence.

"I know," Blitzø said quietly. Removing what seemed to be the last piece of glass from Stolas’s left hand, he finally looked up at him. He was still crying as he wrapped up Stolas’s palm in a bandage, realizing that Stolas would need all of them.

"And I forgive you," he said. "I know this wasn't something you, like... planned. I know you've been getting better. But Stolas... you really fucking scared me. And honestly, I'm still scared. I'm fucking terrified."

"I know," Stolas sniffled. He raised his hand, careful of the bandages, and wiped his eyes with his blood-covered sleeve. "I - I know." He sighed deeply, sniffling. 

"I.... I never wanted...." Another little sob. "You... believed in me... so much... and then I.... I..."

"I still believe in you," he said quietly. "I do. And I'm never gonna leave you. I'm here for you, no matter what. But sometimes it still feels like... like I'm not..."

He shook his head. He didn't know if he could follow those words. He didn't know where they'd take him. He just started cleaning and bandaging Stolas’ thighs.

When he finally finished, he looked back up at Stolas. "Can you stand?"

Stolas nodded, weakly. The crying had stopped, but the sniffling sobs had turned to little hooting hiccups. He stood, a little shaky from the emotion and loss of blood. He let Blitzø lead him to the couch, stepping over the pile of mail on the floor, and then over the box of egg custards. Then the bird sank into cushions, like he wished they would swallow him. His conscious mind worried about getting blood and water on them, but his body was too tired to care. 

Blitzø curled up next to him on the couch, pulling a blanket over them. He really should clean up the bathroom, he thought, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He put his ear to Stolas’s chest and listened to his heart beat.

It was such a beautiful sound, and he was afraid that if he moved even an inch, it might stop. That he might never hear it again.

"It's not your fault," Stolas mumbled. "It's never, ever your fault. You... you didn't ask for this. For any of this. You're... the only good thing in my life, Blitzø. You, and Loona, and..."

His eyes fell on a photograph, and he curled up a little tighter. It was a photograph in a little white frame, taken just because. Loona, in a soft sweater - and Stolas, holding a trophy made of construction paper. She had made it for him to celebrate his latest Halo win. And Stolas was smiling, little daffodils on his nails visible as he held the paper proudly, like it was made of real gold. 

Blitzø looked at the picture and managed something like a smile. "Good pic, isn't it?" he said, nuzzling against Stolas’s chest again. "You look like family. Like my family."

He sighed, gripping Stolas like that could keep anything from ever hurting Stolas again. Even Stolas himself. It was fucking stupid. But it didn't stop him.

"I just want to keep my family safe," he muttered against Stolas’s chest feathers, wondering bitterly if he'd eventually try pulling those out too. "I try so hard to do that. Why can't I do that?"

It was that moment at which Stolas' brain decided to remind him how much alcohol he'd drunk. He felt shame race through his throat, burning like a cheap whiskey.

Blitzø was trying so hard. For him. To keep him safe. And what did he do? 

He made Blitzø feel like a failure. That's what he did. 

And yet somehow, Blitzø had called him family. 

Stolas didn't know what to do. Promise to Blitzø he'd never do it again? That he'd never drink again, either? 

He couldn't do that. That board... no matter how high the number he may write some day... it would always go back to zero, wouldn't it? 

He would always fail. 

He would always end up here. With Blitzø against his chest. With his imp somehow feeling like it was him who had failed. 

Stolas thought for a long, long time about what to say. And some of his thoughts were too ugly, too twisted to string into words. And others hurt in a different way. 

Because of Dr. Smith, sometimes a few of his thoughts were now kind to himself. Even if he didn't deserve those. Even if he didn't want them. And they hurt too, sometimes more than those thoughts he was too scared to voice, the ones that pulled barbed tails through his intestines as they wormed their way to his heart and constricted his lungs. Because at least those thoughts didn't make him feel disgusted for thinking them.

"I'm sick, Blitzø," he mumbled, ever so quietly. "I'm... I'm ill. Maybe... maybe that's not something you can... fix by trying harder. Maybe it's... just..." He swallowed. "What I am." 

Would you still want me in your family, Blitzø? he thought.

Would you want me, if this is how I am forever?

Do I still get to be yours?

Blitzø was silent for a few seconds, processing. "Okay," he said eventually. "I... I mean, it's not like I'm the fucking picture of mental health. It's not that I'm disappointed in you, Stols. It's not that you're not living up to some fucking... standard or something. I just... I just don't want to lose you."

He looked up at him, eyes big and soft and glowing slightly in the dimmed light. "I'll do whatever it takes. Even if it means this. However many times you fall, that's how many times I'll help you back up. Just..." He tried to think of what he was even asking for. "Maybe... you could call me next time? If you start feeling like this? I don't know if I'll always be able to help, but... at least I'd know. At least... I could come home faster. Take care of you sooner. I wouldn't have to worry that..."

He said the last part so quietly, buried in Stolas’s feathers. His voice was drowned out by the perfectly unceasing beat of Stolas’s heart. "...that I'll be too late."

Oh.

...Oh. 

Stolas put his bandaged arms around Blitzø tightly, ignoring the sting. 

"I will," he said softly. "Next time, I... I will. I promise. It... I... couldn't get my thoughts together. And I didn't... I didn't think."

He pressed Blitzø's face softly against his chest fluff. Against his heart. 

"I will," he said softly. "That I can promise. I'm sorry."

He swallowed. "Though I am... disappointed in myself. Even if you say you aren't. You give me so much, Blitzø... it feels like I should be.... stronger." He turned away. "Like you."

"Like me?" Blitzø almost laughed then. "Stolas, I might just be the biggest fucking mess to ever live. Especially in relationships. You saw the fucking party dedicated to what a piece of shit I am, and they're not fucking wrong."

He sighed. Negative self-talk again. "I don't feel strong. But… I guess you don't feel strong either, do you? And you're so strong, to have survived everything you've been through. To have gotten better, even if not every moment is better. So maybe... maybe we're both stronger than we think we are. Right?" 

He rubbed his cheek against Stolas’s feathers for a moment, just to feel the thrum of life beneath them. "Maybe we can remind each other of that."

"...maybe," Stolas said softly. "I'd like that." 

And they stayed like that for a while, Stolas' fingers gently scratching between Blitzø's horns. 

Eventually, Stolas sighed. "I have to clean the bathroom, before Loona comes home," he mumbled, his voice low. "And.... and erase the board."

The board. Blitzø's stomach sank a little at the thought of that, knowing how much it would hurt Stolas to see that big beautiful 25 become a 0.

"I can clean up," he said, reluctantly separating himself from Stolas. "You need to rest, so you-"

You stay here, he almost said, catching himself. He wouldn't let this be a repeat of the time he had ordered Stolas to stay on the couch and abandoned him for hours.

"I'll leave the door open," he said. "So you can still see me. And we can still talk while I'm cleaning, if you want. But... but only if you want to. We don't have to talk. Just want you to see that I'll just be... right there. That I'll come back when I'm done, and sooner, if you ask me to. Okay?"

Stolas didn't want to separate himself from Blitzø. But he nodded. That.... seeing him, hearing him... around at least be better. "Okay," he said softly.  He let go of Blitzø, releasing him. 

He looked down at his hands. The bandages on his palms, and the little sunflowers on his nails. The polish was chipped, and now stained with blood. 

Three days. Three more days, and he would've gotten to paint them again. 

He sighed. "Could you pass me the, um.... nail polish remover?" 

Blitzø stared at him from the bathroom. "What for?" he asked suspiciously. "Not to brag, but the sunflowers still look great. They're barely chipped at all.”

Stolas looked at him like it was obvious. 

"Because ... because it was a reward for making it twenty-one days," he said, weakly. "And now... now I'm back to zero. So... so I haven't earned it."

He sniffled as he looked down. "I was going to ask if for one month we could go to the botanical gardens," he mumbled. "But I suppose it will have to wait."

Blitzø cocked his head, clearly puzzled. "But you did make it 21 days," he said. "You made it 25 days. So you should still have the sunflowers, right? Falling off the wagon doesn't change the fact that you did that. And 25 days is a long time. So... I think you should keep your sunflowers," he said, with a resolute little nod of his head.

The botanical garden was a trickier one. He didn't think Stolas had to earn a nice trip, but he knew Stolas wouldn't agree. "How about we go when you hit one week again?" he suggested. "For research. So you can show me the next flowers you want on your nails in person." He smiled encouragingly at him. "That way I'll be sure to get them right. And I want guns on my nails next week!"

Stolas sniffled. He looked up at Blitzø. 

"But... but none of that progress matters," he said weakly. "I... I'm starting over, Blitzø."

Blitzø chuckled, walking back over to the couch. "That’s bullshit, Stols," he said good-naturedly. "If I shoot 25 targets and then miss the 26th, that doesn't change that I already got 25 dead bitches' worth of hits."

He sat back down next to him. "You did something really hard for you for a long time," he said quietly. "And hopefully next time, it'll be even longer. But even if it isn't, you will be okay. And I'll be here helping you up, or cheering you on, no matter what."

Stolas just stared at him. 

To say that was not how he thought about it was an understatement. 

"But -" And his eyes began tearing up again. "But I fucked up," he said. "You.... you should be upset with me. You - you're supposed to -" 

Stolas suddenly realized that he was expecting to be punished.

Blitzø realized it too. And for maybe the hundredth time, it made him want to find whoever had taught him that and splatter their brains against the wall.

He sighed and pulled Stolas into a hug, trying to be careful not to touch his injuries. "I mean, you did fuck up, yeah. But have you met me? You're gonna have to work pretty hard to fuck up more than I do. And... yeah, I'm upset, but just because I'm worried about you. About how much pain you're in. Why would I ever wanna make you feel worse about that?"

"Because that's what I deserve?" Stolas mumbled, weakly. A tear ran down his cheek. "Because I... maybe I could've stopped myself, but... but I was selfish... I let myself hurt you..." He sniffled as another tear followed, and then another. "I'm... I'm the reason you're worried... that you're in pain... that you're scared… don't... don't you want to hurt me back, Blitzø?"

"No," Blitzø said simply. "I don't want to hurt you back. I don't want anyone to hurt you, Stols. Not you, not any fucking shithead who has some stupid fucking problem with you, and especially not me. And I... I know I have hurt you before, and I hate myself for that. But I'm never gonna hurt you again, if I can help it. And I won't let anyone else hurt you either. I... I can't always stop you from hurting yourself, but I really, really want you to try not to. And I definitely don't wanna make it worse."

Stolas dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. "It feels wrong," he mumbled. "That after ... after what I did... you're being so kind to me. That.... that you still care. That you still want me. That.... that you're even still here... you should..."

"Tough shit," said Blitzø, giving him a sideways grin before cuddling up to him. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Even if -" He swallowed, his voice still shaky from crying. "Even if it... happens again?"

Blitzø flinched a little, imagining a repeat of this. Imagining it even worse.

Imagining him dead. Another person you couldn't fucking save.

But he looked up and gave him a sad little smile. "Yeah, Stols. Even if. But... just... just call me, okay?"

Stolas nodded. For a while, he was just... quiet. 

The bathroom wasn't going to get cleaned anytime soon. Blitzø shot Loona a text. 

"Can I tell you something?" Stolas asked, very softly. "Even if it might upset you at first?"

Was that even a real question? Blitzø thought to himself. If this hadn't scared him off, he wasn't sure what would.

But he kept the sass inside his skull for now. "Yeah, Stols. What is it?"

Stolas took a deep breath. 

"You keep saying you're scared to lose me." He sighed. "I... understand what you're really asking, Blitzø. You want to know if I'm going to kill myself." 

It was soft. And yet it was also just as plainly said as if Stolas was describing the properties of a plant. 

"...I did think about that," Stolas said softly. "The first month I was here.... and the first month after Sinsmas... I had a lot of thoughts about doing that. I thought about jumping off the balcony, but worried it would hurt too badly. I kept my pills, even while refusing to take them properly, so I'd..." he sighed. "So I'd have an exit." 

He took another breath. "But I haven't, Blitzø. I haven't wanted to do that in - in a while, now. Because I have you. And because I have Loona. And because the medication and therapy is starting to help, and I'm starting to... to enjoy things again, and..." 

"I know what you saw today... scared you. But.... but I'm not trying to end my life. And you don't need to tiptoe around those words." He sighed. "Maybe... knowing that... would help you be less afraid for me?”

Blitzø's breath caught in his throat. The worst part was that it didn't surprise him. He noticed how longingly Stolas had stared off the balcony. Once or twice, he had heard Stolas counting under his breath while he did. And Stolas had literally said that he wanted to take the whole bottle of pills, back when he was at his worst.

That was the worst part. But the scariest part was trusting that Stolas really meant what he said.

"You're... you're not lying to me, right?" he said slowly. "You really don't want to kill yourself anymore? I'm not gonna come home and find you dead?"

Stolas pulled back. 

He held his hands. 

He looked into Blitzø's eyes, so he could see his face. 

"I'm not lying to you," he said, softly and evenly. It hurt to know Blitzø could not simply believe him. But he also understood his fear. 

"I do not wish or plan, anymore, to end my life.  And if that ever changes, or if I wish to hurt myself in another way, no matter how warped my thoughts may become, no matter how much my mind attempts to convince me that I am a burden to you, I will call you. I will not text, or leave a note, I will call, and I will not stop calling you until you pick up the phone. I promise." 

"I... I swear it to you on my daughter's life," he said, as softly as he'd ever spoken. "On Octavia."

Blitzø's eyes widened a little. "Okay," he said softly. "I believe you."

"Thank you. And..." Stolas took a deep breath. "I do have one more idea, if it will help you... feel safe in those words. I know words are not always enough."

Blitzø stood up a little and kissed Stolas’ forehead, then sat back down, looking at him with the softest gaze he was capable of. "What were you thinking?"

Stolas got up, squeezing Blitzø's hands in reassurance of his return, and then walked over to the bathroom. 

He sighed, taking in the scene. The feathers, many of them young and barely-grown... the blood...

He glanced at the 25 on the wall and let it be, opening the medicine cabinet instead. 

A moment later he sat back down, and handed Blitzø his medication bottle. The one Octavia had thrown at him on Sinsmas. 

"I want you to hold onto it," he said softly. "If I ever did it, it would be that way. I will ask you for them every morning. And when you are no longer scared of what I may do with them in a dark moment, Blitzø, you can give them back to me. But only then."

Blitzø nodded, taking the pill bottle from Stolas' hand. "Thanks, Stolas," he said. He wasn't crying, but the hitch in his voice gave away that it was possible. "This... means a lot to me."

"I know," he said softly. "I wouldn't give them to you if I didn't mean what I said. Or if I didn't trust you, Blitzø. I... I hope you know that."

***

It had been a few days. 

The bathroom had gotten cleaned up, eventually. But Stolas never did erase the 25, after thinking about it long and hard. He kept it up, replacing it instead the next morning with a 1. 

It was a setback. But it was not defeat. And Blitzø's little horse doodle stayed where it was. 

There was one element Stolas hadn't considered when giving Blitzø his pills, however - and that was that Blitzø was quite forgetful, even with something important like that. The idea of the imp looking into ADHD evaluation was being thrown around, increasingly seriously. So Stolas always had to ask, but he found that he didn't always mind. 

Stolas buttoned his shirt as he heard Blitzø, once again, running around making everyone coffee. The moment he walked out of the bathroom, a bowl of cereal was thrust into his hands. 

He watched Blitzø already pulling on his shoes while thrusting toast into his own mouth. Loona had slept over with friends, which meant Blitzø was driving Stolas to therapy on top of everything else. 

Stolas sighed with exaggeration, eating a spoonful of cereal. "Blitzyyyyy, you've forgotten to medicate me again. One of these days the Hoot Loops may not be enough.”

Blitzø groaned. "Fuck my fucking ass," he grumbled. "I swear if I forget one more time I'm gonna write it on my fucking forehead backward so I see it in the morning when I look in the mirror."

He pulled the bottle out of his pocket, shaking out two pills and putting them in Stolas’s hand, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "Thank fuck you've got a better memory than me. Want some water with those, pretty bird?"

Stolas took them in his palm. "Could take them with a different liquid, Blitzy," he said with a playful wink. "That would involve me, ahem, fucking you in your fucking -”

Blitzø laughed. "Nice as that sounds, I don't think we got time for me to help the medicine go down that way," he said, looking around for his keys. He found them in the oven for reasons he couldn't possibly fathom, then turned back with a wicked smirk. "Remind me the next time we got a free morning, though, yeah? I'm down to play naughty doctor if you are.”

"Oh?" Stolas smirked, popping the pills in his mouth and washing them down with the remainder of his cereal milk. "Do I need an appointment with Doctor Blitzy now too?”

Blitzø laughed. "Nah, babe, no appointment necessary. Doctor Blitzy's always got time for you.” 

Stolas hummed, considering the possibilities as he threw on his coat and pocketed his insurance card. "You could come to give me my morning pills... might need to do a full exam while you're at it. Perhaps run some tests, hmm?"

“Fuck yeah,” Blitzø said approvingly. “Gives ‘the doctor is in’ a whole new meaning.” He winked at Stolas as they headed out the door and into the parking lot. "Now get your ass in the van, thirsty bird. Gotta get that big beautiful brain of yours checked out."

"Only if you check out the rest of me tomorrow morning," Stolas said smoothly, climbing into the van.  "I need my - FUCK!" 

One day, he'd get into the van without banging his head. 

It was not that day.

Blitzø rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. "Tylenol?" he asked. He always kept the glove box stocked with it now.

Stolas groaned as he buckled his seat belt, rubbing his forehead. But he still managed to smile. "Yes please, Dr. Blitzy," he murmured. "I'll take a kiss too, if you prescribe those."

"Oh, I do. Doctor's orders." Blitzø leaned in, grinning unrepentantly before grabbing his coat's lapels, allowing a luxurious moment of leisure in his hectic day as he kissed him slowly.

As he pulled back and started to drive away, Stolas reached into the glove box, the Tylenol bottle rattling in his hand. “Do you think Dr. Smith treats repeated head trauma?”

Blitzø looked thoughtful before shaking his head. "I don't think so. They said something about how someone would need to go visit... another type of fucking brain doctor, I don't know."

"Probably a neurologist," Stolas sighed. He shook two tylenol pills into his hand, drinking them down with the dregs of Blitzø's coffee. "How many times do I need to hit my head for it to necessitate a brain scan?" 

"I feel like you'd probably qualify by now," Blitzø said, grinning as he beat the yellow light. He was trying not to run reds anymore, but he sure loved running yellows. And that made him a pretty responsible fucking driver by Hell standards. 

He glanced at Stolas. "Sorry about that, by the way. Wish I could stop it from happening but like, you're so fucking tall, I don't really know how you were able to ride in cars at all."

Stolas stretched, putting his head out of the top hole for a moment and cracking his neck. He did like the breeze, but he found it made it hard to talk, so he pulled it back in. 

"I didn't much," he said simply. "Why would I drive when I had the ability to portal freely? When I did, it was moreso for momentous occasions... and in that case it was a car or a horse-drawn carriage appropriate to my stature. It's really a wonder I don't get motion sick from your driving." 

"Oh yeah, sorry. Guess I should have realized that." His eyes flicked to Stolas’s  at a red light. "I can portal you more, if you want. Just... not for the mindspace sessions, though. The doc said that the magic can, uh... can 'interact adversely' with people after the mindspace magic. Which means it could fuck you up, I guess.”

"And if I'm already, as you said, fucked up?"

Blitzø snorted. "Always further to go. You could get to Blitzø-level." 

Stolas smiled weakly. "I love driving with you, Blitzø," he said, and it was soft and earnest.

***

He looked up as they pulled in. Stolas sighed. "I have a feeling today's session won't be easy.”

Blitzø looked at him sympathetically. "Probably not," he said. "I'll be back to get you in an hour though. Unless you need me back sooner. Text me if you wanna bail, okay?"

Stolas looked a little nervous, and then gave a little nod. "Okay," he mumbled simply, knowing he'd be far too ashamed of himself to ever do that. 

He leaned over, pecking Blitzø on the cheek, before carefully climbing out of the car. 

As he walked up, the joy and playfulness of that morning faded. He could feel the scratch of bandages under his sleeves, knew there were bags under his eyes most days this week. 

There was no hiding it. 

And soon enough, he was back in the chair. Stolas didn't speak, didn't answer the question he knew would come. He simply sat, looking at the bandages that wrapped his hands to the base of his fingers. 

And waited for what Dr. Smith would say when they saw them too, which he knew they would. Even beyond their empathy, Dr. Smith was observant. Especially regarding their patients.

So of course, they noticed the bandages. The eye bags. They even noticed that the sunflowers on Stolas’s nails (quite well-painted, they thought, mildly impressed with Blitzø's newfound skill) were more chipped than normal.

And most of all, they noticed his body language, his expression, his seeming expectation that he would be lectured or worse.

They were determined not to meet that expectation. It made their first question more gentle.

"Could you tell me what happened since I saw you last week?"

Stolas sighed. 

"I had a bad day," he mumbled. "Nothing really that... special. Just... a string of small disappointments... and then I read the hate mail I'm being sent for my role in the trial... and... then something reminded me of Via, and I suppose, I..." 

His fingers picked at the corner of a bandage. For such a chaotic being, Blitzø had been so neat when tending to his wounds.

"I... I had a breakdown," he mumbled, not looking at the doctor. "I got very drunk, broke a mirror and... and hurt myself rather badly." 

Stolas' fingers fumbled with the beads on his bracelet. 

"I messed up, is what happened," he sighed. "I fell into an emotion I could not climb out of, and broke all the rules we had set. That's what has happened. I... I understand if you don't wish to work with me anymore."

The doctor tilted their head slightly. "Of course I will still work with you, Stolas. A relapse is no reason to stop treatment. And thank you for telling me what happened honestly.

"Was Blitzø able to help you through your relapse?"

Stolas nodded softly. "He... bandaged my wounds, and then.... we talked." He looked down. "I had... he told me how much it had frightened him. And I told him about... how I used to have suicidal intent, but don't anymore. I believe that's what he was really afraid of. So I gave him my medication to hold onto to... to remove the means. I don't intend to - do anything like that, not anymore. But I think it helped him trust that." 

He sighed. "He kept saying... a relapse didn't mean I was starting over. But it felt very hard to believe that."

"That sounds like a wonderful plan, Stolas,” they said. “I'm so glad you were able to talk about this and offer an opportunity to build trust with him. Now... why didn't you believe that a relapse wasn't starting over? Can you tell me your thought process?"

"It's as if... one is building a house, and then it burns down. You would not say the house is still partially built. It would need to be built anew, like it had never been built before. Just like my feathers will need to... to regrow."

"I see," Dr. Smith said calmly. "I am inclined to agree that there is definitely an element of starting over. And of course, that can be deeply frustrating, that all your hard work needs to begin again."

They leaned forward a little. "What I would like to ask you, though, is this. Do you think relapsing and starting over invalidates the work you did before? So, to use your metaphor, does rebuilding the house mean that you hadn't done a good job building it before?"

"It means the house isn't built," Stolas said simply. "What difference does it make if it was built well before or not?"

"Because it means that you already learned skills to build it," they said. "I understand that it's easy to equate a lack of results with a lack of progress. But you have progressed, and you are more than your results. You learned, slowly and painfully at times, how to build, when you didn't know how before. And I think that still matters, especially as you rebuild."

"And how many times am I going to have to rebuild?" Stolas muttered. "And... and how many times until no one wants to help me anymore, knowing that effort is meaningless in the end? How many times until people get frustrated, or - " Stolas took a deep breath, voicing a yet unspoken fear. "Or - or institutionalize me somewhere, or -"

"I think you're catastrophizing, Stolas," they said gently. "And I understand the impulse. I don't want to diminish how frustrating of a loss this is for you. But let's think about this for a moment. You told me that Blitzø helped you bandage your wounds. That he is, on your suggestion, keeping your medication so that you don't attempt suicide. Has he indicated to you that he will stop helping you? That he wants to institutionalize you?"

"No," Stolas muttered. "But... but his sister is - was - in rehab. I know he... he must have helped with that." He sniffled. "When it got too much for him to handle."

"And do you think you are too much to handle?" they asked gently.

Stolas hesitated. 

Then he nodded.

"Why do you think that?"

"It's what everyone has always said about me.”

"Everyone?" they asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. "I'm sure some people have said that to you, and we can definitely talk about that. But has everyone said that about you?"

Stolas could almost feel his workbook on cognitive distortions smacking him on the head. "No. Not everyone has said that. It's called hyperbole. Not everyone in the world is even aware of my existence, as a matter of fact." He couldn't quite help the dry snark even if he hadn't intended it.

But Dr. Smith just smiled at the snark, almost like it was an in-joke between them. He's using humor. That's a good sign. "Yes. That is a good reframing of that overgeneralization. And does it stand to reason, then, that some people do not think you are too much?"

Stolas sighed. 

"Doctor Smith - for once in my life - can I not simply have a thought?"

They stopped smiling. "I apologize if I am being too argumentative against your thoughts. It was not my intention to invalidate how you are processing this. Yes, Stolas, you can certainly have thoughts. You have quite a lot, I'm sure. But in this instance, I thought it might be worthwhile to remind you that some of your most distressing thoughts are cognitive distortions. That more accurate reframing of them can actually limit the distress they cause."

Stolas put down his face in his hands, not caring how much his palms stung. His head throbbed. He was just... 

He was just tired.

"Dr. Smith," he said softly, "I have a box full of letters from thousands of residents of Hell telling me to kill myself. And not all of them are about the lies I gave at the trial. Many of them are just... about who I am as a person. How I treat people. About... what kind of husband I am, what kind of father -" 

He felt a tear slide down his cheek. 

"I can't - some days I can't - analyze everything like this, I - I just want to feel, and... and wait for it to go away. To waste the day away with - sex and stupid jokes and a drink or two - and wait… Can't I just do that?”

Dr. Smith listened patiently, and slowly nodded. "Distraction can be a valuable technique in managing one's feelings, yes," they said softly. "We can certainly do some of that. But... Stolas, you experienced something very upsetting. Something that seemed to cause you to think you have accomplished nothing, and worse, something that you thought would make me want to stop seeing you.

"I wanted to make sure you know that is not what a relapse means, on a cognitive level. But if you do not feel capable of engaging with that today, we can do other things. Focusing on positive things, or even seemingly trivial things. Or perhaps a relaxation exercise to alleviate some of your distress without the need for analysis."

They smiled again, just a little. "These sessions are meant to help you in the way that is the most useful to you, now, in this moment. And your input on what that help should be is invaluable."

"Are -" Stolas took a breath. "Are we still doing a mindspace session today?”

"That depends on a few things," they said softly. "First, is that what you want to do today? Because one thing you will not find in the mindspace is distraction."

Stolas thought about it for a little while. He wiped his tears carefully with a tissue from the coffee table, without looking up. 

"I don't want to feel like this," he mumbled. "Like I'm... walking along the edge of a blade laid across a precipice. I just want to feel... alright. Just for a little while. I am too tired to make microscope slides out of my thoughts. I am too afraid, perhaps, to find out what lies beneath their surface. And my normal solutions to this situation are - " He sighed, his fingers playing with Blitzø's bracelet almost forcefully. "Things I am trying to learn not to rely on, which is taking as much energy as I am able to give. I know that... lasting change takes time, and effort, and pain. But I do not want lasting change today. I just... I just want something... to feel okay... and not make it all worse. If a memory can do so, then that is what I want. If not, then... then something else." 

He looked up at them in an almost pleading way. "I've never learned how to handle this... in a healthy way. And I am trying to learn. Could... could you help me with that?"

They smiled warmly at him. "Yes, I can help you with that. Thank you for telling me what you need."

They leaned back a little, considering. "A relaxation exercise then, I think," they said decisively. "If you'd like, I could use my empathy to help you relax as well. It would be similar to when we first entered the mindspace, but we would just stay here and help you relax, and let go of some of your thoughts for a little while. It often leads to an elevated mood for at least a few hours afterward. How does that sound?”

Stolas nodded, a look of relief palpable in his eyes. And then he seemed to think for a moment. "I would like that. But... could you also... teach me to do it myself, if that's possible?" he asked softly. "So... so I have something to do, to make the pain stop, that isn't..." 

He looked down at his bandaged hands. 

"... that?"

They nodded. "I definitely can. Let's begin. Could you close your eyes?"

Stolas adjusted himself in his seat, took a deep breath, and closed both sets of his eyes, his fingers still fidgeting with the beaded bracelet.

"Imagine you are at the edge of a river, watching it flow. Its water is cool, crisp, and clear, moving serenely but unceasingly forward. This is the river of your mind. Your thoughts drift by. Some thoughts feel nice, and some might upset you. But never for long, as the river gently carries the thoughts away.

“Now, some thoughts may get stuck. Caught somewhere, and the water cannot move them away. When that happens, you have a different thought to clear them away. That thought is your mantra. Say it now, out loud."

Stolas blushed lightly. Sometimes he found his choice of mantra to be a little childish. 

But it helped. And when he said it out loud, he heard it in Blitzø's voice in his mind. 

"You will be okay," he said softly.

"And as you say it, it clears away whatever thought had been stuck there, letting those other thoughts float away,” Dr. Smith continued. “It is always able to do this. Now, Stolas. I'd like you to watch the river for a while. You do not need to think about anything. Thoughts will come, but you don't need to fight them. Just observe them and let them drift away. If a thought gets stuck, use your mantra to clear it away."

And Stolas sat, and imagined. 

The grass under his hands. The trickle of the stream. The breeze through his feathers. 

Watching the thoughts drift by. 

This feels silly, whispered a leaf, bobbing in the water. 

It's not silly if it helps, said another. 

You think anyone else needs to do things like this just to be able to handle some disappointment? said a mass of matted leaves, many voices speaking as one. No. You're weak. You've always been weak. 

Blitzø might do something like this when he gets angry or upset, suggested a bit of floating bark. And Blitzø is the strongest person you know. 

Blitzø can handle it, said the matted leaves, growing louder as more leaves joined their mass.You can't.

You don't deserve him.

"You will be okay," whispered Stolas. And he watched as his fingers plucked the mass of leaves out of the stream, crushing them in his hand. 

Yeah, birdie, you're crushing it! he heard a small red leaf cry out, circling in the rapids. 

And very faintly, Stolas smiled.

Chapter Text

It was a rare, quiet morning in the apartment. Blitzø yawned and stretched, looking at a still sleeping Stolas. He wondered why Loona wasn't up yet, then remembered she was visiting a friend in Gluttony. He and Stolas would have the place to themselves all day.

He grinned, enjoying the lazy morning, and decided to kiss Stolas awake. Stolas’ response was a - rather adorable - tiny hoot of protest, after which he pulled his pillow over his head and fell back into the sleepy chirps that usually escaped from him alongside Blitzø’s snores.

Blitzø chuckled at Stolas' ridiculously cute refusal to wake up. "All right, message received," he said quietly. No reason to make Stolas get up if he didn't want to. After all, what were lazy mornings for?

Maybe he would wake up to the smell of food, though. So Blitzø rolled off the couch and walked into the kitchen.

 Soon enough, the smell of bacon and pancakes (some with rats and some without) filled the apartment. Blitzø had only learned how to cook the rats recently - the key was to sear the tails last - but even he had to admit they smelled pretty good. He wondered how they would taste with ketchup.

As if on cue, talons lazily scratched across the floor as Stolas dragged himself to the kitchen with a yawn. His pyjamas were a bit short on him - finding anything that fit Stolas in Imp City, even via online order, was quite the challenge. 

He sniffed the air, rubbing his eyes, top and bottom in turn. "Something smells good," he yawned. "Hi, Blitzy."

"Morning, Stols!" Blitzø said brightly, looking over his shoulder and smiling at Stolas as he flipped over a rat-cake in the frying pan. "Perfect timing, breakfast is almost ready. Did you want tea, or coffee, or something? I can make some."

Stolas mumbled something that vaguely sounded more like "coffee" than "tea" and melted onto a nearby chair, folding his arms on the counter and resting his head on them.

Luckily, Blitzø was pretty good at understanding Stolas' sleepy mumbling. It was the primary way that he had communicated the first few months he had been living there.

Things had gotten a lot better since then, though. As if to reassure himself of that, he walked over and kissed the top of Stolas' feathery head.

Stolas sat up a little and met Blitzø with a tired little smile. "Sorry," he murmured. "Don’t know why I keep dozing off."

"It's okay," Blitzø said, walking over to get the coffee ready. "This should help with that."

He filled up the reservoir of the coffee machine. That reminded him that he wanted to get Stolas some water for his pills. Which reminded him that he needed to get Stolas' pills. His brain didn't make any fucking sense, but sometimes it worked. 

Blitzø soon set down a mug in front of his collapsible lamppost of a boyfriend, along with a small orange bottle. "You sleep okay?"

Stolas eyed the amber container a little warily, but reached out and shook two pills into his palm, drinking them down with his coffee and cringing at the taste. 

"Had a lot of dreams lately," he said softly. "Last night wasn’t too bad compared to the others."

Blitzø nodded. He stuck his tongue out as he focused, flicking the rat-cakes upwards and just barely managing to slide a plate underneath them in time. He set the plate proudly before Stolas. "Well, I'm glad it's getting better." 

Stolas couldn’t help but laugh, and the smile crept up his face like it hadn’t often of late. His eyebrows rose in delight as he noticed the rat tails sticking out of the dough. "Oh, Blitzy, when did you get more -"

"Caught some after work yesterday!" Blitzø said, looking proud of himself. "I'm getting pretty good at killing the fuckers. I caught like ten of them and barely got bitten at all!"

"You got bitten?" Stolas asked with concern. "Are you alright?"

"I said barely, Stols. I’m a fucking assassin. I can take some dumpster hamsters."

Stolas pulled Blitzø’s hands towards him, carefully examining the roughened hands. His tongue clicked at the sight of tooth marks on his wrist. 

"It broke the skin," Stolas said, concerned. "You’ve got to at least clean that, darling."

"Oh yeah, I put antiseptic on it," Blitzø said casually. "Always gotta put antiseptic on bites. But human bites are worse than rats, actually. Their mouths are fucking disgusting."

Stolas looked a little relieved, releasing Blitzø’s hand back to its rightful owner.  He put a slice of rat-cake in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.  

"How do bird bites rank on that scale?" he asked casually.

Smooth feathered fucker. 

"Depends on the bird," Blitzø said with a grin, cutting into his own, rat-less pancakes. "Are you planning on biting me?"

Stolas’s beak curved a little. "Only if you deserve it."

Blitzø flashed a toothy grin. "And how would I go about deserving it?" 

"Well, breakfast is a very lovely start." Stolas smiled. "Letting me put a Band-Aid at least over the bite would be a few more points."

The imp laughed, swinging his tail. "Sure thing, Doctor Goetia. Do I gotta pay a copay for that?"

"Oh, we can figure out your copay after," Stolas said playfully. "Come here."

Blitzø put a piece of bacon in his mouth and followed Stolas to the bathroom, still grinning as he presented his wrist for examination.

Stolas tsk’ed, carefully swinging the medicine cabinet open above Blitzø’s head. "You need to be more careful," he said softly, carefully covering the wound with a unicorn-themed bandaid.

"I'm plenty careful," Blitzø argued, but it sounded more like banter than antagonism. "I just didn't expect the fucker to spin his head around that far to bite me. But now I know for next time that they got freaky little swivel necks."

"They do," Stolas said. He leaned down and kissed the bandaid, before turning his head 180 degrees - just for fun.

Blitzø laughed. "Yeah, you’re not freaking me out with that anymore. It’s just kinda endearing."

Stolas swiveled it back. "Endearing?" he asked in disbelief. "Not a freaky swivel neck?"

"Yeah," Blitzø said. "It's different. But maybe that's just cause I like seeing your face. Even if it's surprising to see it when you're turned away from me."

Blitzø's smile was becoming reminiscent of a lopsided pancake. "But it’s like…like you can't take your eyes off me. Even if your body is facing a whole ass different direction."

Stolas blushed a little. He hadn’t quite let go of Blitzø's hand. It felt solid and warm. His gaze traced a line from their interlocking fingers to the bandaging poking out from his sleeve. 

Those probably needed some changing, he thought.

He’s far too kind to you, whispered a voice in his head. 

"I like it when you talk about me like that," Stolas said instead, softly. “When you make me feel special.”

"Well, good," Blitzø smirked. "Because I love talking, and I love making you feel good. Nice to know I can do both at the same time."

He followed Stolas' gaze, touching the edge of the bandages with his thumb. "Need some help with changing those?"

Stolas smiled weakly. It was clear he felt excruciatingly self-conscious about those wounds and how he obtained them, but he couldn’t very well refuse after having given a lecture on wound hygiene. 

"Well," he said instead. "You did promise me I might be able to score an appointment with Dr. Blitzy the next time Loona was out of the house."

"Oh."

The next time Loona was out of the house. The implications of that hit Blitzø with a flood of different emotions. Surprise, hope, excitement... but also, worry.

They hadn't really talked about the last time, not properly. The fact that Stolas had locked himself in the bathroom and had some sort of trauma flashback, followed by the realization that he had been lying about taking his pills, had definitely taken precedence.

But if Blitzø was being honest, it had haunted him. How long had he touched Stolas without realizing that Stolas hadn't wanted that? How long had Stolas pretended he did?

They hadn't done anything beyond kissing and cuddling since then. Flirting and innuendo, sure, but nothing they had made good on. And while Blitzø would have been lying if he said he didn't miss the sex, he much preferred its absence to a potential repeat of what had happened before.

He realized that Stolas was still looking at him, waiting for him to say something else. He cleared his throat. "You mean... like in a sexy way, right?" he asked, needing the clarification. "Are you... feeling up for that?"

"Well, perhaps I do need the bandages changed first," Stolas said softly. "But… yes, that’s what… I was hoping for."

There was a pause. 

"But only if you want to," he quickly added. “We don’t have to -”

"No, I want to, it's just... I feel like we should... talk about it first." Blitzø got up. "One second - just gotta wash my hands before I change your bandages."

He washed his hands, getting the first aid kit and wetting a washcloth, smiling weakly at Stolas before carefully starting to take off his old bandages. "So," he said quietly. "We never really... talked about what happened last time. And we don't have to. But..."

He looked up at Stolas, his eyes soft and sincere. "If you wanna stop, or slow down, or anything... I need to know that you'll tell me."

"I’m not usually like that," Stolas said softly. "You know that. It was just… I had a bad day. You did nothing wrong."

"Okay," Blitzø said, carefully cleaning Stolas' wound with the washcloth. Stolas hissed slightly, but kept his hand still. "That’s... good to know. But like... if you have a bad day again..."

Blitzø’s expression was caring, but the concern was still evident. "How do we stop that from happening again? Because... I won't let it happen again, Stolas. I need to know that you can talk to me about what you want and what you don't want. However we need to do that."

If you have a bad day again. Stolas knew Blitzø meant it in a good way. But it hurt, that mistrust and concern behind his partner’s words. 

He doesn’t want you like this, whispered the voice. He wants the Stolas from before, not the broken shell of him that you are.

"What... what do you need from me?" he asked, softly.

"Just that you'll use your safeword if you want to stop," Blitzø said. "For any reason. Or a signal if you can't talk." 

He started carefully wrapping fresh bandages around Stolas' wounds, which he was glad to see were healing well. "I know we used the stoplight system when we first started having sex. Maybe we can go back to that? At least for now?"

Stolas hesitated. Then he nodded. 

"I’m sorry," he murmured. "Sometimes… someone caring about what I want in the middle of that… being okay with stopping... It’s… it’s still very new to me."

Blitzø considered that as he continued changing Stolas' bandages. He could almost taste the implication of those words in the air.

Stella hadn't cared if he wanted to stop.

He briefly imagined using her for target practice, took a deep breath, and moved forward. "I know," he said quietly. "So... how about this. Obviously you should say red or yellow whenever you want, and I'll stop, or slow down. But... if I think something might not be good for you, I'll ask you for your color."

He looked into Stolas’ eyes, trying to convey how important this was. "And when I ask, I need you to answer. Truthfully. Not what you think I want, or what you think you're supposed to want. If you don't say anything, everything stops. Okay?"

Stolas was silent for a moment, like he was struggling with a question.

"And… you promise you… won’t be upset?"

Blitzø nodded. "I promise. In fact, I'll only be upset if something is wrong and you don't tell me."

He finished wrapping the last bandage, and took one of Stolas' hands in both of his. "I never wanna touch you in a way you don't want. Not ever."

Stolas opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. 

"I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make this all complicated. It should just be fun, shouldn’t it? You didn’t sign up for this, for all of my…"

Blitzø pulled Stolas' hand to his lips, kissing his fingers. "I signed up for you," he said, as if that were the simplest thing in the world. "All of you. Whatever you need, whatever you are. That's what I signed up for."

He grinned, tilting his head slightly. "I'm locked in, Stols. I'm not going anywhere."

And Stolas smiled weakly, tears biting at his eyes. "You’re sure?" he asked softly.

"Yeah," Blitzø said, bringing Stolas' hand to his cheek and leaning into it. "So fucking sure. You're my guy, Stols. That's it."

"It…"

Stolas just breathed for a moment, stroking Blitzø's cheek and closing his eyes. 

"Sometimes it’s hard for me to even tell if I want it or not," he murmured. "My mind gets a little confused sometimes. So I’m sorry if… if I don’t immediately say something. But I… I promise I’ll try and… maybe you checking up on me… would be good."

Blitzø nodded. "We'll start slow. And I'll check in a lot, at least at first. We'll figure this out together. Okay?"

Stolas nodded softly. "Okay."

He looked down at his freshly re-bandaged arms, then looked up with a nervous little smile before placing a warm kiss on Blitzø’s lips. "Thank you."

"Of course." Blitzø kissed him a few more times for good measure, then straightened up, talking in a slightly exaggerated "professional" voice. "So, Mr. Goetia. I've given you your medication and treated your injuries, which I'm happy to say are healing up nicely."

He gave Stolas a little grin as he snapped the first aid kit closed. "Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

Stolas quickly fell into character, batting his eyelashes as he blushed. "Yes, actually. You said last time you… wanted to give me a full exam when you had time in your schedule?" He cocked his head to the side. "Just in case anything else is… amiss?"

Blitzø hummed like he was considering what Stolas had said. "You are overdue for your yearly physical. And the notes from your last doctor are bare bones at best. I agree that you are in need of a thorough examination."

He looked appraisingly at Stolas, taking his time looking up and down his body, allowing his eyes to linger in certain places longer than was professional. "Before we begin - has anything been bothering you lately? Any part of your body that might require more... attention?"

Stolas blushed, folding an arm above his head alluringly. "I’m happy to rely on your expertise. Whatever you think is necessary. But I suppose I am… a little nervous."

"It's perfectly natural to be nervous," Blitzø said, moving a little closer to him. Not touching him yet, but close enough that he'd barely have to move to do so. "But I will do what I can to put you at ease. Feel free to tell me if any part of the exam feels unpleasant, and I will check in to improve your patient experience. As you know, I am a professional."

His smile took on a slightly sharp edge. "And after all... this is all for your own good, isn't it, Mr. Goetia?"

"Mm." Stolas shivered a little at those last few words. "Yes, of course. You always take such good care of me, Dr. Blitzy…"

"Your well-being is very important to me, Mr. Goetia," he said, his voice lowering. He moved just a little closer, but he still wasn't touching Stolas. Not yet.

"Now," Blitzø said, "let's begin. I need you to remove your clothing, so that I can properly examine you."

Stolas blushed. His hand moved to pull up his sweater, then stopped. Something felt… just a little off. 

 He tried to do as Blitzø had said - listen to what his body wanted. 

Did he want this? Fuck. Fuck, yes, he did. He felt his cloaca moisten at the thought of Blitzø’s touch. 

And then he felt his boyfriend’s gaze upon him, and he instinctively wanted to hide. 

You dirty thing. You shameful thing. You want to be touched, but you don’t want him to look. You don’t want him to see the mess that has become of you. 

"...Stolas?" 

The owl took a breath and met his eyes. 

"Stols, it’s okay to change your mind. We can - "

"No, I … I want you. I do. I really do, I just… do you mind… do you mind if, if the clothes stayed? Or, I could wear something else…"

Blitzø took a moment to ponder this, then smiled as he remembered something. "Well, of course, we have an option for patients who prefer a little bit more privacy. You….uh…  just wait here for a sec."

A moment later, the imp was back, a lumpily wrapped package in hand. 

"Oh! Blitzø, what’s this?" Stolas asked in wonder, momentarily breaking character. His talon carefully tore it open. 

Blitzø grinned. "It's for you," he said. 

"Yes, I can see that, but…"

"I know how much you liked to wear robes before,” Blitzø said in a rush. “And it's nothing fancy, but… it looked comfortable, and like it might actually fit you. Was gonna give it to you tomorrow, but..."

He shrugged. "Obviously, I don't have like... a paper dressing gown, but I thought... this could be sorta the same?"

Stolas blushed, but then sincerely smiled, leaning in to give Blitzø a kiss. "Thank you," he said softly. "It’s… it’s lovely."

His eyes regained their sparkle as he drew himself up to his sitting height. "Could I perhaps… change alone in the other room?"

"Of course, Mr. Goetia."

Blitzø waited about two minutes - probably longer than it would take Stolas to put the robe on.

He knew how much his birdie liked to squirm as he took his time. Blitzø would be lying if he claimed his pants didn’t feel quite tight as he thought about his wanton prince lying on the couch, counting down the seconds. 

Then - after Stolas felt like he was about to burst with anticipation - there was finally a knock on the living room door. "May I come in, Mr. Goetia?"

"You'd better come inside me at this rate," Stolas murmured. 

The points of Blitzø’s teeth sparkled as the door clicked closed behind him. "Mm, I don’t believe that’s an appropriate way to speak to your healthcare provider," the imp said smugly. 

A latex glove made a little snapping sound. Lucifer knows where Blitzø got those, Stolas thought. He soon wasn’t able to think too much, however, as his lover made a first, tantalizing brush across his thigh. The owl shifted down to try to make contact with the gloved fingers, but the imp merely tsk’ed. "No, no, Mr. Goetia." He leaned in close, his fingertips pressing into the underside of Stolas’ jaw. "I need you to be good and still for me. No squirming around, no misbehaviour. No interference. Or else I’m going to punish you to ensure I can complete your exam properly, do you understand?"

The owl shakily nodded. His eyes were already glazed over, and his cheeks felt redder than the Hellsun. 

"Color, Stols?" Blitzø asked, gentler. 

"Green," Stolas murmured. "I want you to touch me."

"Good," Blitzø whispered. "Very good."

He drew back before walking around Stolas again. His hands began to explore his lover, "checking" the bird’s pulse and breathing, getting him used to being touched. He moved slowly and carefully, until Stolas was melting against his hands, warm and pliable. "You know, Mr. Goetia - " he said, smirking down at him, "if I didn’t know better, I would say you were rather excited by all this. But that would be incredibly inappropriate."

"Would it?" Stolas asked innocently. 

"I’m afraid so. I’d have to ask you to leave."

"No," Stolas said, shaking his head. "No, it took me months to get this appointment. My insurance won’t cover - "

"Too realistic, babe."

" - I can’t wait any longer," pivoted Stolas smoothly. "Please, won’t you take care of me?"

"Oh, I most certainly will."

The touches continued. They were light, and teasing. Each one made Stolas shiver, and his knees moved further apart. Blitzø’s hand inched up his thigh, barely brushing against his opening before it retracted. Stolas let out a mewl of protest and raised his hips, seeking contact. 

"Did I not tell you to stay still?" Blitzø said sternly. Stolas simply squirmed in response.

"I suppose if you’re that eager, we might as well begin." Another little snap of a glove sent a rush of heat to the owl’s nether regions. 

"I’m going to position you now, Mr. Goetia. So I can reach everything I need to." He paused. "But - if it’s uncomfortable, you need to let me know. I take patient comfort very seriously, you know."

"Tell me," Stolas sighed, gazing up at the imp with a weak smile. "Tell me how you want me, Doctor."

Blitzø grinned. Stolas was rather adorable when he got needy. And Blitzø had missed this version of Stolas tremendously. 

"I want your behind on the arm of the couch, knees as far apart as you can get, and your feet at your hips." The imp reached down, helping adjust Stolas into position. Watching his face carefully, he put his hands on the bird’s knees, pressing them a little apart. 

"Green," Stolas said without being prompted. Blitzø felt something that had been ever so fragile become slightly less so. 

"Very good," he said smoothly. "Now, I need to properly examine you. Every detail. Open up for me." He leaned over, getting closer to Stolas’ face. “As wide as you can,” he repeated, his voice sultry, yet authoritative. "I want your muscles to ache with the effort of staying open and good for me. I want you to stretch until it burns, and then I want you to stay still, just like that, while I touch you, while I examine every last feather between your legs, while I do what I need, without getting in the way. Do you understand?"

Stolas responded by opening up his knees, his talons braced against the end of the couch. Blitzø grinned impishly. If there was anything he knew from those full moon nights, it was how much Stolas loved being indulged in his fantasies, and then being taken to their limits. He dug in his claws into the bird’s knees and pressed down until he felt Stolas’ breathing hitch and his muscles push back in slight protest. "Now you stay right there, Mr. Goetia. I understand if it stings a little. But this is for your own good, isn’t it?"

The bird simply moaned. Blitzø released one knee. It hurt, but Stolas kept himself obediently in that position - ever so eager to please. Blitzø ran his fingers around the now-soaked edges of Stolas’ cloaca, eliciting a whimper.

"And now, I’m going to test some reflexes," he said, ever so softly. "Going to insert my fingers into you. Are you ready for that?"

"Fuck," Stolas murmured, his eyes wide and pleading. "Fuck, yes, Blitzø, I want you to fuck me - "

"That’s Doctor to you." Blitzø grinned, delighted at the bird’s eagerness. He slid his fingers inside of Stolas’ cloaca, fast and hard, making the bird audibly gasp. "Now, let’s make sure everything down here is in correct working order…"

It certainly was. After a few minutes, the fingers were withdrawn, but soon replaced with something much more satisfying. As Blitzø's hips began to move, his fingertips teased Stolas mercilessly, pausing to 'examine' him here and there, with increasingly less pretense. Stolas pinned himself to the couch, forcing himself to stay still - which was becoming increasingly harder as he was starting to see stars. 

Blitzø quickened his pace, and Stolas’ reward for being so good came soon enough. "Blitzø," Stolas cried out, a strangled screech following the name out of his throat. "Fuck - Blitzy - "

Only as Stolas came did he finally squeeze his knees around the imp, shouting incoherently. He fell back onto the couch into a limp, feathery heap, heavily panting.

"That was certainly the best doctor’s appointment I’ve had," Stolas said, smiling lopsidedly as he caught his breath. 

Blitzø grinned down at Stolas, his expression almost feral. "Oh, I don’t believe your exam has to be over, Mr. Goetia," Blitzø said, taking his sweet time looking at how beautifully wrecked Stolas was. "How about you turn around for me?"

Stolas grinned a little and did as he was told, bending himself over the arm of the couch, swaying his tail alluringly as he presented himself for further examination. "Whatever do you need to examine now, Dr. Blitzy?" he asked with a giggle, spreading his legs a little more. "It seems like you've determined that my cloaca is in excellent working order."

Blitzø only hummed in response, and Stolas heard him walking into the kitchen, his returning footsteps accompanied by the light drag of something against the floor. A chair, perhaps - it hadn’t been uncommon during their full moon nights for Blitzø to borrow items of furniture to get himself to the right height for the perfect angle.

But face-down on the couch like he currently was, Stolas could only guess at exactly what Blitzø was doing. That alone made him shiver pleasantly in anticipation as Blitzø's footsteps came to a stop behind him.

"Perhaps I am simply enjoying being extra thorough with your examination, Mr. Goetia," Blitzø purred, trailing the tips of his claws down Stolas’ back. 

They stopped at his waist, reaching down and rubbing the silky fabric between them. "Is it okay if I take this off now?" he asked softly. "A no is alright."

"Yes," Stolas whispered, and was surprised that he meant it. He felt safe, now. Safe, knowing there would be no judgment in those amber eyes. "Yes, I want you to." 

Blitzø slid the robe off Stolas, taking his sweet time until the bird whined. "Much better," Blitzø murmured, letting the robe fall onto the couch. "After all, we're well past the point of modesty, aren't we?"

Stolas only whimpered in response. He could tell even without looking at Blitzø that he was looking at Stolas’ naked body with adoration and hunger. And he could revel in just how much Blitzø seemed to enjoy looking at him.

Blitzø’s hands moved down Stolas’ bare back gently, almost teasingly. Then, without warning, sharp claws dug viciously into his hips, forcing a choked sound from him.

It was… strange. He normally quite liked it when Blitzø used his claws on him, especially when it was combined with that wicked smirk that promised to wreck him in the most delicious ways. But he couldn’t see Blitzø right now. He could only feel the points of those claws digging into him, the grip forceful and unyielding. It felt like… like-

Perfectly manicured talons. Pressing into him hard enough to make him bleed and whimper, and that only encouraged her to dig them into the wounds. He waited for the tingle of healing magic that never came, and he heard a whisper steeped in cruelty. "I can really hurt you now, you know."

And he did know. He knew just how much she could hurt him now. He had to just relax, to let her have her way. She would make it so much worse for him if he-

"Stolas?"

Stolas realized with a start that the talons - the claws - weren't touching him anymore. Nothing was touching him, and the voice he was hearing was Blitzø's. It wasn't cruel at all - it was worried.

He turned to face Blitzø, still mildly disoriented. "What?"

"I asked for your color, Stolas," Blitzø said, his voice quiet, his eyes huge.

Stolas blinked at him, trying to process what Blitzø had said. "Red," he heard himself whisper, like a reflex, and he desperately hoped that wasn't the wrong answer.

It didn't seem to be: Blitzø immediately hopped off the chair he was standing on and perched on the opposite end of the couch. He seemed to be looking at Stolas for direction - at least, Stolas thought so. He couldn't bear to look directly at Blitzø’s face, to see the disappointment and anger he knew must be there.

Instead, Stolas pulled the robe tightly around his shoulders. It was so strange. A few moments ago, he felt desperate to be undressed. And now suddenly, completely covered, he felt naked and exposed. 

His thighs pressed firmly together, and he still couldn’t quite meet Blitzø’s eyes. 

"I’m sorry," he murmured, like it was automatic. "I - I was having fun, and then - I meant it, when I said yes - I don’t know why I just - I - I’m okay if you want to keep going, I just, you said to -"

You ended it for no reason, right after agreeing. He was having fun. You were both having fun. Aren’t you going to let him have even that in exchange for taking care of you?

It wasn’t an instinct Stolas would notice for a while. But his arms were wrapped protectively around his midsection, and his face was angled away from Blitzø in a way that would have made him difficult to slap in a fit of anger.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, Stols," Blitzø said, trying to keep his voice soft and soothing. "I'm proud of you. I'm really proud of you for telling me what you needed. Thank you."

There was a little space between them now, and Blitzø fiddled nervously with his hands. "Can I... hug you? Or are you not feeling up for touch right now?"

Stolas nodded. "Hug is okay, just… not too… tight?"

I don’t want to feel like you’re holding me down.

Stolas sniffled. "I’m sorry. You did nothing wrong. You didn’t. It was nice. My brain just - fuck -"

"I - I understand if you’re upset - or confused - or don’t want to, to touch me anymore - I -"

Blitzø just silently moved closer to Stolas and wrapped his arms around him loosely. "It's okay," he murmured to Stolas, stroking his head. "You're okay. I've got you. You're safe."

He leaned in to kiss Stolas’ cheek. "I'm here for you. Whatever you need, okay?"

"You’re… you’re really not upset?" Stolas asked softly.

"Of course not," Blitzø whispered. "I'm proud of you for telling me. I know that can't have been easy. But you did it, and as long as we can both do that for each other... I think we'll be all right."

"But you didn’t get to finish," Stolas mumbled, the embarrassment palpable. "I could -"

"No," Blitzø said firmly. "You don't have to worry about that. If I really needed to, I could go take care of it."

He pulled back a little to look at Stolas, pushing his feathers out of his eyes. "You don't owe me that, Stols. You don't owe me fucking anything."

"That’s - what this all started with, Blitzø,” Stolas murmured. “You needing the book and me…" 

He grimaced with shame. "Me making you owe me sex in return… because I forgot you were a person with feelings, and not a character in a romance novel."

"I thought…" He sighed. "I thought that was the only way I could ever have a sexual relationship. If it were a transaction. And I satisfied my part in it."

"Yeah," Blitzø said. There was no arguing how transactional their arrangement had been before, even if they had both caught feelings as a result. "But that's not what this is anymore. Neither of us needs to worry about holding up our end of the deal, because there is no deal."

He smiled gently. "The deal is that we love each other. That we're here for each other. That's it."

Stolas just… looked at him for a moment. 

Then he pulled Blitzø in closer. 

It took a while before he spoke. 

"I know it’s probably hard to believe, given my… enthusiasm in bed," he murmured. "But it took me a long time to… to enjoy sex at all. Before you… the only way I enjoyed it at all… was on my own. Everything I know beyond that was just… fantasy. Films, books… audio dramas…"

"Yeah," Blitzø said. "I... kinda figured." He chuckled a little. "When we first started fucking, it was like you wanted to try everything you had ever even heard about. I'm just surprised that most of the time, you seemed very satisfied with the results."

He shrugged a little. "I guess it's easy to get swept away when you feel like you're living a fantasy. And I did always try to give you what you wanted."

"Well, I… I didn’t know then… where it would go," Stolas said quietly. "Where we’d end up. I simply thought of it as… a diversion from my marriage. I only had so much time until you got tired of me, and I was never going to have anyone else who wanted me in any capacity, so I was trying to… squeeze it in, I suppose?" 

He gave a pained smile. "Squeeze in a lifetime of fantasies into what I assumed would be a few months of fooling around."

Blitzø sighed a little. "It's so fucking wild to me that you thought that no one else would want you. You're so fucking hot, Stols. If you had just been looking for a good time, you could've just gone to a gay bar, or whatever the equivalent is for crazy rich people. I'm fucking positive dudes would have started buying you drinks immediately."

Stolas unwillingly laughed. "Blitzø. A Goetian prince? At a gay bar? Are you serious?"

Blitzø laughed too. "You know what I mean. Word is that like half the Goetia dudes are closeted. That fucking ice queen definitely is. I'm sure there's some super exclusive joint you could have gone where you could have met guys on the down-low."

It seemed like Stolas was doing fine with touch, so Blitzø cuddled up to him a little on the couch. "Point is, you absolutely could have gotten some strange if that were all that you were after."

Stolas shook his head. "There is no on the down-low, Blitzø. Not when everyone is looking to get ahead by pushing someone else out of the nest for disgracing themselves. And I was not interested in my wife’s brother."

He visibly shuddered. "Can’t even imagine what she would’ve said to that."

Blitzø cracked up. "Yeah, didn't think you would be. What a whiny bitch."

He looked up at Stolas. "Anyway, what I mean is that it's wild that you thought that no one else would want you 'in any capacity'. Was I really the first dude to make a pass at you?"

Stolas just kind of... stared at him blankly. 

"You were the first anyone to make a pass at me, Blitzø. Man or woman, and that includes my ex-wife. I was deeply unpopular among the Goetia. The men considered me sheltered, socially inept, and strangely uninterested in family politics. The women, on the other hand, were mostly attendees of my wife's regular parties, where her favourite hobby was to describe how terrible I was in bed. I... Blitzø... I'd given up on romance altogether, until the moment I saw you again."

"Huh," Blitzø said quietly. "I mean, that worked out for me, I guess." He stared at Stolas, absolutely smitten. "If the assholes you were around before couldn't see how fucking beautiful you are, that's their fucking loss."

Stolas smiled. He felt tears at the corners of his eyes. 

"It’s still hard for me to believe that some days," he said softly. "But… but I do. You’re the best thing that’s… that’s ever happened to me."

He held him close for a while. 

Then he took a deep breath. 

"I… I’d like to explain what happened," he said tentatively. "Last time. In the bathroom. Perhaps… perhaps it would help… help you… understand me? Help me? Sometimes I feel like you’re much better at taking care of me than I am myself."

Blitzø looked up at him, and he nodded silently, not breaking eye contact. He looked so deeply intent on Stolas, on listening to him and trying to understand him.

"I… I had a sort of… flashback," Stolas said, his voice quiet. "Where I couldn’t quite tell where I was, and I thought I was…  hiding in the bathroom from Stella. My brain was confusing the two of you, because she’s the only other person I’ve had sex with, and it was… not like this. Not at all."

Blitzø nodded again. He wasn't sure what to say, but his mind drifted back to the memory of that night. "You were so scared," he whispered. "And I was so scared for you. It... you didn't know who I was. You didn't even see me. I... I hate that you have ever felt like that."

Stolas’ hands fisted tightly around Blitzø’s shirt. 

"Every day for eighteen years," he said very softly.

Blitzø looked at him, inhaling sharply. His eyes were huge and luminous and locked on Stolas. When he spoke, his voice seemed small. "I'm... going to hug you now," he said. "So... let me know if I hold you too tight, and I'll back off a little."

And he held him again. A little tighter. Enough that he hoped it made Stolas feel safe.

Stolas hugged him back, tentatively. 

After a minute, he inhaled sharply. "A… a little less tightly, please?” he asked. “It just reminds me a little of…"

He swallowed and hesitated on how to say it. 

"She… she used to… hold me down."

Blitzø loosened his hold immediately, until his arms were essentially just placed around Stolas. "Fuck, Stolas, I didn't know," he whispered. "I... before, during our deal, I used to... did I ever... fuck, Stols, I'm so sorry."

Stolas shook his head. "No - no, you didn’t. Only when I consented. I… I still enjoyed that, sometimes, it just... It just had to be a good day… when I wasn’t thinking about her. If it's a good day, I love when you hold me down or tie me up, Blitzy. I…"

He took a breath. "I mean, we haven’t actually had sex since Octavia was conceived, so… it’s been thankfully… a long time. It’s just that - I suppose - all this, this new life, missing Via... it’s been hard… and my brain is just -"

He hadn’t realized he was starting to cry a little. "Just bringing up everything I thought I had - forgotten…"

He shook his head. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to just dump it all on you like that. That’s not your responsibility, to… to fix…"

"But I'm here for you," Blitzø murmured to him. "Whatever you need. No matter what."

He wanted instinctively to tighten his hold on Stolas, but he didn't. He started rubbing slow circles into Stolas' back instead. "Whatever makes you feel good and safe."

Stolas smiled weakly, leaning against Blitzø. 

"You can’t be hanging around and doing all of this for me just because you think I’m pretty," he said, the tears in his eyes falling. "I feel like there has to be more, hasn’t there?"

Blitzø pulled back a little and looked at him with soft confusion and naked adoration. "It's 'cause I love you, Stolas."

Stolas nodded, and the fact that he didn’t try to argue that was immense progress in itself. 

"But I don’t understand why," he admitted.

"Because..." Blitzø tried to think of how to articulate why he loved Stolas, but it wasn't like he had one big reason. It was more like a million little reasons, so he just started saying them. "I can make you laugh. And you make me laugh too. And it's so much fun talking to you. And even when I don't understand you, I still love listening to your voice. And you're so kind to me. And you showed me beautiful things. And you risked your life for me. And you trusted me."

He smiled weakly. "And there's a bunch more. Should I keep going?"

"…could you?" asked Stolas, very softly.

Blitzø nodded. "When I'm lying with you, and petting your soft feathers, and listening to your heartbeat, I feel so safe because it means we're both alive and together. I love how your face lights up when you're excited about something. I love how hard you're working to communicate with me. I love how brave you are, dealing with all this fucking shit even though it's scary as fuck. I love that Loona basically considers you a second dad already. I love that you're part of my family, and that this is your home."

He looked up at Stolas for guidance. He would keep talking until Stolas understood.

Stolas was just watching him, with overwhelming tenderness and wonder. His eyes teared up, and his beak quivered. It was too much, almost… and yet it was everything he had ever, ever wanted. 

Stolas knew he would never, ever get sick of Blitzø speaking to him that way.

"I…. I wish I could see myself like that," he managed, his voice cracking despite best efforts to restrain his emotions. "I… I am so fucking lucky to have you, Blitzø…"

"And I'm so fucking lucky to have you," Blitzø said, quiet and sincere. "We're lucky to have each other. So if you ever need me to list more stuff I love about you, just ask, okay?"

He grinned at Stolas. "I might repeat myself, but I'll never run out."

Stolas pulled him onto his lap, then hugged him tightly. 

"Your medicine really does work, Dr. Blitzy," he said with a smile. "I feel better already."

Blitzø laughed. "Glad to hear it. So if you're ever feeling like you're not lovable, just come to me and get some reasons why you are." He kissed Stolas, slowly and gently and very thoroughly. "Doctor's orders."

"Can I get a prescription for that?" murmured Stolas against his lips.

"Absolutely," Blitzø said, grinning against him. "And I can fill it for you personally. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Stolas knew that Blitzø was joking. That didn't stop him from smiling so sincerely as he whispered, "I did."

Because he did know. He knew, with a certainty he had rarely felt before, that Blitzø would always take care of him.

Chapter Text

Dr. Smith was already dressed in their Librarian uniform when Stolas entered the mindspace library. Stolas couldn’t pinpoint exactly when this had become routine for him, but he was no longer the least bit surprised. It was just… how things were here. In this strange, secondary reality, that felt both like a mere extension of Stolas’ imagination and far more tangible than the world that had spawned it. 

Stolas’ eyes lazily brushed over the shelving, the windows, the floorboards… 

"Oh," said Dr. Smith. "That’s new.” 

Tucked into the corner of the library was an old-fashioned vanity. The polish crumbled around its edges, as if its maintenance was not as frequent as it once had been. Products lined the shelf, neatly spaced out like topiaries lining a garden. Around the mirror, set into deep, lidded wooden grooves, lightbulb eyes shone; some narrow in contempt, others open and receptive. 

A stool of plush, faded velvet stood in front of it, bathed in their gaze. It beckoned in silent invitation. 

Stolas blinked. He was admittedly a little confused.

“There’s no vanity in the library,” he said softly. “I don’t own one anymore. This one is from… my old bedroom, at the palace. I haven’t seen it in a while.”

"That’s interesting," the doctor said, approaching it slowly. They looked back at Stolas. "It may be an invitation to a memory. How do you feel, looking at it? Are you interested in approaching it?"

Stolas looked apprehensive. “I don’t know how to feel about my own mind inviting me somewhere without my knowledge,” he murmured. But he approached. His fingers lightly flitted across the brushes, many of them encrusted with precious jewels - opal, diamond, ruby and sapphire. The eyeshadow glittered in the sunbeams breaking through the dust-lined windows, the powders neat and silky-soft, the feather products handmade for his plumage, smelling faintly of rose. 

“I haven’t been able to afford things like this in a long time now.” Stolas thought that statement would fill him with sadness, but it didn’t. It was simply a fact, stated as neutrally as the weather. 

This was the palette he used to paint onto himself a face he no longer recognized.

"Does this object stir any memories within you?" Dr. Smith asked. "Any feelings? It being here indicates to me that your mind wants to show you something related to it. Something that it is unable or unwilling to disclose in its entirety."

They looked up at him seriously. "But it's your decision, whether or not you want to engage with it," they reminded him. "We could ignore it, if you'd like, and look at the books instead."

“I don’t know,” he said softly. Truthfully. “It’s… something I enjoyed. A means of self-expression. When I was young, I was creative with it. They told me to stop that, so… I never really did anything too risqué. Even when no one saw me. I… I suppose I don’t know why.”

Stolas carefully, slowly sat down. He looked up at himself in the mirror, and his eyes suddenly widened. 

In his reflection - copying his movements - was a child he hadn’t seen in the mirror for a long time. 

Stolas frowned, and touched the mirror. The owlet in the glass reached out just the same. Stolas cocked his head and the young prince did, too. 

“This is strange,” Stolas murmured. The child’s beak moved too, and yet as Stolas looked away and towards Dr. Smith, the reflection disappeared. “I don’t… quite understand.”

"It seems," they said quietly, "that this memory is from when you were a child. Perhaps when you were creative with your makeup expression, as you were saying."

They looked at his reflection curiously. "If you'd like, I could encourage this memory to present itself. Although it may be waiting for you. To see if you are ready to apply makeup now, as you once did then."

They looked at him, mildly curious. "What do you think?”

Stolas looked apprehensively at the table in front of him. 

“Men aren’t meant to,” Stolas murmured. “That’s what I was always told. My first set was… things I snuck from my mother’s room.”

Dr. Smith noticed the vague outline of a larger figure in the mirror. It reflected their position, but not their appearance. 

"Was there ever a time," they asked gently, "when your mother did your makeup with you?”

“Yes,” said Stolas. He didn’t elaborate - at least not immediately - but it was like his eyes lost a hint of their glitter. “Though that was different.” 

The dim reflection mirroring Dr. Smith's position began to take form, eight red eyes staring into their two black ones. "Are you ready to see that, Stolas?" they asked softly.

Stolas’ eyes stared into his own. He wasn’t confident. He wasn’t afraid. He was just - empty. The child’s eyes, equally hollow, looked back at him. 

“Are you?” Stolas asked quietly.

"I am ready for whatever you are, Stolas," the doctor said gently. "That is why I am here. And I believe..." They squinted slightly at the mirror, and eight red eyes squinted back. "I believe that if you touch the mirror, you will be there. But... it may not be like before."

They gestured at the owlet with an expression too world-weary for his youth. "You may... become him," they said. "Is that all right?”

Stolas just shrugged. 

His eyes already matched the child's weary gaze. 

He looked at the table. His hands were folded as he looked at the array of beautiful things he used to own. Beautiful things that let him hide his face so well. Who could be angry at being forced to wear a mask made of gold? 

“You don’t have to, you know,” Stolas muttered. “You don’t have to deal with my shit just because I’m paying you. You took me on thinking I was one thing. This… I’ve never told anyone about… not really. Not even Blitzø.” 

Stolas shook his head. “I,” he said softly, “I don’t think you signed up for this.”

He turned his head to the left. He watched the owlet copy his movements. Then he turned his head, ever so slightly, to the right, his gaze silently asking if he would see what he expected to see. And sure enough, there was a ring-shaped bruise on the owlet’s cheek. 

“I wouldn’t blame you,” Stolas said. “I would understand.”

Dr. Smith shook their head, and so did the woman in the mirror. "I am your therapist," they said softly. "I am not only able but willing to guide you through the darkest parts of your mind. I am also, right now, your Librarian. How could I fear the books I have been hired to tend to for you?"

They put a hand gently on his shoulder, and Stolas saw a taloned hand touch the young prince's shoulder just as gently. "You do not need to worry about me, Stolas," they said, a mirrored beak silently mouthing the words. "I'm here for you. And I'm ready when you are.”

Stolas took a deep breath. He looked up, and let the edge of a tear roll back into his eye. 

Stolas wondered how much this would hurt. 

Then his fingers gently brushed the mirror, meeting his own.

Colour danced across Stolas’ vision as the room swirled around him. He rapidly shut them, feeling nauseous - only to open them again at the sound of a familiar, melodic giggle.

He sat in front of the vanity. The same owlet gazed at him from the mirror, but now he felt a small vest pinching at his feathers, and his talons didn’t reach the floor. 

His heart raced suddenly with panic. It took him a moment to understand why. 

As an adult, he had control. He could choose when he smiled, and cried, and spoke. He was careful. He was deliberate. He was controlled. 

Here, that control was gone. He felt tears bite at his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stop them if they decided to fall. He fidgeted in the chair, and it was hard, so hard, to sit still. He waved his tail a little. 

He’d forgotten how difficult this was. He felt like half of his survival skills had been ripped from him in a heartbeat. 

A soft hand stroked his feathers, and he startled. Long talons combed his neck. It took only a second for him to place those fingers, however, and melt into their touch. Stella had never touched him like that.

Stolas had buried so deeply how much he missed his mother. And yet his spine straightened up, just as instinctively.

"Daydreaming again, my starfire?” the familiar voice asked, correctively but not unkindly.

“Yes,” he said, quietly. “Sorry. I know you told me not to do that.”

"It's all right, Stolas," she said. "I know that today did not... go quite as we hoped. But you still did your best, darling. And I still think you did well."

She gently removed his hand from the mirror. "You mustn't touch the mirror, darling," she said, and a sadness came into her voice. "It leaves unsightly marks."

Stolas turned his head a little. 

His eyes were frozen to the mark on his cheek. It was so clear that he could see the design of the seal, rendered in vivid purple. 

He felt tears forming in his eyes again, like a tidal wave. He tried to stop it, digging his talons into his palms, but it wasn’t enough, and he felt angry, and frustrated. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t. Goetia didn’t cry - both his parents had made that clear from when he was barely a nestling - and yet - and yet - 

“Mother,” he whimpered. A tear rolled down his cheek, and his beak trembled. “Does… does Father still love me?”

"Oh, Stolas," she said, immediately dabbing his tear away with her handkerchief. It was unclear if she was trying to comfort him or simply erase the evidence of his tears. Likely a bit of both.

"I'm sure he does," she said. "He's just... he has a lot of responsibility as king. He is very busy, and that can make him a bit... temperamental." 

She squeezed his shoulder gently. "I'm sure you'll impress him next time, as long as you are a good boy and work hard at your studies." She laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. "Today… was a valuable lesson for us both. I should have been focusing your studies more on inter-ring portals. I should have remembered how fundamental he considers teleportation to be." 

“But I did work hard at my studies,” Stolas protested, sniffling. “He said I was not giving it a full effort. But I am. I practiced a lot too. And I didn’t mean to make him angry with me. I didn’t.” 

More tears ran down his cheeks. “I thought I did everything you told me to. I - I don’t understand-“

"You did, Stolas," she soothed. "I tried... to prepare you for this meeting. But I neglected to work with your tutors on improving your portals, I'm afraid. I was so impressed with the fine control of your telekinesis, and your demonic form, and... I suppose I didn't direct you enough to the less flashy fundamentals."   

She smiled at him sadly in the mirror as she began to apply her foundation. "Forgive me, darling. We'll be ready next time. I promise. Now, let’s cover that up, hmm?”

“Okay,” he mumbled. 

Stolas watched himself pick up a tissue, and dab at the rest of his tears until his face was dry. 

“Can you show me, please?” he asked. “I… I don’t want the others to see.”

She smiled at him gently in the mirror. "Of course, Stolas."

She brushed the white powder over her face in practiced, even strokes.  "The key to applying makeup," she said, with the cadence of a recitation, "is the same as building a house, or a family. It is starting with a good foundation."

She started applying foundation around her eye, wincing only a little. "It doesn't matter what you add if the foundation isn't strong," she continued. "Without that, the whole thing falls apart. But a good foundation smooths out imperfections of every sort. Simply apply evenly across your face, and it becomes the perfect canvas for however you want it to look."

Stolas looked at the bruise around her eye as she made it disappear. 

He wondered if that was his fault too. But he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to push her. He didn’t want to make her angry with him, too.

She turned to him, the bruise perfectly hidden. "If there is swelling, it can be helpful to apply ice first," she said. "But yours just looks like a minor bruise, darling. Just like mine. Easy enough to hide away."

She handed him a foundation brush. "Now you try, Starfire," she said. "Just dip your brush in the powder and brush it across your face. It's all right if it isn't even - I will fix it up for you. I've had quite a bit of practice.”

Stolas looked at himself in the mirror. Carefully, he dipped the brush into the powder. As he started with his other cheek, he could tell he’d loaded on too much, and tried his best to smudge it around. That’s a little better. He added some more, building the layers. 

The owlet watched, with every stroke, as he disappeared. Maybe he liked this. Maybe, if his father didn’t love him, he could draw on someone else’s face and perhaps his father would like that son better. Maybe Stolas could use makeup to trick him.

He could be perfect. Even. No imperfections. No mistakes. 

Stolas tentatively swiped the brush over the bruise, but immediately flinched. His cheek was red and tender, and it hurt to the touch. He wasn’t used to it. 

Not yet, echoed a distant thought. 

"Let me do that part, Stolas," his mother said softly, taking the brush from his hand. "You've done so well on the rest of your face - barely uneven at all. You're a natural, darling."

She dipped a generous amount of foundation on the brush. "Now, this may hurt a little," she said, "but I'll be gentle. Try your best to stay still while I work - the more still you are, the faster it will be." And, gently as she could, she applied foundation over her son's bruise, just as she had done for herself so many times before.

It did hurt. Stolas squirmed, but he did try his best to keep his face still for her, his eyes squeezed shut, even if he wasn’t very good at it yet. He sniffled a little, but tried not to cry. He knew it would ruin it.

"There you are, darling," she soothed. "That’s perfect. My strong, brave boy."

With a speed and skill learned through endless hours of practice, she finished applying the foundation over his bruise.  "All done, darling. Look in the mirror." 

When he did, he saw that while his face was a little streaky from uneven application, the bruise seemed to have completely disappeared. "And there you have it," she said with a little smile. "All gone. Just like magic. Now let me touch up your foundation."

He sat nice and still as she evened out the rest of his face. 

Stolas glanced in the mirror, and gave a little smile. He pretended to be the boy he saw in the mirror. It was a nice game. The boy in the mirror didn’t do anything wrong. The boy in the mirror made a beautiful portal, and his father hugged him and told him how much he loved him and how proud he was. He didn’t even have the little marks and spots Stolas’ face naturally did. He was better than that. He was a Goetia, and everything a Goetia should be.

Stolas decided he liked makeup. It made the hurt go away.

When she finished, her smile grew a little larger, almost real. "Now, the fun part of makeup begins."

His eyes went a little wider. “The fun part?”

"Yes, the fun part," she said, stroking his head. "Once the foundation is laid, you can add all sorts of fun colors. You can make your face into the most beautiful thing."

She took out a black eyeliner pencil. "A good eyeliner frames the eyes, like frames for a picture," she said. "I favor a dark color, like black or dark brown. But for more celebratory events, you could use blue, or purple, or even gold!" She pulled down the lower lid on her left lower eye- the one without the hidden bruise. "You apply it to your waterline, like so," she said. "And then along the lash line of the top lid. You can even extend it out past the corner of your eye, like so. That is called winged eyeliner."

She applied eyeliner to the lower right eye to match, wincing a little. "It is important to make both eyes look the same," she said. "Like reflections of each other. I usually only line my bottom four eyes, but sometimes I line all eight."

She turned to him, her eyeliner immaculate. "Would you like some, darling? I'll apply it for you, since you're just starting to learn. I don't want you to get it in your eye.”

“Am I allowed purple?” Stolas asked nervously. “Mr. Drummond says boys shouldn’t wear colorful makeup like that.” But he did really want to. It looked beautiful.

She considered for a moment, then smiled at him. "Perhaps not for formal events," she said. "But it's just you and your mother. And I think the purple would look lovely with your eyes. Now, look up, Stolas. And hold still."

She carefully lined his bottom eyes. "Ah, lovely," she murmured when she finished. "What do you think, Stolas? I can line your top eyes too, if you'd like.”

He stayed very carefully still so she wouldn’t poke his eye. Then he looked at himself in the mirror and smiled, nodding eagerly. “Top eyes too.”

The owl did as she was asked. It might have been difficult for some, but not for her. She had twice as many eyes to practice with. 

"Ah, look how lovely you look already!" she said as she finished. "Now, time for my favorite part - eyeshadow."

She opened a palette that seemed to have every conceivable color of eyeshadow. "You inspired me with your choice of eyeliner, I think," she mused, dipping her brush into a lovely royal purple. "Now Stolas, you mustn't make the mistake of only using a single color on the whole lid. At least two colors, carefully applied, create a much more elegant look."

She applied the purple eyeshadow to her lids, then dipped another brush in a deep velvety indigo. "For example, the brighter color on the lid, and the dark contrast in the crease." Then a gentle lilac was added above her lids, layered in with a little purple. "And then a lighter shade to transition from the main color completes the look."

She smiled, blinking to show off her artfully applied eyeshadow. "What colors would you like, Starfire?”

Stolas listened carefully, trying to remember. He considered the palette thoughtfully, then pointed to two on the side. “Could I have pink and gold?”

She giggled. "So adventurous! Yes, darling. Gold as the highlight, I think. Now, close your eyes."

She artfully applied the eyeshadow to all four of his eyes. "Now open your eyes, Stolas. Look at how beautiful you are.”

Stolas opened them carefully, and then gasped in delight. He leaned forwards, examining himself. 

“I’m so pretty! Just like you!”

"That’s right, Starfire," she said gently, smiling at his delight. "You see? Makeup can make you look however you would like. Your face is a canvas that you can make into a perfect work of art. Isn't that wonderful?”

And Stolas nodded. “You’re really good at it,” he said. “When I grow up, I hope I’m as good. I’ll practice.”

Her smile grew slightly sad. "I… I hope so too, Starfire. And practice makes perfect, after all."

She consciously brightened her smile. "Now let's smooth our feathers. We mustn't have any feathers out of place. And then you and I shall be the loveliest Goetia in Hell. How does that sound?”

Stolas nodded, turning his attention back to the mirror. 

“I want to look nice,” he said softly. “So you and father will be proud. And… and so I can marry someone nice.” He looked up at her. “On your wedding day, you must have looked very pretty, mother.”

Her smile grew slightly strained. "Yes, Stolas. I was very pretty that day," she said, applying some sweet-smelling tonic to her feathers and smoothing them down. "I made sure my makeup was perfect. My dress was perfect. For that one day, I was perfect. A bride fit for a king."

Her eyes focused back on Stolas, gazing at him fondly. "And you already make me proud, darling. Now, let me smooth your feathers.”

He sat still as she gently preened his feathers, smoothing them out. It was a little harder - he was still young enough that his down feathers were competing with the new adult ones, just beginning to peek through. 

“You must have been really happy,” Stolas said, a dreamy look in his eyes. “To marry someone really important.” 

"It was... an honor," she said carefully. "To be chosen by the king. And he gave me you, Starfire. So he did make me very happy."

He smiled, eyes shining. “Maybe when I get married, you can do my makeup for me.”

There was a strange flash of pain in her eyes. "Maybe," she said. "But I'm sure by then, you'll be able to do your own makeup. You'll be a grown man. A Prince of Hell. You won't need your silly old mother to do things for you anymore.”

“Maybe I’ll be good at it too,” he said thoughtfully. He smiled. “But maybe I will want you to. So it will be special.”

She smiled in a way that did not match the sadness in her eyes. "I'm sure you'll look lovely either way." She kissed the top of his perfectly coiffed head, not getting a single feather out of place. "My bright, beautiful starfire.”

And Stolas closed his eyes - all four of them, beautifully painted - as he leaned into her embrace. 

When Stolas opened his eyes, he was elsewhere. His feathers were in awful disarray - it was the first thing he noticed, the way they tugged on his scalp. His face was red, blotchy and tear-streaked, mascara painting lines through the foundation on his cheeks like obsidian lava. Otherwise, his face was unharmed - but his right hand hurt horribly. 

He remembered now. His tutors always knew better than to touch the prince’s face. 

Stolas looked down at his hand. The red, angry marks of a ruler marred his palm. He felt it swelling, and throbbing, and burning as he sobbed.

His brain would only process two things. 

First, that he needed to fix his face before anyone saw him crying.

And second, that he needed love. 

He felt so desperate for it - to be told he was okay, he was still cared for - that he felt nearly ill. And so he watched his childhood self stumble, crying softly, to his mother’s bedroom. A soft little scratch of a knock followed. “M-mother? Can… can I please come in?”

There was a pause, long enough that one might think that she wasn't in the bedroom. Then, finally, he heard her voice, tired and ever so slightly irritable. "What is it, Stolas?”

Stolas opened the door carefully with his left hand. He went straight towards her, sobbing, curling his right hand in a fist against his chest in pain, hoping her arms would soon surround him, along with her wings, and her soft warm feathers… and that then, everything would be okay.

“Mr. Drummond got upset with me because I used my right hand again. But I didn’t mean to … it was an accident… and… and then he… and then after he told me to go a- and make myself presentable before continuing with lessons,” he cried into her skirt. “But I’m out of foundation and… and… and with my left hand it’s hard to get even… and my right really hurts…”

Andromeda paused from where she was putting foundation on her neck. She didn't usually have to put foundation there, and she had not yet fully hidden the mark of a handprint that encircled it.

She looked at Stolas, exhausted and exasperated. "You really have to be more careful about that," she muttered. "Tie your right hand behind your back if you must." She plucked an unopened container of foundation from her shelf, pushing it into his palm. "Here. One of the maids should be able to help you even it out.”

Stolas looked at it. His hand kept opening and closing, trying to get rid of the stinging pain that now felt like it was traveling up his arm. 

He tried to wipe his tears with his other sleeve. 

“Could… could you help?” He said weakly, sniffling. “…please, Mummy?”

"I'm a bit busy, Stolas," she said flatly, continuing to apply foundation to her neck. "You really should be able to apply it yourself by now."

“I…” Stolas’ beak trembled, and he felt so painfully inadequate. “Normally I can, b-but it will take me too long to do it with my left hand. I - he told me not to keep him waiting, and he’s already so cross with me…” 

She sighed and picked up the phone. "I'll call the study and speak to Mr. Drummond," she said. "If he wants you to work left-handed, he must accommodate the additional time that it would take to make yourself presentable.”

Stolas knew she was doing him a kindness. But it felt so much like an excuse, and he shook his head, sniffling. 

“Don’t… don’t say that to him,” he mumbled softly. “He said I shouldn’t need time to make myself presentable because I shouldn’t have cried. I should… I should be able to just… take correction when he deems it necessary and get back to my studies after.” He sniffled, trying to stop the flow of tears.

An angry edge entered her voice. "Oh, is that what he said?" she hissed, and all at once she was on her feet and storming toward the study.

“No, wait,” Stolas cried, trying to keep up with her. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want it to be all - public and embarrassing. He had just wanted to bury himself in her skirt, and for her to hold him and fix him like she always did, and then to continue with his day like nothing had happened. He didn’t want his tutor to know he’d run to his mother, or that he’d kept crying, or that he was so much of a child still that -

Andromeda strode quickly to the study, the handprint on her neck still visible, bruises in the shape of talons marking the fingertips like horrid fruit on a ghostly tree. A few servants stopped and stared, or whispered to each other. She didn't seem to care.

She came into the study like a thundercloud, closing the door and catching Mr. Drummond completely by surprise. "L-Lady Andromeda," said the portly little baphomet,  taking in the handprint on her neck. "Are... are you all right?"

"Do I not look all right?" she said, her voice flat and cold. "I wonder why that might be. May I have a word?"

She backed him up against the bookshelf, her considerable height and venomous expression making him tremble. Stolas couldn't make out all the words, but could tell she spoke in a harsh whisper. A few phrases made their way through the thick air of the library - "hurt my child", "adequate time for preparation", and "by your own inane standards".

As her shadow drew back at last, the smaller demon was still shaking like a leaf. "P-p-perhaps it is b-best if I end P-Prince Stolas’ lessons for the d-day," he stuttered. Stolas had never heard him stutter before.

"Don't tell me. I am a mere lady," snapped Andromeda. "Tell the prince. And stop stuttering, or perhaps I will correct you myself."

The terrified little tutor turned to Stolas. "Yyyou are dis...missed for the day, Your Hhhighness," he said slowly, trying not to stutter. "To...morrow I will show mmmmore... propriety."

Satisfied, Andromeda turned on her heel. "Come with me, Stolas," she said sharply, and began walking back to her room.

Stolas just stared, open-beaked. As his tutor apologized to him, he looked completely lost. Not sure what else to do, he simply gave a quick little bow like he’d been taught to, hiding his hurt hand behind him, then ran to catch up with his mother.

He didn’t know what to say. His whole life, both of his parents had told him merely to listen to his tutors and teachers - to be polite and contrite and respectful. But that…

He had never seen his mother like that. 

“You… you were upset with him?” the owlet managed softly. “Not with me? But I -”

"Wait until we are behind closed doors, Starfire," said Andromeda. She did not speak again until they were in her chambers, the door locked behind them.

Her skirts bunched up messily as she sat down at her vanity. After a furious glare at a few brushes that had done nothing wrong, her fury began to dissipate, leaving only numbness behind. Her posture slumped, and the lids above her dimmed eyes looked heavy and weary.

"Yes, Stolas," she said quietly. "I was furious with him. I am furious with so many people. But you, my darling, have never been one of them."

She patted the spot next to her on the padded bench. "Come, Stolas. I'll give you some cold cream to take that off. At this point, it's better to start fresh.”

Stolas quietly sat, still holding his stinging hand in the other. His toes hung down without reaching the floor. 

Stolas looked at the two of them in the mirror. Her feathers hung down, now reaching his shoulders. His gaze traveled upwards, taking a moment to admire the gemstones on her necklace, and then pausing on the bruises of her neck. His heart sank as he finally mapped those blue outlines, peeking through her foundation layers, to the shape of fingers. 

I am furious with so many people.

“Mother,” he said, softly. “Is everything okay?”

"What an interesting question," she said quietly, beginning to cover the marks with more foundation. "It's difficult to say. My definition of 'okay' has degraded to such a point that generally, I would say 'yes'."

Stolas was smart, and for his age, well-read and well-spoken. But that was not an idea he would understand until years later, replaying her words in his head. 

Her brush paused, and then she put it down, turning to look at him. "Silly me," she murmured. "Let me see your hand, darling. I should have done that first.”

Hesitantly, the boy held out his hand to her, and unfolded his small fingers. The mark stood out like a red fissure, red and very tender. A few overlapping straight weals - where the edges of the ruler had dug in a little deeper - were a dark crimson, blending into the black of his palm. The marks raised above his skin, puffy and swelling. 

“It’s my fault,” Stolas mumbled. “I should have tried harder not to use it. But it’s so very difficult. I don’t understand how the others do it with ease.”

"It's because they are left-handed, Stolas," his mother said. There was an undercurrent of irritation in her voice, but it didn't seem directed toward him. "They never had to work for it. They never had to change themselves. Not like we have."

She gave him a sad little smile, getting up and approaching a small, strange chest in her room that he hadn't noticed before. "I was hoping you wouldn't inherit from me," she said. "I'm sorry for that, darling."

“What does that mean? Left-handed?” Stolas said in confusion.

"Left-handed means that their left hand is their dominant hand," she explained. "They naturally use their left hands for tasks like writing, or throwing.” She reached into the chest and pulled out a small bag of ice. 

He’d never realized that she had an icebox in her room. 

“Most hellborn demons are left-handed. But some are right-handed, and naturally use their right hands for those tasks. And it has come back into fashion to punish children for using their right hands... some nonsense about it being the holy hand, unlike the unholy left."

Stolas thought about that. “But that’s not fair,” he murmured, surprise and anger in the same breath.

“I’m afraid there are many things that are not fair, darling.” She sat back down, wrapping the bag of ice in a cotton cloth and placing it gently on his right hand. "That should help with the swelling," she said. "And I have a salve I can apply later.”

He held the ice in his hand. The cold made his hand ache, as the numbness spread to his fingers, but he held it tight.

“Why do you have ice in your room?” he asked softly. “I’m sure the servants would bring you some when you like. I ask for ice for my drinks sometimes and they always bring me some.”

She was quiet for a moment. "It's... just easier to have on hand," she said. “Now, let’s get you that cold cream.”

She put the cold cream in front of him, unscrewing the container. "Put it on your face with your left hand," she said. "I'll get a washcloth.”

His fingers dipped into the pot, careful not to make a mess. He drew two eyes and a lopsided smile on his cheek - like he was used to - and began smudging it around his skin, bringing the tears and mascara with it. He took the washcloth as it was offered, bringing his face back in small, neat circles. 

Andromeda smiled as he finished cleaning his face, holding his small, bare face in her hands. "There he is," she said softly. "My Stolas. My beautiful boy.”

He looked up. He looked younger without it. The foundation hid the blush on his cheeks. The eyeliner made his eyes elegant and defined, and the shimmer eyeshadow he wore gave an air of royal sophistication. His eyes were rounder, and less defined. His eyelashes were not dark and stiff, but feathery and soft. His eyelids lacked the shimmer of royal sophistication and elegance, but he wasn’t old enough to be elegant. 

The Prince was gone, and Stolas - young, curious, timid - was left behind. He was simply - Stolas. He was simply seven years old. 

He giggled as she spoke, wiggling away from her hands.  “I’m not beautiful, you took all the makeup off!” He laughed at her silliness, swinging his legs.

"I'm going to tell you a secret, Stolas," she whispered. "To me, you are beautiful, just as you are. You don't need to be perfect to be beautiful." Andromeda sighed. "I just wish the rest of the Goetia could see that. But they can't. That is what makeup is for."

She took her foundation and, with a sly little grin, put the brush in her right hand. "I’ll do it for you this once, my darling.”

Stolas smiled. It matched his mother’s. 

Both were almost real. 

Stroke by stroke, she began to cover up his face again, replacing it with the expected one. Artfully, she put on his foundation, a thin line of eyeliner, and a few swipes of muted eyeshadow. He kept his eyes dutifully closed, like he always did until he was allowed to open them again. “There we are, darling,” he heard her say, but her voice sounded strangely far away. “Look at how beautiful you are.”

Stolas nodded and looked in the mirror, but he was startled by what he saw. His makeup looked perfect, but the face... it looked like his, but older. He turned his head, waved, and the older Goetia copied his movements. 

He looked to his mother for answers, but she was gone. Her makeup brush, in her hand a mere moment ago, sat on the counter untouched.

Although she was gone, something had taken the place of her reflection. Sitting next to his older self in the mirror, right where his mother’s reflection had been, was a vaguely familiar being with glasses.

"Hello, Stolas," his mother's false reflection said gently. "Are you ready to return to the library?" 

“I… I’m not sure,” Stolas said softly. “Where did Mother go?”

"She's still in the memory," the Librarian explained, their voice calm and even. "We are in a liminal space, and she will not follow us here unless invited in."

They smiled at him. "Is there anything you would like to say to her before you go? I can wait.”

“There are things I want to ask,” he said softly. “But they’re questions I would only know as a grown-up. Can I do that?”

Dr. Smith nodded. "Look at this grown-up version of yourself in the mirror," they said. "Look at the ways his face has changed, and yet is still undeniably yours. Know that you are one and the same, separated only by the passage of time, and by this mirror. And here, in your mind, both of those things are mutable."

They smiled at him in gentle encouragement. "Once you have thought of that, touch the mirror, and invite your older self into this memory. Then you will be a grown-up, and you will know what questions you want to ask.”

Stolas looked at it hesitantly. 

Mother said not to touch the mirror, he thought. It will be unsightly.

He looked at his older self. Looked at the marks left by time, and by rules. Looked at all the things he wished weren’t there, all the blemishes that ruined what he thought he would be. Then he pressed his full palm against the mirror. The warm fingers slowly stuck to the cold metal.

When he pulled them away, they were longer. He seemed lost, at first, as he glanced around. Only then did he realize his mother was next to him again. 

It was just that he’d never had to look down. 

“Mother?”

She blinked at him with all eight eyes, the handprint on her neck almost but not quite hidden. Gently, she put down the brush.

"Stolas?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Is that you, my starfire?”

Stolas nodded softly. 

“Sorry, I… this must be… startling,” he said softly. “Although - I’m not sure. You’re a memory. I don’t know how that feels.” 

Hesitantly, he reached out his hand, wondering if it would just go through her again.

She gripped his hand in hers, tears coming to her eyes. "My beautiful boy," she whispered. "You're all grown up."

Tears cut tracks through her makeup. "Oh, Stolas, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm so sorry I couldn't stay.”

And Stolas…

Stolas just… looked at her. Tears welled up in his own eyes. But even though he’d gotten better at crying, something just wouldn’t let him, even as his waterline burned. 

Goetia don’t cry, Stolas thought. 

You taught me that.

“You left me,” he mumbled. “You left me, and I didn’t understand. I understand a little more now… why you left the palace. The family. I understand now … that you ran.” 

A traitorous tear slipped down his cheek. 

“But I don’t understand why you left me behind. I’m thirty five now. And I still don’t understand why I wasn’t worth taking with you.”

She dabbed delicately at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I wish I knew for sure," she said softly. "I don't know anything you don't know, darling. I’m just a memory. But..." She closed her eyes. "I was just one of his many wives, and no longer fertile. You were his heir. You mattered to the family in a way I simply didn't. If I had taken you with me, I knew that they would find you. Then they probably would have killed me.”

“You could have told me,” he mumbled. The tears drowned his eyes now, and still refused to properly fall. “You could have at least said goodbye. I came here, every night, for a month. Using your makeup. So… so that I’d look nice for when you came back. So you’d be proud of me.”

“Because one morning, I just woke up, and you were gone. And I never saw you again. And now… now I don’t know where you are. The stars told me you were alive and nothing more. Alive… and yet still. Three decades later, and the palace was mine, and I was wed, and I had a child, and still… you never came to see me.”

“What was I meant to believe?”

She shook her head. "I assumed that you would hate me," she said. "That you would believe I was a selfish bitch that abandoned you to that awful family. And you would be right to feel that way, darling. But Stolas... if I didn't get away, I knew I would die, one way or another. I couldn't let you know, because I knew you would have asked me to stay, or to take you with me. And I... I couldn't."

She kept dabbing at her eyes. "I am so sorry, darling. Though I don't expect you to forgive me. I put myself and my pain before yours. No mother should do that, but it was all I was capable of. And... if it makes a difference, darling, I always loved you. I wanted to take you away. But my weakness was not your inadequacy. I just couldn’t endure this family anymore. That is all.”

“I endured it,” said Stolas. And he hadn’t expected the bitterness in those words.

“I had a wife, and a daughter. And my wife treated me just like Father did you. She humiliated me. Destroyed my hopes and dreams. And she hit me. It was her favourite pastime, watching me suffer.  I got very good at makeup, too.” 

He looked away. “But I stayed. I stayed, because I didn’t want to do to Octavia what you did to me. I gave her a childhood. I stayed so there would always be someone between her and her mother.” 

“You couldn’t do it for me. So I did it instead. And it…” 

He shook his head. He was crying softly. He couldn’t hold back anymore.

“And now I have no idea who I was supposed to be. I’m just a broken shell. I put all of my pride into being a better parent. It became all that mattered. And now I’ve lost even that. My daughter despises me. Now… now I’m no one anymore. Now I am nothing. That… that’s what you left me to.”

Andromeda gave him a strange, broken smile. "I am so sorry you married someone like your sadistic bastard of a father. And I'm so glad you were stronger than me. If you need to hate me for not enduring the same torture that this fucking family forced on you, that is your right. But I just hope that you hate your father more than you hate me."

She stood up, pacing restlessly around the room. "Because at least I loved you. At least I tried. I was a teenager betrothed to a centuries-old being that treated me like just another incubator. He was the one that trapped us both. That hit us both. That treated us both like objects. I hope that if you hate me, you don't still seek his love. Because I know all too well that he has none to give. And that means that on some level, you know that too.”

“That’s not fair,” Stolas snapped. 

“There are many things that are not fair.” 

Stolas turned away for a moment. His arms wrapped around his middle, and he felt ill. 

“I don’t hate you,” he whispered, looking at the floor. 

Was it that wrong, that he did want his father’s love, even still? That he desired it? That he craved it? That he would give anything to hear -

Is this how Octavia feels about Stella?

“I’m just trying to tell you how I feel,” he mumbled softly. “I… I don’t have to earn the right to feel something. I learned that after I left this place. I don’t have to not want my father to love me in order to be upset at what you did too.” 

He looked up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I hate you.  Of course I don’t hate you, it just… it just hurts, so much, all of it, and I need… “ 

The dam burst, and Stolas sobbed into his arms. 

“I just want to be able to believe that you love me,” he gasped out. “I just… I just want you to love me…”

He felt her fingers move through his feathers, just like when he was small. 

He didn’t pull away. 

"I do love you," Andromeda murmured to Stolas. "I do. I always did. And I imagine that somewhere, the real version of me still loves you, still aches for you. I know that isn't enough. But at least, I can offer that much."

She rocked him slightly, like she used to do when she was helping him sleep as a nestling. "I'm sorry, darling. I'm not trying to deny how you feel. You have every right to be upset with me. I just wanted you to understand... that I never left you out of lack of love. I just couldn't endure the pain any longer.”

“Okay,” he sobbed softly into her skirt. “You really do? You really… want me, still?”

"Of course, Starfire," she said. It was strange... the man kneeling before her was a good ten years older than her, yet still unmistakably her little boy. "You were the only good part of any of it. The only part it broke my heart to lose. Of course I want you. And I'm so happy that, in this way, I still got to see the man you've become."

She leaned down to kiss his head. "I hope my real self will someday be so lucky.”

Stolas smiled weakly. “I hope so too,” he murmured. After a few minutes he sat up, soaking up the rest of his tears with his handkerchief. 

“You know I love you, darling,” she said softly. “We are in your mind. You do know these words are all yours, Stolas, don’t you?”

Stolas blinked and considered that. Yes, this was all in his mind. And yes, that meant that all of these words were his.

But it also meant that much of it was in his control. So here, perhaps he could still use his magic. At least a simple summoning spell...

Stolas paused and then snapped his fingers as a few worn Polaroids materialized between them. 

Stolas beamed. He was so happy that he could use his magic here, even if it was only within his mind. It was easy to show off what he once could actually do.

To show her how much he had learned. To make her proud. 

He handed her the photos, one by one. Stolas, dressed up on his wedding day. A young man holding a little owlet in a pink blanket. Stolas with a toddler Octavia on his lap, laughing. Via’s tenth birthday. A teenage Stolas taking a selfie.

“I do understand,” he said softly. “She was the only good part of my marriage too.” And he smiled sadly. “She… doesn’t want to talk to me right now. But I hope… I hope someday she will.”

"Oh," she said softly, looking at the photos like she was stargazing. "Oh, she's beautiful, Stolas. And I can tell just by looking at you, and at her, that you are a wonderful father. She's... very lucky.”

“I call her my starfire,” he murmured. “Just like you did.”

"Oh, Stolas," she said, smiling at him through her tears. "That's so beautiful. My starfire has a starfire of his own. His own little Polaris."

“I do,” he said. He smiled, and the tears that coated his eyelashes now were soft, and warm. “I do. Like… like a little star, orbiting the one you made.”

She patted his hand. "I'm so proud of you, darling.” 

I’m so proud of you. Those words felt like a warm embrace.

He leaned his head on her shoulder. “And then,” he murmured, “Around a year and a half ago now… I fell in love. Though I don’t know how you might feel about that. It’s not exactly something I think you ever imagined for your son.”

She smiled at him wistfully. "As long as she makes you happy, darling. That's all I ever wanted for either of us.”

Stolas looked hesitant. “… and if it’s a … he?”

Her eyes widened a little. "Oh," she said softly. She considered that for a moment, and then gave him a tentative smile. "Well... does he make you happy?”

Stolas nodded. “He does,” he said softly. “He makes me so happy, Mother. He showed me what it’s like to be loved, in a romantic way, by someone who cares. How it feels like to be respected, and cherished. But it’s a he, yes. I… I realized I never was attracted to women at all. And he’s… and he’s an imp -”

She couldn't hide her surprise. "Goodness," she said softly. "How in Heaven did that happen?"

Stolas smiled, faintly. “It’s a long story,” he said simply. “A childhood friendship and then…” He blushed a little. “It was as if… I fell into a river. The current swept me up, and took me away. Falling in love felt like a dream, and perhaps more so because it was a forbidden one. Those rapids, no matter how messy, brought me to Eden, and I tasted the fruit I was offered. Eve could not resist. How could I?”

She considered that, and after a moment, she gave him a warm smile. "I suppose that makes sense. I did everything I was supposed to do as a wife, and I was miserable. Escaping that supposed perfection was my only way to survive, and to reclaim my happiness. And..."

She put her hands on his shoulders, smiling up at him. "It sounds like you escaped too, and found your own happiness. And I'm so glad, Starfire. I'm so glad you're happy, and free. More than any lesson in magic and manners and proper conduct, that was what I wanted for you."

She looked down, sniffling slightly. "I'm so sorry I couldn't give you that, Stolas. But I am so proud that you found it for yourself.”

She pulled him into her arms. He was taller than her now, but it still felt… so nice to be held. 

“I’m not fully happy,” Stolas admitted. “Or fully free. But… but I think I’m getting there. I don’t always… I don’t always feel like I deserve that happiness. But I’m trying. I’m really trying…”

“And Blitzø… my boyfriend… he helps me do that. I think… the real you would need some time to get used to the idea of him, and to Blitzø himself… but you’d like him eventually. I really think you would.”

She nodded. "It… probably would take me some time," she said. "I spent so much of my life being the picture of decorum and propriety. It would likely take me a while to adjust to my son living such an... untraditional lifestyle."

Then Andromeda smiled, taking his hand. "But all that decorum and propriety made me miserable. My disappearance was hardly traditional, but it was what I needed. And it sounds like you have found what you needed too. So I, at least, am very happy for you. And I hope my real self would eventually feel the same."

“I think you’d like seeing your Starfire with a family,” Stolas said softly. “Even if it’s not the perfect one I was supposed to have. We go out for mice cream. We cook. We work together. I live in a little apartment in Imp City. It doesn’t have a proper bedroom. The landlord is awful. I hit my head every time I get into Blitzø’s car. But we talk about feelings. He tells me I’m worth all the love in the world. And he doesn’t get upset with me if I cry. And his daughter is starting to feel like my own, too.”

He took a deep breath. “And if it wasn’t for missing my Octavia… it would be the happiest I’ve ever been.”

She frowned a little. "Oh, darling, have you not been able to see your daughter? I'm so sorry.”

Stolas shook his head. 

“I was cast out of the family,” he murmured. “Because I took the blame for… essentially, to save Blitzø’s life. But I hid the reality of my marriage from Octavia. She doesn’t know how my wife treated me. She doesn’t know that I’m gay, that there was never any love. And so she saw… her father cheat on her mother and run away with his lover, leaving her behind. I am unable to go see her, because the palace is guarded. She could contact me. She can. She knows I wish for that more than anything. She chooses not to, because… because she hates me. I write to her, but she doesn’t answer.”

Stolas sniffled softly. “Because I abandoned her. Then she found my antidepressants and now she thinks… I endured it all for her. That she is the reason I needed that, the reason I was so miserable. And yes, she was the reason I stayed, just like… just like I was the reason you did for a while…and the reason father hit you.” 

His eyes teared up. “But I love her, mother. I did it out of love. I don’t resent her. She’s right - I’m not a perfect father. I want to do better. I want… I want to tell her that. I want to tell her the truth. But she… she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want… me… anymore.”

Andromeda squeezed his hand gently, touching his cheek with her other hand. "Your father was the reason your father hit me," she said firmly. "I know that now. I never blamed you for that, and eventually, I didn't blame myself either. It was his choice to hurt us - his responsibility, and his fault. No one else's."

She smoothed her son’s feathers, slowly and rhythmically. "In the same way, it is not Octavia's fault that your wife hit you. Nor was it yours. It was hers, and no one else's. I hope someday that Octavia realizes that."

Her face creased a little. "I understand if you never forgive me, Starfire. But I hope your starfire forgives you. Because you sound like a wonderful father.”

Stolas looked up at her. 

It felt like he was silent for a long time. 

Then he gently put his hand over hers on his cheek. It covered hers fully, now. 

Her hand was the same size as Octavia’s. 

“I forgive you,” he said, very softly. “I choose to forgive you.”

She beamed at him, a tear sliding down her cheek. She did not try to stop it. "Thank you," she said, just as softly. "I hope the real me hears that, someday. I hope she is just as grateful as I am."

Tears continued to flow silently down her face as she looked up at him. "So tall now," she murmured. "So much older and wiser than I am, here in your mind. And still... still, I look at you, and I still see my beautiful boy." She stroked his cheek with her thumb. "My Stolas, promised to me by the stars. Whom I love with the same light and heat that foretold you, and who will shine on long after the end of my light. My beautiful Starfire.”

And Stolas smiled, tears running down his cheeks. “Can I… can I stay here a while?” he said softly, and he knew it was not only her he was asking.

"Of course, darling," she said. 

And from the mirror, he heard the Librarian's voice. "As long as you need, Stolas. I will be here when you are ready."

"I know you're all grown up now," Andromeda whispered. "But... would you like me to sing to you, darling?”

And Stolas nodded, softly. He lay down on the bench that was somehow suddenly long enough to accommodate his height, and laid his head on her lap, letting his eyes softly close.

And she closed her eyes and began to sing.

There was a sweetness and a purity in her voice that was unbecoming of a demon. It was almost angelic, and it made most people uncomfortable to hear. But Stolas had always liked it, so he became the only one to hear her sing.

And as she had so many times before, she sang him a lullaby. One that had settled so deeply in his mind that he had passed it on to his own starfire. A song passed through three generations of demons that had never been quite as demonic as they were supposed to be. A song about pain, and loss, but those were both always eclipsed by love.

Stolas listened. After a few verses he began to cry, but quietly and softly. He knew it was a memory, and still longed to hear his mother’s voice - his real mother’s voice - again. But this… this was nice. It was soothing. He felt himself gently drifting, his heartbeat slowing further and further as a sense of peace overtook him.

After a few gentle repetitions of the lullaby, Andromeda's voice fell silent. 

"Are you ready to return to the library now, Stolas?" the Librarian asked quietly. 

And Stolas nodded.

The Librarian was sitting on an armchair nearby, smiling at him with such patience and gentleness. "Welcome back, Stolas," they said. "I know that was a difficult one. A painful one. But you did so, so well."

They stood up. "I'm going to summon some tea. Would you like some?”

Stolas sat up. It was strange, re-entering one’s body. He felt the echo of tears in his eyes still, even though they were dry. He still felt the softness of the brush on his cheek. His hand still stung with a strange phantom pain.

“Tea would be nice,” he mumbled. They both knew it wasn’t what he wanted, but he’d accepted his therapist wouldn’t give him that.

Dr. Smith placed a tea tray on a table next to him, complete with teapot, teacups and saucers, teaspoons, a bowl of sugar cubes, a small pitcher of milk, and a bottle of honey. 

They poured themself a cup before sitting back down with their cup and saucer. "It's chamomile," they said. "But of course, you could make it another flavor, if you prefer."

Stolas could also make it into wine, or absinthe. But the context of the tea tray made it very clear that it wouldn't be a helpful choice, and he didn’t want to talk about that right now. So he settled for Hootlong.

The doctor sipped their tea delicately, waiting to see if he wanted to speak. It took a few minutes until they were rewarded.

“I wish I knew why she really left,” Stolas finally murmured. “And not just what my brain thinks.”

"I understand that," they said. "It can be difficult to live with that kind of uncertainty. But... it did seem like your time with her, although more or less fabricated, provided you with some closure.”

“Does it surprise you?” Stolas asked, unexpectedly softly. “That… that happened? That they hit me?”

Dr. Smith was silent for a moment. "No," they said softly. "I suspected that it might be the case. But I wanted to wait until you were ready to tell me. Or, I suppose, show me." They gave him a slight smile. "Thank you for trusting me with that, Stolas. I know it couldn't have been easy.”

“When did you suspect that?” he said quietly. “I don’t think Blitzø knows. I felt like I always hid it well. But perhaps not.”

He smiled sadly. “Or was it when you noticed I was right-handed?”

"That was the first sign, yes," they said. "I have read about that practice. Certain religious sects used to do the same thing to left-handed humans, actually.

"And of course, there was the memory of you with your father... and your strong emotional reaction to my poor phrasing that followed. I... have learned to recognize signs. But I am very observant, and I am a literal empath. I doubt it has been obvious to others.”

Stolas frowned a little at that. But he wasn’t afraid. It was almost like… being known like this… instead of feeling violating, felt like a relief of something he did not have to explain. 

“Can I ask…” he said hesitantly. “What else have you… guessed about me, whether or not you’re sure, that I haven’t told you? I can tell you if you’re right. I just… would like to know.”

Dr. Smith looked a little uncomfortable. "Are you sure? I wouldn't want to voice any incorrect assumptions about you. And I... I am still not certain what verbiage you are comfortable with me using.”

Stolas nodded softly. “I’m sure,” he said softly. “It may honestly be… relieving. There’s been a few things… I don’t know how to say.”

“And if you’re wrong, I can say so.”

They nodded. "All right. But please tell me if I overstep, or if you would like me to stop."

They paused for a moment, then began to speak. "You were a very lonely child. You enjoyed reading, and often read about friendships and, later, romantic relationships, in lieu of actually experiencing them. That is part of why Blitzø left such an impression on you.

"You... have never been happy in your marriage. Stella saw to that. She... I imagine the pressure to conceive an heir was immense, and I cannot imagine that she was kind or patient during that process.

"Octavia started as an obligation. I imagine you had very complicated feelings about that. But eventually, your love for her eclipsed any other feelings about her."

They looked up at him a bit uneasily. "Is... that sufficient?”

Stolas looked pensive. “It’s all correct,” he admitted softly. “Is there more?”

"Sometimes... Blitzø scares you," they said softly. "Not necessarily because of what he does, although sometimes his snap reactions do not help. But you... certain things he does remind you of things Stella did, before she got violent. You know he would not get violent with you, or at least, you are fairly sure. But... the associations are still there.”

And Stolas looked… a little more stunned, slowly putting down his tea. 

“How do you know that?” he asked, very softly. “That…. was it when Blitzø and I had couples sessions? Was there something I did? I don’t want him to think -“

"Yes," they said, still quiet and careful. "You flinch when he raises his voice, and when he gestures too forcefully. And I feel the fear associated with that, though it feels... learned. A conditioned response not necessarily corresponding proportionally to anything happening in the moment. But I would never share that with him, Stolas. Not without your permission.”

Stolas looked down. His mind was replaying, it seemed, every interaction he’d ever had. He took a long sip of tea. 

“I suppose you did see her hit me,” he said softly. “That isn’t a secret.”

"Before you lost your magic, you healed quickly,” they continued. “I imagine she could hurt you quite dramatically, and there would soon be no evidence of that. Not that you even wanted it to be seen, I imagine. I... doubt it would have been easy to seek help regarding how she hurt you.

"And... you did tell me she tried to assassinate you. And that you were in quite a lot of pain afterward. I imagine angelic steel was involved.”

And at that, Stolas hesitated. Then carefully, he pulled down the collar of his loose-fitting sweater, just slightly, showing the white mark that pierced through both sides of his shoulder. 

“I was kidnapped,” he murmured. “Brought to a lair, far away on Wrath. The goal was to kill me, and that was… called off. Her brother decided I was more useful to their quest for power alive. But before that…” 

He shuddered. “I was… tortured,” he admitted. “There are ways to kill efficiently… and there are ways to draw it out, enjoying putting your victim through as much pain as you can. He was… he was rather good at that.

“I was rushed to hospital and… it wasn’t immediately clear I would live.” He sighed. “I did… but it wasn’t a pleasant month. And no one came to see me… no one at all. Not even Blitzø. Of course, I couldn’t tell Octavia… although perhaps I should have.

“But I know that Stella thoroughly enjoyed it.” And he stared at the carpet.

Dr. Smith listened silently as he spoke. "I'm so sorry," they said softly. "I'm so sorry that he did that to you, and that no one was there to comfort you during that difficult time."

They put down their teacup. "I know that your relationship with Blitzø was quite different then than it is now. But... is that something you would like to discuss with him in couples therapy at some point in the future?”

Stolas looked thoughtful, then nodded. 

“It was a very difficult month,” he murmured. “A lot of pain. A lot of surgeries and a difficult recovery. And I had never… felt so very alone. Like I had no one in the world who cared if I lived or died. Moxxie and Millie sent flowers, and there was a bouquet from my garden - my staff, I presume - but no one… no one came to see me. To see if I was okay. And I wasn’t.”

“And I know why. I know how scared he was of seeing me that way. I know hospitals remind him of dark memories. But...”

He sighed. “Yes, I’d like to talk about it in couples therapy.”

"All right,” the therapist said. “We can discuss it at your next couples session."

They picked up their teacup and took another sip. "How are you feeling now, Stolas?”

“Hollow,” he admitted softly. “It was so nice to see her like that. But now… it’s making me remember that it wasn’t real. That if my real mother wanted to see me, she probably could, but chooses not to. That I’ll probably… never really have a moment like that.”

"It's not impossible, but it is unlikely, yes," Dr. Smith said. "I know you were only talking to a mental construct of your mother, but did doing so give you a better understanding of why she left?”

Stolas looked conflicted. 

“It’s like there’s no winning,” he murmured. “We were in similar situations. She left. I stayed. I’m upset with her for leaving. But Octavia resents the idea that I suffered through my marriage for her. I don’t know how to explain that that’s true, but it was out of love. That I don’t resent her. That I did that because I love her. And in the same breath, I try to convince myself that my mother loved me, even though she wasn’t willing to stay. But what kind of monster wishes their mother stayed miserable and in danger just to have had her around? Would I have begged for her to stay if I had known? Would she have changed her mind and stayed because she couldn’t bear to upset me, and wish every day I didn’t exist, so she could be free? And is that how my Via feels? What was I meant to have done?

“And yet… it felt right. When she asked me if I hated my father, and I told her I was allowed to feel my emotions, no matter how complex. It was hard to say it, but I believed it. And so maybe this too is… complicated. Perhaps no matter what choice you make in that scenario… you’ll break your child’s heart, because both of you will suffer. Burdening a child with all the knowledge they need to understand isn’t right, either. Or perhaps I just want to believe it, so I can believe Octavia will forgive me…”

“Perhaps I…I remember how you told me about the word and. That it can hold… complexities instead of forcing a choice that doesn’t feel right.” He sighed. “I always thought if I just understood why, I wouldn’t be upset with her anymore. But I am. I think I… I understand and love her… and it hurts. I was a son she loved… and also a chain that kept her in pain. And …” 

He took a deep breath. “And I’m a good father. And I deserved happiness. And I needed to leave that life. And I did right by saving Blitzø. And… and I hurt my daughter in the process. I should have been more present, and it’s understandable why I fell in love like a teenager. I love Octavia and resent my marriage.” 

And he looked up, hoping that was right.

Dr. Smith smiled at him, clearly delighted. "Yes, Stolas, exactly. These things are complicated, and can hold truths that are seemingly contradictory. But despite that, they are still true. You have done an excellent job verbalizing that."

They finished their tea and put their teacup down on the counter, where it promptly vanished. "I think an important thing to remember in these sorts of situations is that there is one element of them that is unambiguous, and doesn't require this cognitive flexibility. Your father hit you, and he hit your mother. That was unacceptable. There is no ambiguity or complexity regarding that.

"Your mother, on the other hand, is a more complex figure. She loved you, and she abandoned you. She needed to escape, and she also prioritized that over your safety. It's a complicated situation, and you have every right to be angry and upset with her. But I am so glad you are able to look at her complexities and realize that you, too, are a parent with flaws who is still good. Who still loves his daughter. And that is so, so important. Because as you said, in the situation both you and your mother were in, there was no way to win. There was no way to do it correctly. And still, you did so well, Stolas. Even with your mistakes.”

But Stolas looked uncomfortable. There was something in there still that.. didn’t quite sit right. 

He searched for the words. “It’s hard for me to… accept… that him hitting me was wrong,” he admitted. “Rather than corrective. I chose not to do it myself, but I suppose I didn’t think it wrong. Against my mother, yes. But I was a child. I made mistakes. On some level, I do think he wanted me to learn.”

“I remember being surprised when my mother went to yell at my teacher. I didn’t fully understand why she was so upset. Even now, I don’t really. Corporal punishment has never been an uncommon thing among the Ars Goetia. I had expected she knew how I was being taught. It was how other Goetia children - or at least boys - were raised.”

Dr. Smith let themself simply listen until Stolas had finished. "I understand that it is common, especially among the Goetia. But did it really help you learn, Stolas? Was it really effective? Because..."

They paused, wondering if they should say what they were thinking or not. They decided to say it as gently as they could. "Because... even the idea of that... I remember how it made you feel. How it made it... difficult for you to remember what lesson you were meant to be learning.”

Stolas frowned slightly. “When do you mean?”

"After the session with your father," they said softly. "I told you I would refrain from using that sort of language after that.”

“Well - that’s-“ 

Stolas made an effort to stop, instead of repeating things he’d internalized without thinking, and thought about it for a moment. 

“It’s not an idea I like,” he said finally. “Punishment isn’t meant to be pleasant. But I don’t think that means I didn’t remember. You were trying to teach me how to habituate to anxiety. I understood.”

"Yes," they agreed. "You understood that. But... do you remember the words I used that made you so uncomfortable? What about them made you feel that way?”

“You said… well, it was something about using pain to teach me a lesson. Same reason we’re discussing it now.”

Stolas sighed. “I don’t like that, because it reminds me of - what you saw. It makes me feel like I did something wrong. But that doesn’t mean the idea is wrong. Just that it pained me to hear it.”

"I... think that is the point that I am trying to make, Stolas. That even the idea of being hurt to learn a lesson was painful to you. That when we first encountered it, your brain wouldn't even allow you to acknowledge it. Your mind blurred your own childhood face so you wouldn't have to see where your father hit you."

They leaned forward a little, trying to guide him into uncomfortable understanding. "Does that sound like an effective teaching technique, Stolas? Or does it just sound like a child being hurt?”

Stolas spun the empty tea cup around in his hands. He needed something to do with them. His knees drew in, like the air felt a little tighter. 

His cup was textured. A made-up sensation, somehow anchoring him to his made-up library. 

The teacup was empty, but he needed it in his hands. Or rather, he needed to believe there was a cup in his hands, because it wasn’t real. 

Sometimes people needed that.

“They wouldn’t have hurt me for no reason,” he then mumbled quietly.

"Is it possible, Stolas," the doctor said softly, gently, "that it wasn't a good reason?”

“Then what reason could there have been?” Stolas shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

"No," they said. "It doesn't. It doesn't make sense to hit a child. Or an adult. No matter how one might justify it. Upon examination, the logic of it falls apart. Unless the point is the pain itself, and the way it can be used to evoke fear and maintain control."

They folded their hands. "And I understand the desire to make sense of it. It is much more comfortable to believe that there was a good reason behind the pain you experienced. But I do not believe that there is ever a good reason to hit a child.”

Stolas took a deep breath. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said softly. “You’ve seen him, but only through the memories I’ve shown you. Do you think my father is capable of love?”

They considered that seriously. "I don't know," they said. "As you said, I have never met him. I do not know his inner workings. But I know that from what you have said, and what I have seen, I can recall no instance in which he seemed loving. To anyone.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” Stolas looked up.

“King Paimon has many children. And many of them speak highly of him. I have grown up seeing him at Goetia weddings and birthdays. And there were many where I looked up and saw my father proud. Where I’ve seen him hug the children he holds in high regard. Where he…” 

Stolas’ hand tightened on the cup’s handle. 

“I’m not hopelessly wishing for something he’s incapable of giving. It’s not that he’s never been proud of a child. It’s that he’s never been proud of me. And that is so very different.”

“It’s different because it means he could have been kind. It suggests that instead, he decided I needed punishment. I deserved it. So there has… there has to be a reason.”

Dr. Smith listened, as calmly and patiently as always. They did not mind Stolas declaring them wrong. Honestly, they would have preferred to be wrong about this.

But they didn't think they were.

They were touching on something structurally integral here. A conceptualization that, if they addressed it too insensitively or without a proper replacement, could make Stolas' worldview fall apart.

Such things should always be addressed eventually. But sometimes haste only led to failure.

They could be patient.

"I can feel your anxiety increasing, Stolas," they said, phrasing it as a gentle observation and not an accusation. "Would you like to continue speaking about this at a later time? You have already experienced quite a lot of anxiety during this session.”

Stolas shook his head, his beak tightening. “No,” he murmured. “No, I want to know what you think. I can handle it. I…I know what my limits are.” He looked up, his eyes asking for them to trust him. “I’ve learned. I do know. I’ve practiced voicing them when they’re crossed, and I will. I promise.”

Dr. Smith nodded. "All right. Thank you for being cognizant of your limits. I will trust you to let me know if we need to stop."

They crossed their legs and steepled their fingers. "The sentence he wrote in Decorum. The first sentence you read in its entirety. 'To my son, so that he might make me proud.' It did not reference you by name. 

"I imagine that Paimon has many copies of that book, all with that generic sentence within. No son addressed by name. Each son merely that: a nameless heir who must earn their father learning their name through unquestioning obedience.

"And some sons were able to prove their utility in his eyes. Those sons, yes, would be remembered, and even treated with kindness. But a child should not have to earn a parent's love by fitting perfectly into a mold created long before they were born. That is not love. That is conditional affection, dispensed for the same reason as the violence. To exert control. To erase the child's will and replace it with their own.

"I do not believe he ever hit you for your own good, Stolas. I think he did it for his own. As though you were not a child, but a lump of clay he could shape to his will and discard if he could not do so. And even if you had been able to perfectly take that shape, I think that he would have only seen you as a more successful project.”

Stolas thought about all that for a moment. 

“But I tried my best to be exactly what he wanted,” he said softly. “I guess I don’t understand why I failed where others succeeded. What I did wrong.

“And love… love is almost always earned. Isn’t it?”

Stolas sighed. “I know what you’ll say. That it shouldn’t be. That I love Octavia unconditionally. But that didn’t feel… automatic. I felt like I learned to love her, because when she was very young, there was some resentment I couldn’t help. But then, she ended up being so very wonderful. So much better than I was. And… the love I have now, from Blitzø… maybe even a little still, from my Via… that’s conditional. Blitzø may not think so. But it’s conditional on me being a good enough partner. On me - going to therapy, and doing this, and making an effort to be someone who listens and cares for him and makes him feel safe. If I didn’t, he would leave me. And he would be right to. He wouldn’t love… absolutely any version of me I could be. Nor should he. He shouldn’t be in a relationship he doesn’t feel happy in. If he’s choosing to be with me… I’d like to think it’s because I’m giving him enough of what he wants in a partner.”

“Let us address that point by point,” Dr. Smith said. "You were different from other Goetia, in ways that made living up to those already difficult standards nearly impossible. But I would argue that the standards were the problem, not you."

They leaned forward. "For example, you and your mother are both right-handed. It was much more difficult for you to use your left hands for things than most other Goetia. You struggled to do something that was easy for others, and were punished for it. I noticed your mother using her left hand for everything, even things as delicate as makeup application.

"But tell me - what is wrong with being right-handed? Why is it really any worse to use your right hand? Even after her decades of practice, her application of your makeup was much faster and more skilled once she allowed herself to use the hand that came naturally to her. So yes, perhaps you failed, for a long time, to use your left hand. You were punished and denied love for it. But it shouldn't have mattered what hand you used. It was the standard that was at fault, not you."

They grinned at him. "And yes, you have correctly predicted my thoughts on the matters of love and conditionality. But using the conditionality for a romantic relationship in a parent/child relationship is a false equivalency. I do have some thoughts on how your stated conditions seem much more reasonable than others placed on you, but regardless, it is different for a child. Children shouldn't have to be suitable pawns to be loved. It should be their birthright. But so often, they are denied it, leaving those children to grow up wondering what they did wrong. But they did nothing wrong. They were just children, looking for boundaries and guidance and love.”

Stolas was silent for a while, milling over Dr. Smith’s words like flour. 

“If you want me to accept that there’s nothing wrong with not meeting my father’s standards, which are passed down through generations,” he said softly, “aren’t you asking me to accept that there is no wrong way to be? But clearly there is. We teach children how to do things. We want things from others. I’m here, in therapy, to learn to do things right. So who decides…. How do I tell… a standard that is good from a standard that is arbitrary? Or is it all arbitrary? Doesn’t that mean none of it - none of our behaviour or choices or ways of being - matter at all?

“How do we decide that some things matter, but not others? I don’t think it’s right to draw the line at what I personally fail to live up to, or think. Are we not all fallible?” 

He sighed. “I can’t reconcile it all.”

Unconsciously, he had put the cup down. Equally unconsciously, he had picked it back up with his left hand instead.

Dr. Smith just smiled at him. The two of them were getting into rather philosophical territory now, but they didn't mind. Whatever they needed to talk about for him to process his memories was fine with them.

"It's an interesting question," they said. "And one that I personally have thought about quite a bit. I hardly tout myself as any sort of expert on objectively correct behavior, but here is what I have considered."

They shifted so that they were more comfortable, their hands folded neatly. "First, my denying the efficacy of your father's standards does not mean that I reject the concept of behavior standards entirely. When it comes to determining which standards to accept or reject, there are many factors to consider. But for me, there are two factors I consider above all else."

They held up a single finger on their left hand. "First, what is the purpose of the standard?" Then a second finger. "And second, whom does it serve?"

"Let us use handedness as an example. What do you think the purpose of forcing you to use your left hand was? Do you think it had any practical use?”

Stolas thought about it. “My penmanship was objectively neater with my right,” he said. “I suppose being ambidextrous is a practical skill, but I don’t think that was the goal, because left-handed Goetia were not taught to use their right. So the goal was conformity. But that in itself is practical, isn’t it? I lived… a very lonely childhood. I stood out at parties. I never felt like I belonged, and that affected my social skills and my self-esteem. So I think the reason behind teaching me to use my left hand, or dress or speak a certain way, or restrain emotions, was to help me fit in better in the society I was expected to live in. To command respect among my peers, my clients, and my subordinates. To be an effective ruler.” He thought some more. “I believe the left hand is also more associated with fortune telling. Perhaps it was important for me to use my left hand when working on prophecies.”

They grinned. "Yes. In many standards, conformity is the goal. But let us refrain, for the moment, from examining the value in all forms of conformity. Let us stay focused on this example. If you did not conform to left-handedness specifically, what would be the results? Both for you and for those around you? Which dovetails nicely into my second consideration: whom does your being left-handed serve, and how?”

“Well - if  I used my right hand at parties and gatherings, or generally in front of others, others would have noticed,” he said. “They would have thought less of my competency and have less respect for me. They would exclude me from things, or generally be less inclined to help me.” He shrugged. “Within the Goetia family, I think that is true.”

"So, would it be fair to say that the only bad thing about using your right hand is that others might view it negatively, and that they might make your life worse because of it? Not because there is any inherent benefit to left-handedness for you?”

“Besides a possible prophetic use I’m doubtful of - yes, that’s fair. The benefit was the treatment from others, nothing inherent.”

"And that is why I think it is a worthless standard,” Dr. Smith said matter-of-factly. “It doesn't serve you. It only serves a societal preference for conformity. And while the negative results you might encounter for failing to conform are very real, they only serve to harm you. If you continue to use your right hand, you may be treated badly by those that value conformity. If you adhere to left-handedness, you must do everything less efficiently, and often were physically beaten as a correction. In either case, the standard harms you because you are different. It treats that harmless difference as a flaw in need of correction. And, in my opinion, that is not only fucking nonsense, but a tool wielded by the powerful to exert control over anyone that deviates from any norm, no matter how pointless.”

Stolas hesitated. 

“I think,” he said softly. “I think the loneliness hurt worse than the ruler. If you had asked me… if I’d rather be punished and belong, or be free and lonely… I would have chosen the first.”

"I know," Dr. Smith said gently. "But in many cases, we do not get that choice. All of our efforts to fit ourselves into a mold of supposed perfection are ultimately useless because of who we are. Like trying to put a square peg through a round hole. The peg would need to be damaged irreparably in order to fit, and in many cases, the damage done is still not enough. Thus, one suffers the punishment and the loneliness. And given such a fate, doesn't it make much more sense to look for a square hole instead?”

“And now I’m a rounded square peg in a - kind of triangular square hole,” Stolas murmured softly. “And I don’t know where I’m supposed to fit. It fits a little better… but not really.”

The therapist nodded. "It certainly isn't easy. But I think a key difference is that you now have people in your life that don't want you to change your very essence for their comfort. They may want you to be healthier, or more stable, or more considerate. But, for example... do you think Blitzø cares at all what hand you use?”

“No,” he said instantly. Then he looked thoughtful. “I’m actually not sure… if he’s ever noticed I can use both.”

He might have, they thought. Blitzø is extremely observant. But that wasn’t relevant to the matter at hand (in two different senses, they supposed).

"Exactly. You have found an environment where, at least in this small way, you would not be punished for doing what comes naturally to you. And, personally, I think that's a better way to live.”

Stolas felt like he’d need to try the words on, later. Walk around in them. See how they felt, before he knew if they fit. But he smiled weakly, and put the cup down on the table. 

“I think… I think I’d like to go back now,” he said softly. “I think I need… to think about that.”

He closed his eyes on a familiar command. Gently, he let the therapist’s voice wash over him, until he felt fabric once again under his hands, and the back of the seat against his head. Gently, he let go of the tether, sighing with relief as his eyes opened to comfortable darkness.

He could see the red afternoon sunlight encroaching on the edges of the window shades, harsh and unforgiving. But the office shielded it from him. The office, and its owner, would keep him safe from even the most painful, wretched, and terrifying things.

It surprised him to realize how much he believed that now.

He couldn’t stay here forever. He would soon need to leave, carrying the weight of the session out into the light.

But he knew that he could stay here for a moment, breathing in the quiet and the dark. He knew that in that moment, he would be safe. And he knew that when he left, no matter what was waiting for him out in the world, Blitzø would be waiting for him too. Blitzø would be waiting in the parking lot, in his giant van that Stolas still bumped his head on when he climbed into the passenger's side.

Blitzø would be waiting to talk, and to listen, and to take him home.

So Stolas took his moment and breathed.

Chapter Text

Stolas first noticed his right hand still ached as he grasped the handle of Blitzø’s van door. 

He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he’d imagined it. The session was weighing on his mind. He paused before entering the car, and took a moment to duck under the frame of the vehicle. He then simply continued the trajectory he’d begun - sitting down on the worn leather, and then laying down with his head in Blitzø’s lap before saying hello. 

He just needed- a moment. A moment and perhaps to hear someone else’s opinion, instead of the thoughts swirling around in his head.

Stolas sighed as he felt the familiar claws parting his head feathers. It had become their little routine. Stolas would come back after a mindspace session. His messy-feathered head would fill his lover’s lap while the gear shift painfully poked his spine. Blitzø would listen, if Stolas had something to say, or even if he didn’t. Only then would the drive home begin. 

"Hey, pretty bird," Blitzø said softly, once he knew Stolas was as comfortable as he was going to get.

“Hey, Blitzy,” Stolas murmured. 

“Can I ask you something? Do you, um… have you noticed if I’m right- or left- handed?”

Blitzø was silent for a moment, blinking down at him. "Uh, I think you're that... fuck, what's the word? Amphibious? Where you can use both?”

“Ambidextrous,” Stolas said softly. “Yes, darling, I am.” He paused. “Have I told you why?”

Blitzø shook his head. "No. I know, like... some people just are. Not a lot of people, but... I wasn't sure if it was worth bringing up. Figured you could've just been born, or, hatched with it. I couldn't... quite remember which hand you used when we were kids.”

Stolas smiled sadly. 

Dr. Smith had been right. Blitzø didn’t know the rules, because the rules had been made up. 

“I’m naturally right-handed,” he murmured. “But Goetia are supposed to be left-handed, because the left is the hand of sin. So when I was a child, I was taught to use my left hand in lessons. If I was caught using my right, I’d… it would be hit with a ruler until it was too painful for me to use. So that’s why I am capable of using both. I didn’t use my right hand until I was banished, though. It had become a habit not to.”

Blitzø's face briefly clouded over with anger, but Stolas had learned that more often than not, Blitzø was angry on his behalf. This time was no exception. "What the fuck? That's fucked up. I mean, my dad hit me too, but... what's the fucking point of something like that? It doesn't matter what fucking hand someone uses.”

Stolas opened his eyes wide, looking at Blitzø. “Your father hit you too?” he asked softly. “What for or... Why?”

Blitzø shrugged. "When I fucked up," he said simply. "Mostly when I fucked up a routine. I tried not to, but sometimes I still did.”

He looked off to the side. “Usually if I made a mistake like that, I could get myself out of it, or Fizz or Barbie would get me out of it. Like... the night you saw me. Balloon animals were always hard for me. I completely made up the shit about it eating too much sugar and having its legs amputated, because my mom had told me once that that could happen. Only you seemed to think it was funny. But Fizz got me out of it. Anyway... yeah. Couldn't fuck up a routine. That hurts the bottom line.”

“Your father punished you if a mistake you made affected the circus’ earnings?” asked Stolas, frowning. “That… that shouldn’t have been your responsibility, Blitzø. A child’s responsibility is to learn the skills for adulthood, not… worry about financials.”

Blitzø’s lips twitched. "We... all had to pitch in," he said uncomfortably. "Money was tight more often than not, and if the show didn't go well, people wouldn't come. If I fucked things up, we might not have enough money to buy the shit we needed. Of course he punished me if I fucked up.”

Stolas felt the familiar pangs of guilt reminding him of his privilege. His hand suddenly ached worse. 

“I’m sorry you had to worry about such things. Or… perhaps I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“It's okay,” said Blitzø. “It's not like either of us had a choice of how we were born.”

Stolas wasn't sure what to say to that.

 “Well,” Stolas finally said, “I thought your joke was very funny. Didn’t look like a cover for a mistake at all.”

Blitzø smiled at him. "Thanks. I feel like you always kind of... got me, you know? At first, in our deal, when you laughed at my jokes, I thought you were kind of... making fun of me.”

“I was never making fun of you!” Stolas exclaimed, appalled at the notion.

Blitzø laughed a little. “Yeah, I know that now. Even in L.A., when I was fucking bombing, you laughed. It's... nice to know you like my jokes, most of the time.”

Stolas laughed incredulously. “Blitzø - I always loved your darker humour. It felt more real. It allowed me to laugh at things I had never been allowed to joke about. It was often very clever, too.” 

The bird flexed his fingers idly, hoping the throbbing in his palm would stop. A question slowly coated his tongue, sour and thin.

“Did you hide bruises with makeup, too?” Stolas asked softly. “When you went on stage?”

Blitzø paused a while. "Sometimes," he said eventually. "But my dad didn't usually leave marks in places that weren't easy to cover with clothes.”

Stolas smiled weakly. 

“My tutors did the same. But not my father. I think… when he found me lacking… he wanted others to see. Wanted people to point and to stare, and to know I was… a disappointment.” 

Stolas shook his head. “It must all seem to silly to you. My family was never worried that if I didn’t live up to expectations, we would lose the roof over our heads. It wasn’t survival.” He sighed. “You made money to feed your siblings… and I couldn’t even do well enough in my studies to make my family proud.”

"That’s why it doesn't make any fucking sense to me,” Blitzø countered. “If you fucked up, it's not like anyone would go hungry or anything. What would be the fucking point of hitting you?"

“It was just… upholding the family name.” Stolas sighed, turning away. “I’m sorry, Blitzø. I shouldn’t be asking you to comfort me.”

"You didn't ask,” Blitzø snapped back, then grinned - almost like he’d won something. “I offered. Because I care about you, bird-brain.” 

Stolas shrugged slightly.

“I have to suppose it was for my own good,” he said softly. “That my father hit me because he did want me to succeed, and to motivate me to be… better, in the Goetia standard. I just wasn’t capable of it.”

Blitzø considered that, then reached out to take Stolas' hand. Stolas let him take it. "That’s kinda wild to me," Blitzø said quietly. "You're so smart, and you're..."

You're so good at magic, he wanted to say, but he didn't know if he should use past or present tense. Both seemed like they could be hurtful, so he rephrased.

"You were able to do all these prophecies and shit. And you still married Stella, even with her being such a raging bitch. I don’t know what else he could have expected. But if it was more shit like the hand thing, I think that's fucking bullshit."

Blitzø sighed. He still didn't feel confident talking about stuff like this. "I guess what I'm trying to say is I think you're pretty great. Even if you couldn't do all that Goetia shit.”

“Thank you, darling,” Stolas said softly. “I guess maybe it feels better to think I deserved it, that it wasn’t simply cruel… and it’s hard for me to think of myself… as enough.” He took a deep breath. “But I’m trying. I really am. And you… You help.”

"I'm glad," Blitzø said, unnaturally softly. He squeezed Stolas’ hand, and Stolas couldn’t hold back a small wince. And Blitzø noticed, because of course he did.

He carefully turned over Stolas' hand, looking at it curiously. "Is something wrong with your hand?" he asked. "It looks okay.”

“My tutor’s punishments were one of the memories I went through today,” Stolas admitted. “And my hand… still hurts like it did in the memory, even though it isn’t physically injured in reality. I’m not sure why.”

Blitzø looked concerned, letting go of his hand. "That’s really weird. I had my burns in mine, but that pain was gone when I went back."

He looked up from Stolas' hand to his face. "What did Dr. Smith say about it?”

Stolas looked slightly embarrassed. “I… I suppose I didn’t think to ask them. I didn’t really start to notice it until after I left.”

“Then you should call them before we go,” Blitzø said. “They always wanna know about symptoms after a mindspace session.”

Stolas clicked his tongue nervously. “But my session is already over. Won't that annoy them?”

Blitzø shook his head. “They don't get annoyed over stuff like that. And they should answer, unless they're already with another patient.”

Stolas considered that. He hadn’t seen anyone in the waiting room when he left, so it was possible that the doctor wasn't busy. And even if they were, he should still probably leave a message.

He opened up his contacts, scrolling past “Dr. Blitzy” to “Dr. Smith”, and pressed the call button. After only two rings, he heard the doctor's pleasant voice. “This is the office of Dr. Smith. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Doctor, it's Stolas,” he said quickly, feeling strangely nervous already. “I'm sorry to bother you after my session, but I- I noticed that my right hand still hurts like it did in the memory, and I… I wanted to see if that was normal.”

The doctor hummed in consideration. “It is not unheard of, but it is certainly unusual. Thank you for calling me and bringing this to my attention.”

“Oh, um… you’re welcome.” Stolas had not expected to be thanked for bothering them.

“Does the hand appear to be physically injured in any way?”

Stolas turned his hand over, looking at it carefully. “No, it doesn't look hurt,” he said. “It just… er - hurts.”

The line was silent for a second before the doctor spoke again. “I have only seen this happen a handful of times, but in almost all cases, the pain lessens and eventually stops as the original memories of the pain leave conscious awareness,” they said. “But if the pain has not decreased by tomorrow, I would like you to come in so I can heal it in the mindspace. Or… I don’t have another session for an hour, so if you'd like, you could come back in and-”

“Oh, no, Doctor, it's not as bad as all that,” Stolas quickly assured them. “I'm… I’m sure it will go away on its own.”

“All right,” Dr. Smith said, after a slightly uneasy pause. “But if the pain is the same or worse tomorrow, please call me.”

“I will. Thank you.” Stolas’ talon clicked against the glass of his screen as he hung up the phone. 

Stolas’ explanation only made Blitzø look more worried. “So can they fix it?” he asked. “If it doesn't go away?”

“They said they can if it doesn’t, yes.” Stolas looked thoughtful. “But I want to figure out why.”

"Okay," Blitzø said. Then, cautiously, he added, "Do... you have any ideas? Maybe we could talk about it. If that'll help.”

Stolas curled up on the seat, his arm wrapped around his knees and his head resting against the cool glass.

“I don’t know why today’s session affected me so.” He sighed. “Perhaps it’s… otherwise, I was punished for behaviour. But there… I was punished simply for the way I happened to be born. Other children didn’t have to write with their non-dominant hand. I suppose it is… unfair.”

"Yeah, that's really fucked," Blitzø agreed. "Maybe... that's why? 'Cause... you knew it was unfair, and that hurts?”

Stolas smiled weakly. “Dr. Blitzy is in now, is he?”

Blitzø laughed. "If you want him to be. I mean, do you think that might be part of it? That you know for sure that part of it was unfair? That you can't say it was... for your own good or whatever? That seems like that would hurt.”

“I guess I don’t know for sure.” Stolas sighed. “I argued with Dr. Smith about it. For the idea that conformity was itself the goal. That… if I’d fit in better… I might have had friends.”

"I mean yeah, that's probably true," Blitzø admitted. "But what kinda fuckheads would only be friends with you if you used the right hand? Or, uh... the correct hand, I guess. Seems like bullshit."

“That’s one of the things I admired about you,” Stolas said softly. “I always wished I could be like that. Be someone who didn't care what anyone thought.”

Blitzø grinned at him. "Well, what if you could be?”

Stolas’ eyes widened. “What do you mean?” 

“What's something you wanted to do but didn't because of what people might think?”

“Mm.” Stolas looked pensive. “Well, there’s a lot Goetia weren’t meant to do. I couldn’t dress the way I wanted. Couldn’t engage in a lot of fun activities considered below my station. Couldn’t do anything that could be embarrassing.” He blushed. “You know, I love to sing, but the only time I’ve tried karaoke was at your exes’ party. In essence… anything involving behaving like a teenager or college student without the weight of a family legacy to maintain.”

Blitzø’s smile widened, tinged with a little of his trademark mania. 

"We could do some of that. Get you some scandalous clothes. Rent a karaoke room, or get you out on the stage."

His toothy grin lit up the car. "Let's make those teenage dreams come true, babe."

Stolas looked up, and blushed. “Blitzø… I’m thirty five, now. I couldn’t possibly -“

"Fuck conformity!" Blitzø declared. "For fucking... personal growth reasons. And also because it's really fun." He plopped his hands down on Stolas’ thighs, and stamped a smooch across his beak. "You deserve to have some fun, pretty bird. Don't you think?”

“I… don’t know if I do, but I suppose,” Stolas said tentatively. “But people know who I am, Blitzø. What if someone -“

"Then fuck 'em," Blitzø said decisively. "If they think less of you for having fun, they can go suck several dicks. And if anyone tries to mess with you, I'll get rid of 'em for you. All you need to worry about is what would be the most fun for you. And Dr. Blitzy is gonna make it happen.”

“Is that your prescription for me, then?” Stolas asked, a schoolboy blush reddening his cheeks. “To… go have… scandalous fun?”

Blitzø grinned at him, glad he was starting to get what Stolas was looking for. "You got it, Stolas. Doctor's orders. Now let’s get you looking sexy as shit. How’s that for a course of treatment?"

An hour later, Stolas was hiding in the stall of a dressing room. 

“Blitzy, I can’t,” he groaned. “I do like it, but… but it’s so…  if someone sees me like this, I’ll never live it down…”

But Blitzø was relentless. "If you aren't coming out,” he growled, “then I'm coming in. I wanna see how fucking hot you look.”

“No, I - I don’t, Blitzø, I look ridiculous - look - maybe this wasn’t a good idea - I’ll just change -”

"If you don't come out, you won't get to see what I'm wearing," Blitzø said in a sing-song voice. 

Stolas paused. “That’s not fair.”

"I would argue it's totally fair," Blitzø countered. "C'mon, pretty bird. I'll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Stolas sighed, hesitantly pulled back the curtain, and stepped out, blushing furiously. 

His heels weren’t tall - he didn’t want to not be able to talk to Blitzø at all - but accentuated the long legs nicely, with bows adorning the rising straps. (It had taken a while to find a store that sold shoes for avian demons, but he’d eventually managed). He wore short jean shorts with a kiss mark on the back pocket, short enough to leave just a little to the imagination. Topping it off were a vintage shirt from a band called The Eighth Circle he’d somehow found at the back of a rack and a smooth leather jacket.

“See,” Stolas mumbled. “Ridiculous.”

Blitzø smiled at him. "Ridiculously hot," he corrected. "I knew you would be, but it's another thing to see it in person."

Blitzø was wearing an elaborately spiked leather jacket with a spiked collar to match. Underneath was a crop top with a silhouette of a horse that said "Ready to Ride" and a black mesh shirt underneath that. His mother's charm was now on a studded belt holding up ripped black jeans, and he was wearing platform combat boots that made him a few inches taller - not that it made much of a difference next to Stolas.

He had also managed to put on some extra eyeliner.

He walked up to him, reaching up to hook a finger into the pocket on Stolas' shorts. "And isn't it nice how we match, pretty bird? So everyone knows you're mine, and I'm yours?”

“Oh.” Something about that sentence made Stolas melt, and his shorts suddenly feel unreasonably tighter. “Oh, well, um -“

"Let's buy that shit for you, baby," Blitzø purred. "And then we can go to the karaoke place. If there's one thing I can do, it's show you a good time."

“I can’t actually wear this out, Blitzø! I’ll get looks. What will people think -“

"Who cares?" Blitzø said, pulling Stolas a little closer with the finger hooked in his pocket. "Anyone that gives you looks is either thinking about how fucking good you look, or they're an idiot not worth your time.”

Stolas’ breath hitched a little, and he shivered. 

“Tell me again?” he mumbled faintly. “That I’m yours?”

Blitzø gave Stolas that grin that showed off all his teeth. In the boots, he was just tall enough to kiss the kiss mark embroidered on the pocket. "You're mine," he purred. "And you wanna be a little bad for me, don't you, babe? You wanna see how good it feels.”

Stolas found himself nodding, a blush spreading down his cheeks. 

“Maybe,” he mumbled, “In the van… you could give me a real mark below that one?” He touched the kiss mark on the pocket gingerly, right at the base of his behind. “So I can feel…. Like you’ve marked me as your own.”

"I'd love to," Blitzø said. "I could bite you there, just hard enough. Or... I wonder if a hickey would show up through the feathers."

That was something else he’d never done. He’d never overtly belonged to someone. He’d never flirted so openly, or so publicly. Stolas grinned, a little giddily. 

“And now, pretty bird, either you gotta take those clothes off so we can buy ‘em, or…” 

His grin grew sharp as he lowered his voice. "Or you can just put on your regular clothes overtop and walk out in ‘em. Could be our little secret.”

“What… what happens if we get caught?” Stolas asked nervously. He couldn’t imagine the scandal - Lucifer forbid, they wouldn’t arrest them, surely?

"Don’t you remember the first time? You got the best getaway driver this side of Pride,” Blitzø said, winking. "If you don't wanna run in your heels, I bet I could carry you. I know you're a lot taller than me, but given your hollow bones and how flexible you are, I'm sure I could manage."

Stolas looked nervous… and yet excited. 

“Okay,” he said, with a nervous giggle. “Okay.”

He remembered suddenly the pile of romance novels featuring daring thieves and loveable antiheroes that he had ordered burned after his wedding night. 

And he smiled.

Almost a full ten minutes later, Stolas finally buckled himself in as Blitzø put the car back into drive. The owl was thoroughly sweaty and flustered, and squirmed in his seat. Sitting had become painful. But it was in a way that excited him, that he’d consented to - and not because he’d done something wrong. 

His fingers slipped under the hemline of the shorts, feeling the indentations of the imp’s teeth in his skin. The denim was still a little damp. “You do certainly know how to leave an impression, my love.”

"You bet your fucking ass I do," Blitzø said, grinning sharply at him. 

“I think I already did that,” Stolas retorted.

But Blitzø didn't miss a step. "I hope it shows a little, for anyone looking too closely. So everyone knows exactly who that ass belongs to."

Then, as if he hadn't just said that, Blitzø pulled out of the parking spot. 

Stolas now squirmed for an entirely different reason, holding his thighs firmly together. 

“Blitzy,” he mumbled. “You’re going to make me come on the dance floor if you don’t stop talking like that.”

And yet he hitched the shorts up, just a little. One of the tooth marks was now clearly visible, as was a general red blush extending onto the tops of the owl’s thighs.

Blitzø just grinned, smug as the cat who ate the canary (or the owl). "Does that mean you want me to stop talking like that?" he asked, his tone teasing and sweet. "Or keep going?”

“Blitzyyyyyy,” Stolas simply whined.

And then he blushed. “I mean…. If you’re not against saying things like that… in public… I like it. Just not too loudly, okay?”

“But if you want to… touch my behind, or my back… or kiss… or even a little spank if it’s playful…” And Stolas blushed even more. “So others can see that we’re together? If you think it’s safe?”

"Sounds good to me, babe," Blitzø said lightly, turning onto the exit for the karaoke place. "I can keep my voice low. So only you can hear me. And I love touching you. Especially if people can see that I'm the only one that gets to. Now start thinking about what songs you wanna sing. Can't wait to hear that gorgeous voice of yours."

As they pulled in, Stolas gazed up at the neon lights. 

“We could sing a duet,” he said softly. “Would you?”

"Sure thing, Stols," Blitzø said, giving him an encouraging smile. "As long as you're okay with being a much better singer than me."

As if to practice the new casual contact, he slid a hand down to the small of Stolas' back. "Was there a song you were thinking of?”

“Do you know, um.” Stolas smiled sheepishly. “Something from Broadway? What do you know?”

"Uh, not as much as Moxxie. He thinks my shit is basic. But, um..."

Blitzø looked up at Stolas, almost shyly. "You know Rent, right? Probably... fucking everyone knows Rent. But I like the one with Angel and Collins.” He rubbed the back of his head, looking a little embarrassed. “I think it's... they're the only ones with their shit together, I feel like. I want to be like that, with you. For you, y'know?”

“Yes,” Stolas said, and then his eyes teared up. “Yes, Blitzy, yes, I would LOVE that.”

"Okay," Blitzø said, beaming. "Hold on, I'm gonna go around and get the door for you. Real gentleman shit."

And he did, opening the door and holding out his hand. "Let's go have some fun, Stolas.”

A couple of cocktails later, Stolas was openly reaching across a rickety little table, winking and blushing at Blitzø. 

“Darling,” he said, sweetly. “How did I ever get so lucky with you? Hmm?”

"Was thinking the same thing, babe," Blitzø said, taking Stolas’ left hand and kissing it. "Still makes me feel like I must be conning you sometimes. But then you look at me like that, and I know I must be making it worth your while."

The two were practically drooling into one another’s laps - a clear off-limits to anyone with a brain. Unfortunately, not all demons came pre-installed with one. Stolas felt a tap on his shoulder and turned his head around in a semi-circle, coming face to face with an unsettling amount of teeth and an ugly paisley tie. 

"Hey there, Birdie," smiled the shark demon, showing off a second row of incisors. "Come here often?"

Blitzø glared. "Back off, this pretty bird's mine," he growled, wrapping an arm around Stolas’ back. "And I make sure he comes wherever he wants, as much as he wants.”

Stolas turned tomato red, covering his face with his hands, as the demon stalked off. “Blitzy!”

"What?" Blitzø said, mock innocently. "It's true, isn't it? Or have I not been taking good enough care of you, pretty bird? I'd hate to think I'm slacking off," he said, curling his hand under Stolas' ass and giving it a little squeeze. Stolas felt Blitzø’s nail dig into the mark left by his tooth, and shivered. 

"Offer's on the table, pretty bird," the imp whispered into Stolas’ ear. "Or on the dance floor. Or wherever you want.”

“How scandalous would that be, hmmm?” Stolas breathed, feeling a little dazed. “No, that’s too much, but… let’s dance. Then perhaps… if we slip away to a bathroom stall…”

Blitzø laughed at his enthusiasm. “Dancing first, then," he said, letting go and offering Stolas his hand. "Though to be honest, I'm not sure how dancing is gonna work without a railing. But I'm willing to get creative.”

It was probably a good thing Stolas had had a few cocktails to cloud his judgement, because the next thing he did was pick up the table they were sitting at, set it down in the middle of the dance floor, then pluck up Blitzø and set him on top of it.

“Does this work?” Stolas said with a smirk. 

Blitzø started laughing. So much for not attracting attention. 

"Yeah, Stols," he said, kissing him before putting a hand on his shoulder and another on his waist. "Works for me.”

“On a table,” Stolas purred, clicking his beak. “Makes it awfully difficult not to devour you like a five-course meal, darling.”

Blitzø chuckled quietly. "Who said I didn't want you to?" he whispered. "You're the one that didn't wanna make a scene. That's never been something I had a problem with.”

And Stolas had fun.

He had fun dancing, and joking, and teasing. It only took a few songs - and a few more drinks - for the bird to climb onto the table himself, negating any benefit to the arrangement and sending Blitzø into fits of hysterical laughter. 

It was then when Blitzø discovered how much Stolas could make him blush too.

Stolas danced on a stage of his own making. The lights bathed him, outlining his curves in electric blues and purples. His tail swished around in an alluring spiral as he fell to his knees, arching his back. A few patrons whistled, colouring the bird’s cheeks. A tug on his tail, however, made him slap away an offending hand, and rise back to standing. Then he pulled up the hem of his shorts a little, and winked at his lover. 

“Everyone,” he announced, his words slurring. “This is my Blitzy. And I am his, alright? No one else’s. No matter how pretty I am.“

Blitzø couldn't deny that Stolas telling everyone that he belonged to him… made his outfit feel rather stifling. But Stolas also looked about ready to fall off the table. His suspicions were confirmed as his pretty bird all but stumbled into his arms. "Case in point," Blitzø said, scooping him up in his arms like a piece of collapsible HELLKEA furniture.

“No, no,” Stolas protested. “Karaoke! You promised.”

"Okay," he said, putting him down - on the ground, thank you. “But - Stolas, maybe you should slow down on the drinks a little?” He fiddled with his hands nervously. “You seem like you're getting… a little sloppy, y'know? I don't want you to get too fucked up.”

Stolas just pouted at him. “Blitzyyyy, I'm fiiiine,” he slurred. “And anyway, I'm having fun. You said I deserved to have some fun, didn't you?”

Blitzø sighed. "I guess I did. Just… it’s getting late.” It was only 10:00, not even close to late by Blitzø’s standards, but that wasn't the point. “Let's do our duet, then get out of here. Sound good, my pretty bird?”

“Mmmm,” Stolas smiled. “One duet. And then… and then I have a solo just for you, Blitzy. And then… then we can go home. Mmkay?”

Blitzø laughed and wondered if Stolas could hear the nervousness in his voice. "Okay. Can't wait.”

Blitzø spent their time waiting getting as much water into Stolas as he could manage. Thankfully, it wasn’t too long of a wait. He kept his hand in the small of Stolas’ back, steering him onto the stage like a swaying Jenga tower. It was only when a tall Hellhound with Avril Lavigne tattoos handed him a sweaty microphone did he remember a duet involved him singing, too. 

"Feel like I'm gonna sound like ass compared to you," he muttered under his breath.

Stolas smiled. “Nonsense. You’ll sound like you. And you always sound wonderful, whether you hit the notes or not. I just want to do this with you.”

That was all it took to elicit a smile. Stolas had been brave tonight. So he could be, too, couldn’t he?

The performance was… well, it was certainly a performance. Stolas did his best. He tripped over some of the words, but he sounded amazing singing as Angel, hitting the high notes effortlessly. Blitzø knew all the words, but he didn't have the buttery bass of the guy playing Collins. It was more of a scratchy tenor, but he tried his best too. And even though they didn't quite sing in sync every time, Blitzø still liked how they sounded.

It felt so nice to listen to their voices blend together. It was messy at times. 

But it was still beautiful. 

And he had to admit that the lyrics, despite him being a little embarrassed at singing something so sentimental in public... seemed to fit. So… not a bad choice.

Stolas stumbled off stage as people clapped, following Blitzø and landing himself somehow in his imp’s lap. “That was lovely,” he murmured. He was definitely slurring his words now. “Wasn’t that lovely?”

"It was," Blitzø agreed, petting his head. "How you doing, pretty bird? Feeling good?”

“Mmm.” Stolas hugged him tight. The alcohol was admittedly doing a number on him. He supposed that wasn’t the best choice - and he’d been told as much. But tonight, it was making things so beautifully fuzzy. One night couldn’t hurt, could it?

And then suddenly, he felt his throat tighten with emotion. 

“Blitzø,” he whispered. “Can you… can you tell me…. What it is you see in me? Why someone like you… wants to spend your night with someone who… with me? I know you do. I believe you. But I… I need to hear it. Please?”

Blitzø considered this and tried to think of where to start, sitting himself and Stolas down on some nearby stairs. 

"You're so... genuine with me," he said. "Like... you were basically showing me you loved me from the very start, and I figured you had to be fucking with me. But you weren't. 

"I love that you get my humor. I love the way your laugh sounds, and how your voice sounds. I could listen to you talk about anything for hours, just to hear it. I love how caring you are, with me, and with Loonie too. 

"I love how hard you've worked in therapy, even when it's hard, and I love watching you start to heal. And you're also just so fucking beautiful that I could just look at you all the time. The way your eyes become these little crescents when you're relaxed. The way you fluff up when you're embarrassed. The way you smile when you see me. I just... you're just fucking great, Stols. Wouldn't want anyone else.”

Stolas sniffled slightly. “Even if I…. I haven’t always been…” 

“You… you were right. I didn’t realize it, but I spoke down to you. I toyed with you. And then when I finally got you… I melted into emptiness until there was nothing left, until you were so frightened…” 

He held Blitzø a little tighter. 

“I saw my mother today,” he whispered. “Or at least my memory of her. And she... After some time getting over the entire arrangement… she would’ve loved you. She would have loved you…”

He blinked away tears. “Sorry… I think I’m a little bit… of a mess tonight. I just… I was reminded today… how thoroughly as a child I was taught that I was inherently… wrong. That I wrote with the wrong hand and spoke oddly and couldn’t make friends and that no one would ever love me. But you do… somehow, you do, even if I don’t really understand why…”

Blitzø listened silently, reaching down gently to wipe away his tears. He finally trusted himself to be gentle enough.

Stolas laughed weakly through the tears. “Can’t just be the fluff, can it?”

“So I was thinking, perhaps… maybe… maybe I’m not so bad. You know? If someone as wonderful as you… sees all that in me.”

"Course you're not so bad, Stols," Blitzø said quietly. "You're not bad at all. I'm so sorry people made you feel like shit for being who you are when you were a kid. And honestly, fuck 'em. They're not here anymore- I am. And I don't ever wanna make you feel like that. And I think you're great, and if I can make you feel like you're great, that's what I wanna do."

He smoothed out Stolas' feathers, trying to relax him. "I... I would have loved to meet your mom. And... I think my mom would have loved you too."

He sighed. "I know you said you had another song, but... if you wanna get out of here, that's fine too. Just wanna take care of you, Stols. Make you feel good, and safe, and loved.”

Stolas shook his head lightly. “I wanna sing for you,” he murmured. “Serenade you. It’ll be so romantic. Just like the novels.”

Blitzø just smiled gently at him. "This is what I was talking about. You're so fucking sweet... I never thought someone would wanna fucking serenade me. But you do. And how can I say no to that?”

“Stella did,” Stolas murmured. Blitzø’s smile turned to a questioning frown. 

“I tried to sing for her,” Stolas explained. “Early in the relationship, when I thought I could … make it work. “

Blitzø's face grew dark. "Fuck her," he growled, then his expression softened as he leaned down to kiss him again. "Wish I could erase her from your brain and put myself in there instead. Give you memories of how you should have been treated the entire fucking time."

“You do now,” Stolas said softly. “You do. It’s just hard to rewrite… the stories in my head. I was only eighteen, you know… when … and I tried to make things work with Stella. At least as friends. I really… really tried. I wrote her songs, and gave her flowers, and dressed up, and tried my best… And all she did was use those efforts to … to mock me relentlessly… and it’s so hard to trust… you won’t do the same… even though I know you won’t…”

“But the last time I sang for someone like this, she laughed at me until I cried. But I’m trying… I’m trying to rewrite … to try again… Because you deserve the best of me, Blitzø. You deserve it…so much more than she did.”

"I love all that shit," Blitzø said softly. "I love that I know now how much your flowers mean. I love when you get all excited to dress up, and I can tell that you feel pretty. And I'd love to hear you sing."

The only time I heard you sing to me was when it was about how I broke your heart, he thought. It would be nice to hear you sing about loving me. That would be really fucking nice.

And Stolas smiled, just as the host called him up again. He got up, swaying a little, then planted a kiss on Blitzø’s lips as he climbed back up the steps, taking the microphone. 

“I want to dedicate this song to my darling Blitzy,” Stolas said with a lopsided little grin. “Because I love him, and because he’s the best boyfriend ever, and because he said he’d love to hear his pretty birdie sing for him. And that’s me.” Stolas giggled a little, then slapped his own behind lightly. 

The owl had definitely had enough alcohol. 

“I’m the pretty birdie. So I’m singing.” 

He gestured for the music to get turned on, then looked straight at Blitzø like he was the only one in the room. 

Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help falling in love with you

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin? - I hope so!

If I can’t help falling in love with you -

Blitzø watched him and listened to him, mesmerized. Stolas was having fun, and doing exactly what he wanted, conformity be damned.

And what he wanted was to sing to Blitzø, to declare his love for him here, in front of everyone, while still only having eyes for him.

It seemed like something out of a rom-com, or a dream. It was hard to believe it was actually happening. But that didn't stop him from drinking in every word, every note, every beautiful little expression on Stolas’ face.

For once, he had nothing to say. He just let himself experience Stolas publicly adoring him. He wondered, once again, what he had done to be so lucky. 

But he also didn't care. 

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin?

If I can’t help falling -

Blitzø had failed to notice the microphone cord winding itself around Stolas’ knees, and was only snapped out of his reverie by the crash of drunken, confused feathers. 

Well, that seemed about time to take the bird home. 

"You okay, Stols?" Blitzø asked, rushing over. "You're not hurt, are you?”

“Mmmm,” Stolas slurred. The adrenaline of karaoke was wearing off, and the fuzz of the last few drinks was hitting hard. He struck a sexy pose with his legs against the wall, then winced as he tried to straighten his ankle, which looked a little swollen. “Mmm, fuck -”

Blitzø gave Stolas a little smile, trying to hide his worry. "Aaalright, Stols. Dr. Blitzy is on the case." And with that, he scooped Stolas up for the second time and started walking back to the van. "Let's get you home, hm? Get that ankle looked at.”

This time, Stolas wrapped his arms around the imp, letting himself be carried. 

He loved to be carried. He decided he should probably tell Blitzø that later. 

“You like my song?” he murmured as he was deposited and buckled into the van. “Got to be your pretty little songbird.” He giggled, with a few small hoots.

"Yeah, Stolas, I loved it." Blitzø put a hand on his cheek, leaning in to kiss him softly. "I loved you being my pretty little songbird, singing just for me."

He started to drive away, glad that he had only had one beer at the beginning of the night. "Did you have fun?”

Stolas nodded eagerly. 

“So much fun,” he murmured. He grinned. “Every single thing I did tonight… mmm… as a teenager… would’ve had trouble sitting for weeks, ‘n not for fun reasons… and I had so much fun.” He smiled, folding his arms on the dashboard and resting his head on them. “Did you?

“Did you like it when I went up there and showed everyone… everyone... I was yours, hmmm? All the pretty marks you left on me.”

Blitzø smirked at him. “Fuck yeah, I did.”

Stolas’ left hand took Blitzø’s, and his right turned the radio on, rather inelegantly slapping the button with his palm, then turning the music louder. 

“Oh, I love this song!” Stolas grinned, tapping his talon on the window to the beat. 

“Tried to sneak away to go to their concert once… brought Via in a backpack. Didn’t work.”

Blitzø frowned at that. "What happened?" he asked tentatively.

Stolas sighed. “Imagine what would be said, seeing a Goetia Prince dancing with such lowlife heathens!” he said, his voice taking on the pompous, condescending tone he became so familiar with in his youth. “Second time I got the cane growing up.”

Blitzø wondered what the first time was. And then, suddenly, he had a pretty good guess, guilt stirring in his stomach. 

He glanced at Stolas. "I'm so fucking sorry," he murmured. "That's... so fucked. But you can do whatever fun shit you want now, Stols. And no one is ever gonna be able to do that shit to you again."

He held the steering wheel in a death grip. "I won't fucking let them.”

Stolas smiled.  “I can do fun shit now,” he said softly, looking up in wonder. And his smile extended as far as it could go. “I can.”  

And then he popped his head out of the hole in the roof of the car, singing along to the song as loudly as he could. 

“And I see the devil when I look within you 

But baby that don’t scare me none

Because your tongue makes me believe you

And a deeper Hell sounds hella fun 

“And if I’m nothing but your plaything 

If your passion someday dies 

I won’t mind ‘cause I’ll be drowning

In your pentagram-shaped eyes 

And I will let your mouth deceive me 

Long as it’s between my thighs 

Baby please, you must relieve me

I want your pentagram-shaped eyes -“

Blitzø listened faintly to Stolas sing the song on the radio out of the skylight, and smiled.

Once the van was securely parked, Blitzø scooped Stolas up in his arms again, only depositing him on the couch upstairs after kicking in the door. "Lemme get you some water," he said. "And then I'll check out that ankle. Okay?”

“Mmkay,” Stolas said, lying down on the couch. 

By the time Blitzø came back with the water, Stolas’ shirt and jacket had mysteriously disappeared, leaving him in nothing but heels and the tiny jean shorts. He fluttered his eyelashes innocently. “Is it time for my exam, Dr. Blitzyyyy?”

Blitzø laughed a little. "Just your ankle, Stolas. We'll see how you're feeling in the morning after some bedrest and hydration. Then you might be up for some more... strenuous exercises." Learning some doctor words, it turned out, had been helpful.

He sat on the couch and gently took Stolas' ankle in his hand, observing the swelling. "How much does it hurt?" he asked. "Can you move it?”

“I can do anything for you, Blitzy,” said Stolas unhelpfully. He folded himself nearly in half and unstrapped the heels from his feet, letting them fall to the floor. Then he lay back in a dramatic pose. “Oh, it hurts so much, doctor. Need you to make it better. Better check I’m not hurt anywhere inside too, hmmmmm?”

Blitzø laughed at him again, louder this time. "Mr. Goetia, are you trying to use your ankle injury to convince me to fuck you?" he purred, running a finger down his chest. "Even after I told you that you needed bedrest and hydration first? I hope you aren't ignoring your doctor's orders." He swirled his fingers in his chest fluff, giving it a little tug. "You've always been such a good patient before. So I know you can follow my course of treatment, right?”

“Mmmm.” Stolas threw his head back a little, thrusting his hips at Blitzø as his chest fluff was tugged on. 

“I can stay in bed and have plenty of fluids, Dr. Blitzy, if that’s what you think I need… be your good patient, yes…”

Trying to thread the needle on actually checking out Stolas’ ankle and indulging in the roleplay that his adorably drunk boyfriend was insisting on was... challenging, but Blitzø had done more challenging things for Stolas before. He was nothing if not adaptable.

"Hydrating fluids, Mr. Goetia," he corrected gently. "Otherwise, tomorrow morning, you will not be in a proper state for me to test other things that can lead to quite a bit of fluid loss. And wouldn't that be a shame?"

He handed Stolas a glass of water. "Drink all of that," he said. "Every last drop. I'll be watching to make sure you've followed my instructions.”

“Mmmmmm,” Stolas purred flirtatiously. “Yes, Dr. Blitzy.” 

He picked it up and extended his tongue to the bottom of the cup, drinking it slowly as he swirled his tongue around in the glass, his eyes locked on Blitzø. His other hand stretched up and bent behind his head as he arched his head back as far as it would go. He gave it back to Blitzø, leaning forwards to lick his fingers in the process. 

Blitzø took the glass. "Want some more? Are you still thirsty?”

“Oh, I am very thirsty,” Stolas slurred with a wink. “Lots of symptoms… my cloaca is aching… I think I’m ready for treatment, hmm?”

Welp, walked right into that one, Blitzø thought.

"Thirsty for water, Stolas," he clarified. "If not, I think you need bedrest before we treat any other symptoms. Unless you need ice for your ankle?" he asked, hoping that Stolas would actually tell him what was ailing him besides "drunk" and "horny".

“Mmmm,” said Stolas dreamily. “Could do with some ice cubes… “

"For your ankle?"

Stolas smirked. “Mayyyyybe.”

Blitzø sighed. "I'll get you an ice pack. For your fucking ankle.”

Only once his horny bird’s injury was properly iced did Blitzø sit down. His claws rhythmically stroked through Stolas’ feathers. 

“I’m so proud of you, Stolas,” He murmured. 

“Me too,” Stolas murmured. He shifted so his head was in Blitzø’s lap - his favourite pillow. 

“I’m proud of me… too.”

When Stolas woke up, he audibly groaned. Blitzø's eyes fluttered open in alarm, only to relax into a tired little smile.

"Mornin', Stols. How are you feeling? Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Stolas moaned into the pillow. “My head hurts, my back hurts, my ankle really hurts, and I think I’m going to die of dehydration.”

Blitzø gave him a semi-apologetic smile. "Yeah, sorry about that. I got you to drink some water, and got an ice pack for your ankle, but you, uh... weren't in much of a state for me to do much else."

Stolas sat up with a wince, carefully laying his ankle on the pillows. “Do you think it’s broken?”

“Let’s see,” Blitzø said, perching himself on the armrest. “Let me know if it hurts and I’ll stop touching it, okay?” 

Stolas nodded, nothing in his eyes but full trust. “I’m remembering now… I got a bit carried away last night, didn’t I?”

"A little bit," Blitzø admitted, carefully examining his ankle. "Nothing too bad, though. How much do you remember?”

“I remember dancing on a table… singing with you… singing to you.” Stolas smiled softly. “Falling. Singing in the car. Then coming home and - ow, Blitzø-”

"Sorry," Blitzø said, letting go. "Yeah, that's about right. It seemed like you had fun, besides... you know, falling."

He looked up at Stolas. "Swelling, but not too much bruising. Shape looks right, which is a good sign. Can you move it?”

Stolas moved his foot left and right, grimacing. 

"Just a sprain, I think,” Blitzø said cheerfully. “Just kind of a nasty one. Can you walk?” 

Stolas put his foot on the floor and pushed forward experimentally. “Ow, ow fucking damn it-”

"It's okay, Stols, I've got you," Blitzø said, easing him back onto the couch. "Okay, so walking is a fuck no, then. Maybe don’t do that for a bit. I'll get you whatever you need."

“So what, you’re going to carry me around?” Stolas blushed. 

Blitzø laughed. “What, did you do it on purpose? Alright, one rat pancake breakfast, princess treatment, coming right up.” 

“And a shirt?” Stolas asked hopefully.

Blitzø threw one of his horse shirts at Stolas - a cozy cotton one that said "Wild and Free". "You can wear that until we find your Eighth Circle shirt. Don't know what the fuck you did with that.”

“Think I threw it at a plant in a fit of passion,” Stolas said. Blitzø plucked it from the annoyed-looking snake plant, handing it to Stolas. Stolas leaned back, resting his head on the couch cushions as he looked thoughtfully at the logo, his finger tracing the weathered print. 

“Still wish you’d seen them?” 

Stolas sighed. “Wish I had at least been caught on my way home from the concert. Punishment would been worth it, then.”

"Yeah," Blitzø said, and wasn't sure what to say after that. 

There was a long silence. 

“Was the first time… that happened… the day we met?” asked Blitzø shakily. His back was turned to Stolas, his hand gripping a spoon a bit too tightly. 

“I don’t regret it,” Stolas said, softly. “You were worth it, too. And it wasn’t your fault.” 

"I mean... it was, though," Blitzø mumbled. "If I hadn't taken your shit, they wouldn't have hit you. It's not like I knew that, but... yeah."

He put a pancake on the plate. "I'm kinda surprised you didn't... hate me after that. Or... maybe you did, but... I'm surprised you don't anymore.”

“Blitzø. Can you come here a moment?”

"...okay. Let me just... finish this one."

Blitzø flipped the last pancake, glaring at the burnt edges. The plate clattered slightly as the imp finally set it down, sitting back down next to Stolas. And then he felt his throat tighten as Stolas took Blitzø's hands into his own. 

“Blitzø,” Stolas said, softly. “If you had been caught, you would have gone to a juvenile detention centre. Do you understand that?”

"But if I hadn't done it at all..." Blitzø sighed. "I didn't like stealing from people. I hated it when my dad made me do that. But I wasn't as good of a performer as Fizz, and Barbie had to do a lot of the stuff Mom used to do, so... that was what I was good for. But... I could have said no. I didn't think it was as bad because... I didn't think you needed the money. I didn't think it would matter. But it did. It... it mattered a lot.”

“You wanting your father to be proud of you isn’t a mortal sin,” Stolas said softly. “You’re apologizing for something you caused that you know about now but couldn’t possibly have known then. You can’t be held responsible for consequences you didn’t know about. Besides - as you said, I owed you nothing. I chose to lie. Because you had been… the only friend I had ever had. And I wanted to see you again. And if you were taken away… I never would. So… maybe I did it for purely selfish reasons.” He smiled softly. “Wasn’t I allowed to be selfish? And didn’t it pay off?”

"I guess," Blitzø said. 

He shifted his position on the couch, staring forward blankly. "I… I did wanna see you again. But Dad said no. Said I was… a fucking idiot for wanting to go back, because who goes back to a mark after a score? He said that you would probably have me arrested, or killed. And I believed him, because... I had seen how imps are treated, especially by rich people. We're fucking disposable. I mean - your father bought me.”

“I never asked my father to… buy you,” Stolas said softly, wincing at the wording. “I hope you know. I never even knew that was what happened until we were grown. I thought…” He smiled sadly. “I had thought you had wanted to spend time with me.” He sighed. “That sounds a little pathetic, doesn’t it? And all that time, I never knew that you had never wanted to be there at all.” 

His voice softened. “Though I do hope you… like me now.”

Blitzø chuckled. "Honestly, I liked you then too. I mean, you were kind of a nerd, but even that shit cover story of a game… it was pretty fun. You were fun to play with."

He settled against his shoulder. "I... didn't have a lot of other kids to play with, besides Fizz and Barbie," he said. "I had never met anyone like you before. Who knew so much about books and stars and plants and magic and... everything, it seemed like. You... were the first one I talked to about wanting to be a boss... even though I didn't really know what that meant at the time. You just... made it seem possible, somehow. So yeah, I liked you then. And I love you now."

Blitzø closed his eyes for a moment, just resting against him as he stroked Stolas' hand absently with his thumb. "I did think about it, sometimes," he said. "After we... met again. What it might have been like if we could have kept being friends. And... I think it would have been nice. I could have made you laugh, and you wouldn't have been so lonely. You probably still would have had to marry Stella, but... maybe we could have run away together. Like in a rom-com or something." He shrugged. "I don't know. It's stupid. But it was nice to think about.”

“I don’t think that’s stupid,” said Stolas gently. “I think I would have loved it.” 

He raised the imp’s hand and kissed the back of it softly. 

“Think of it like this. If you hadn’t been told to steal from me and agreed, perhaps you wouldn’t have asked to play anything, and simply listened to me talk about plants. We wouldn’t have had as much fun. We wouldn’t have liked each other as much. And we wouldn’t have talked so earnestly under the tree. I wouldn’t have told you about the grimoire and its ability to portal to the human world. Years later, you wouldn’t have tried to steal it, if you hadn’t known it existed. We wouldn’t have that passionate night together. And now… I’d be living in my miserable marriage while you ran a business - but probably a less successful one. We wouldn’t be here together. And I would’ve never gotten to sing a karaoke duet with a man I love.” 

He smiled. “That’s worth a little pain. At least to me.”

Blitzø smiled. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I guess you’re right."

For a while, he just lay there, leaning against Stolas’ chest. Watching it rise and fall. 

“Is that what… what fucked you up?” He asked finally. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Did it make you scared… to do shit? Fun shit? Trust people?” He paused. “You can tell me, Stols. I’ve learned how to… listen better.” 

“I suppose…” Stolas sighed. “I began to doubt… anyone would ever want to spend time with me. I thought that maybe… all the fun we had… it was all just a ploy, and you cared about my money… and never me.”

Stolas fidgeted with his shirt. “That’s why I… proposed the deal,” he said softly. “Even though it was wrong. I thought that… no one would ever want me like that, or love me… without at least something extra thrown in. You were still my first friend. I didn’t doubt we had been friends, not really, just… that there had to be something extra for anyone to stay.”

Blitzø nodded. "Yeah. I... I'm sorry I made you feel... unlikeable. Honestly, I thought you had other friends at fucking... boarding school or something. I thought I was just there to entertain you. It never even occurred to me that I could hurt someone like you."

He could just barely hear Stolas' heartbeat through the shirt. He focused on that. "It's weird, to think that you just... liked me. That you let me have the book as like... a way to have me spend time with you. Because... I thought..." 

He sighed. "I thought you were basically asking me to be your whore. To fuck you in exchange for the book. I assumed it was like... a novelty thing. Plowed by the rabble or - something. And I was okay with that. I've done worse for less. But I just... didn't get why you treated me the way you did. It felt so weird. And it was just that you... liked me." He laughed dryly. "All this time, you just fucking liked me. I guess that never occurred to me."

He nuzzled against Stolas a little. "I guess... we had that in common.”

Stolas smiled weakly. “Well - I just fucking liked you. You were the first person I enjoyed - anything with, really. Sex, yes. But also… romance. Friendship.”

Blitzø snorted a little. “I could tell I was your first real fuck, feathers, you can just say that. But I figured I was just an escape.” 

“It may have started that way,” Stolas admitted. “But… my favourite full moons became the ones… where we didn’t fuck. Where we sat and talked… and I got to know you… and we fell in love.”

"I remember those," Blitzø said quietly. "And I liked them, or... I sort of liked them. I was always a little on edge because I figured... what was the point of having me there? Was I not fucking you good enough?" 

“You thought…” Stolas’ eyebrows furrowed. “That I wanted to sit and have dinner and talk about books and cuddle because… you weren’t fucking me… well enough?”

"I mean... yeah," Blitzø muttered. "You seemed to know... exactly what you wanted that first time. And all the times you called me. You were... very specific.”

Stolas blushed. “I had fantasies,” he murmured. “I read a lot of romance novels… that doesn’t mean I knew what I was doing.”

"Yeah, well. Guess we were both wrong.” Blitzø smiled. “Never been happier, ya know. To be wrong.” 

“...Neither have I,” said Stolas softly, smiling back.

Blitzø reached out to hold Stolas' hand, and Stolas suddenly realized that it hadn't hurt all morning.