Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Fizzarolli!” 

Blitzo groans, half out of his costume already when the unfamiliar shriek follows the very familiar sound of a tent flap being snapped open.

Just their luck: it’s another fucking incel who seemingly decided the Performers Only! signs aren’t talking to them. That would be the third one this month. 

Barbie and Fizz are at the makeup stand, squished together as they try to use the singular mirror at the same time. It’s not going well. 

Barbie has the short end of the stick, trying to peer around Fizz’s massive horns that seem to be growing bigger by the day. Fizz, on the other hand, is almost completely bare-faced—a makeup wipe in one hand and his post-performance t-shirt that slips off one thin shoulder in the other. 

Focus. 

Blitzo makes himself big and walks forward to intercept the intruder. “Get lost, dickwad. Not our fault you can’t fucking read.” 

“No, no, they told me I could see him.” 

A Fizz fan, for sure. 

Fizz has always been the most popular performer in their circus, but now that he’s getting prettier by the day, everyone and their fucking father wants to get their hands on him. It’s exhausting. 

 This perv has a shaggy haircut that says I-Don’t-Shower-Much. Gross. Blitzo doesn’t want him anywhere near his best friend or his sister. 

“Get the fuck out and be glad you have your ugly fucking face intact.” 

“I-I paid—” 

“I-I don’t care,” Blitzo mimics. “Go perv on some other clown.” 

“The Ringmaster said I could get an autograph as long as I paid cash upfront.” The imp is shaking now, peering around him for a glimpse at Fizz. “I’ll ask for my money back.” 

All the wind rushes out of Blitzo’s sails. Cash is taking bribes again. He won’t be happy if Blitzo costs him the money, especially after he kind of fucked up the performance tonight. 

“It’s okay.” Fizz is beside him now, already leaning down to sign whatever scrap of paper is being crumpled between the fan’s sticky fingers. “Thanks for coming to the show! Don’t mind Blitzo, okay? He’s like this all the time.” 

“Oh my Satan.” The stalker looks at Fizz with wide, hungry eyes. “Oh my Satan. You’re… wow.” 

Fizz has seamlessly tapped back into Performer Mode. His smile is big and dazzling and oh, so fake. 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s great.” Blitzo hovers, wishing—not for the first time—that he knew of a way to get bigger. Scarier. “You got your autograph. Get out.” 

“Can I just—” 

Blitzo cracks his knuckles, and the imp scurries away, hugging the paper to his chest. He’ll probably jack off with it tonight or something. Ugh. 

“Blitzo.” Fizz fixes him with a glare. “Really?” 

“He was ogling you.” 

“That’s dramatic. He was tame compared to that one panty guy. Remember him?” 

“Not helping your case.” 

“You’re just jealous he wasn’t here to see you.” 

“I am not jealous.” 

Fizz sticks his tongue out, which is super mature of him. Blitzo totally wins the stand-off on account of his opponent pulling out baby moves. 

Behind them, Barbie has taken advantage of Fizz’s absence at the mirror, finally getting the last of her makeup off. “Beat you, slow-ass,” she crows as Fizz returns and takes another wipe. “You owe me five bucks.” 

“Sorry I’m famous.” Fizz tosses his head. “Not everyone can be.” 

 “Thank Satan. Otherwise we’d all be as annoying as you.” 

Their bickering resumes. The costumes are hung back up on their racks. Street clothes are donned. And the three implings duck out into the night.  

The circus is never truly quiet. 

Even early into the weird hours of the morning, after the late shows are done, the adults recap their performances over alcohol and cigarettes. Sets are broken down and rearranged for travel. Some of the alternate acts do run-throughs of their numbers to keep loose. 

“Blitzo, did you actually grab the goods earlier?” Barb has an unmissable, hopeful gleam in her eye. “Or were you just talking out your ass?” 

They were at the perfect age for the thrill of sneaking shit from the “adult stash” to outweigh the risks of getting caught. Them hanging out after hours wasn’t new, but when Blitzo could grab something exciting off someone, it made the night infinitely more fun. 

“It’s like you don’t believe in me at all.” Blitzo makes a big show of twirling the single joint he was able to snag from a pocket, nearly fumbling it and causing Fizz to burst into delightful little peals of laughter. 

Barbie puts a hand over Fizz’s mouth, then pulls it away just as quickly to wipe the saliva on her leggings when he licks it. “Are you five?” 

Fizz grins at her, tongue poking out. “Five times better than you, maybe. Come on, come on, we’ve only got a few hours before they’ll come check our bunks for lights-out.” 

The three imps weave between tents and piles of old signage, bins of practice props and storage racks. The dark reddish-purple of the sky above them is dusty, pollution from the nearby city leaking into the atmosphere, but that’s okay. It’s pretty. 

They make it to the outskirts, near the pens where they put the horses up. It’s Blitzo’s favorite spot in the whole world, no matter which ring they’ve set up camp in. 

“It always smells like shit over here,” Barbie complains, poking at her brother. 

“Only when you’re around,” Blitzo tosses back, unconcerned. He has eyes only for the horses, admiring them with a happy sigh. 

“If we get upwind, it’s not so bad.” Fizz tugs the two of them to the fence, where they instantly circle around the treasure in Blitzo’s palm. 

Barbie coughs, and it sounds suspiciously like the word fag. 

“Pot, kettle, babe,” Fizz flips her off. “I know what you did with that girl when we were in Lust last month. Running errands, my ass.” 

“You little shit.” Barbie goes to punch his arm. “Who told you?” 

“Not telling.” Fizz dodges the blow easily. 

“Focus, motherfuckers.” Blitzo holds out the joint. “Barb? Wanna do the honors?” 

She eagerly produces the pink and silver lighter she’d gotten from Satan-Knew-Where. It’s probably her most prized possession. 

Barbie flicks the lighter a few times, getting a flame going and touching it to the tip of the joint. It catches, paper crackling as a few glowing pieces drift up and away in the breeze. 

As the one who’d stolen the goods, Blitzo decides he should have the first hit. He puts the joint to his lips, praying he won’t cough, and manages to inhale a bit of the heady smoke. It burns his throat and makes his eyes water, but he doesn’t lose composure, so he takes that as a win. 

“Here. Beat that.” He hands the joint to Fizz, voice only a little hoarser than usual. 

Fizz puts the joint to his lips, takes a drag, and coughs hard. 

“You would,” Blitzo laughs. 

“I—hate you,” Fizz wheezes between hacking. “You didn’t—even take a—big hit.” 

Barbie’s eyes drift shut as she takes her inhale, body relaxing. Blitzo hopes he looks half as cool when he smokes, but isn’t holding his breath; his sister got all the photogenic genes in the womb. 

Fizz breaks the silence first, eyes watery, but no longer choking on smoke. “I’ve officially got a new routine to debut next week.”  

It explained the late nights Fizz has been pulling lately. 

“Well, go on,” Blitzo motions with his hands. “Show us the dance, twinkle-toes. We’re starved for entertainment out here.” 

“It’s not a dance, Blitzo. It’s a routine.”  

“Same shit. Show us. Also Barb, it’s puff puff pass, not puff puff puff puff puff.” 

“Shut up, Shitzo.” Barbie reluctantly passes Blitzo the joint again as Fizz begins demonstrating whatever new routine he’s been working on. The twins sit on the fence, applauding and reacting in what they hope are the correct moments; Fizz likes feeling supported. 

As the weed hits, Blitzo’s head goes a little fuzzy. His limbs ache from a day of work well done. He has a bunch of shit to do tomorrow that he doesn’t really want to think about. But mostly, he’s enjoying watching the blur of red and black move across the trampled dirt—arms outstretched and pulling juggling balls from thin air. 

Fizz is truly a marvel of a performer. The best Blitzo’s ever seen. Sure, fine, he’s a little jealous of that. Who wouldn’t be? 

“Don’t let what Dad said earlier get you down,” Barbie says, her voice soft. 

“What?” Blitz turns his head, which feels weird. “Oh, that. It was fine. Normal stuff. He’s said way worse, you know.” 

“I know.” Barbie curls her tail around his calf. It’s warm and the hold grounds him in the best way. 

“Besides,” Blitzo shrugs. “He wasn’t wrong. I don’t have attention to detail or whatever the fuck.”

Fuck, he’s discovering, is a great word. He can put it into any sentence, any gap in a conversation. Ten out of ten word to be invented. It makes him sound so adult and edgy and interesting. 

Barbie hums, taking the joint back. 

“Did you check on Mamma before we left?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. Tilla hasn’t been joining the adults after the shows quite so often anymore, instead spending more and more time in her tent. 

“She’s just tired.” Barbie says it like she’s willing it to be true. “You worry too much, Blitzo.” 

“That’s my whole fuckin’ job.” Blitzo’s head drops onto her shoulder, and she doesn’t shove him off. 

Fizz finishes his prancing around, chest rising and falling with a big smile on his pretty face. His cheeks are flushed and eyes are just a little bloodshot. 

“What’ja think?” 

“Showstopping.” 

“Fucking cool.” 

“Marvelous.” 

“Fucking cool.” 

“Blitzo, stop saying fucking like that.” 

“What? Like it’s fucking cool?” 

The twins jab at each other, both verbally and physically, going for the ribs and necks and all the sensitive spots that they know by heart. It gives Fizz an opening to swoop in and swipe the joint, already half-smoked. 

“You guys barely left any for me,” he whines, wedging himself against Blitzo’s side. 

“Snooze you lose.” Blitzo forgets all about his sparring with Barb, focused entirely instead on the feeling of Fizz right up against him. Fizz is warm and wriggly and making that sweet purr in the back of his throat that drives him crazy. 

Ah, fuck, his crush still hasn’t gone away, yet. Noted. 

“You told me to show you the routine.” 

“It was my evil plan,” Blitzo rattles off. “Get you to dance your little tail off and smoke all the weed myself.” 

“It’s not just dancing.” 

“Oh my Satan, take a hit or pass it, Fizz, I swear to fuck—”

“You’re doing that thing again,” Fizz says, between post-drag coughs. “Where you hold me and Barb like we’re gonna run away.” 

“Yeah, well, we are. Together.” Blitzo’s eyes are so heavy; he’s seeing the world through half-open slits. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, unearned pride seeping into his chest. “You guys are my future. Smart businessman like me needs to invest. Protect his assets.” 

“Assets,” Barbie rolls her eyes. “You don’t even know what that word means. I’ll give you a hint; it doesn’t have anything to do with Fizzie’s tight little one.” 

Fizz lifts his tail to smack her lightly with the spade, but he can’t hide the giggle that escapes him at the comment. “Barbieeee.” 

“Fizzieeee.” 

“Laugh all you want.” Blitzo drapes his arms around both imps, Barb on one side, Fizz on the other. “I’m gonna protect you guys whether you want it or not. So there.” 

“Ooh, our big strong hero,” Fizz stage-whispers to Barbie. 

“Lucky us.” 

It sets off another round of giggling from the two of them. They’re making fun of him, but Blitzo doesn’t really care. 

Someday, they’re all gonna get out of this shitheap together. And it’s going to be awesome. 

///

“Is he alive?” 

It’s the first thing Blitzo remembers saying. He’s being held back by someone, blocked from going any further down the hallway. 

“Young man, you’re not allowed back here—” 

“Is he alive?” 

Blitzo’s not in his body. Vaguely, he’s aware of the way he can’t feel the side of his face. The nurses have wrapped him up in bandages and salves, but none of that matters. Nothing matters anymore. 

Mamma. 

Her pendant is still clutched in his hands, the last precious piece of her. 

“I know he’s in there. I just need to know if he’s breathing. Just—fuck you—tell me—” 

“Blitzo.” 

Barbie. 

Blitzo turns and grasps his sister, clinging to her. She smells like ash and smoke and fire. Her eyes are bloodshot and glassy. 

“Won’t let me see him,” he babbles. “Just need to know. Tell them. Please.” 

“Blitzo,” she says again, stiff. Emotionless. Like she’s not in her body, either. “Dad says you were… that the… did you…?” 

Was it your fault? 

Did you kill her? 

Blitzo honest-to-Satan doesn’t remember how he answers. Maybe he doesn’t say anything at all, voice stuck in his throat. He just remembers the look on her face when she realizes the truth, like she wanted to believe Cash was lying. Hoping against all hope. 

He sees the moment her heart breaks. 

Somewhere in the blur of movement and shouting and chaos, Cash is there, his furious stare burning Blitzo from the inside out. Did Barbie call for him? Would she do that? 

The door to Fizz’s room finally opens, and Blitzo gets the briefest look. At first, he thinks he’s gotten the wrong room because the still, tiny imp in the bed isn’t Fizz. It can’t be. 

Fizz has big, curved horns. 

Two arms. Two legs. 

Beautiful red skin that flushes so pretty when Blitzo teases him. 

He never stops moving, dancing, hopping around like he runs on fucking batteries. 

Look what you did.

It might be Cash. It might be his own thoughts. 

Look what you ruined. 

Blitzo is pulled away, and he can’t remember if he fights back. He hopes he did. 

In the week that follows, Blitzo haunts the hospital hallways like a ghost. The circus is ash. Cash wants him out. Barbie won’t even look at him. Tilla is gone. That leaves one person. He won’t get the fuck outta dodge until he talks to Fizz. 

Blitzo waits and waits. He corners one of the doctors coming out of the room, begs them to let him in. It’s somewhere around that time that he gets the news. 

“He’s awake, right? Can I have five minutes? I’ll take three minutes. Two, even, fuck it. I’m feeling generous.” 

“That isn’t possible, I’m afraid—” 

“I won’t touch him. I’ll stand by the door. I just need to talk to him.” To explain. To apologize. To ask if he still wants to come with me when I walk through those doors and never look back. 

“I’m sorry, but he’s not—” 

“Bullshit.” Blitzo shakes his head. “Barbie and my dad have seen him. He’s taking visitors.” 

“Ah. Yes. See, he doesn’t want to see you.” 

The blood drains from every part of Blitzo’s body. He thinks he might die. “Did… did he say that?” 

He did, apparently. He told everyone, all the doctors, all the nurses. He doesn’t want Blitzo Buckzo anywhere near him ever again. 

And, well, Blitzo has never been one to deny Fizzarolli anything he wants.

He leaves the hospital that afternoon, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the loose change in his pocket he scrounged from under the vending machine. 

For the first time in his life, Blitzo is on his own. He flicks his tail around the empty space on either side of him and lets the chasm in his chest split wide open. 

///

The poster is hung askew on a building wall. 

It probably doesn’t even need tape or nails or anything since the buildings are basically slimy to the touch in Greed. 

This year’s design has a mostly-familiar clown smiling off the page in the center, surrounded by silhouettes of other unfortunate contestants. His new prosthetic limbs are the only parts of him that Blitzo doesn’t recognize. 

Will The Sweep Winner of the Rapacity Qualifier TAKE IT ALL on the Final Stage? GIVE ME YOUR MONEY AND FIND OUT, CUNTS. 

“Stupid clown,” is what Blitzø says. “Sellout bitch.” 

Please win. Let him win. He can win. I know he can win, is what he thinks. 

Blitzø doesn’t have any intention of actually going to the pageant. First off, he doesn’t have that kind of disposable income. Second, he isn’t going to waste what little he has on that. 

So, if he finds himself scaling a nearby building and camping out on the night of the show, angled just right to catch a glimpse or two from afar, that’s nobody’s fucking business. A coincidence. Picking a scab. 

He sends a text to Barb before he can talk himself out of it. She never responds, but the messages are still going through, so maybe she hasn’t blocked him, yet. 

did u c that hes compeeting tonit?

He doesn’t need to clarify who. Barbie will know. 

The blood underneath the metaphorical wound bubbles up and spills over the moment Fizz takes the stage. The view is shit. Blitzo can’t really see, and the echo means he can’t really hear, either. But he knows. He’d know a Fizzarolli performance anywhere. 

He smokes a cigarette. He listens. 

Once the wound is open, Blitzø really can’t be held accountable for the stupid shit he does. He’s losing metaphorical blood by the bucket full. His brain isn’t working. Fuck, this is a bad analogy. 

Fizz wins. 

Of course Fizz wins.

Even from a million fucking feet away, Blitzø can see the confetti blasting into the night sky. Fizzarolli’s name is up in lights. 

For a self-indulgent moment, he lets himself picture what tonight might’ve been like in a different world. He and Barbie would’ve been backstage, maybe. They would’ve helped with the pre-show jitters Fizz always got, and then poked their heads out to watch from the wings. They would hug him the moment he finished, and Fizz would cry because he always did, and that meant Blitzø would cry, too. He would be so goddamn proud of him. 

Always so goddamn proud. 

Blitzø drops his cigarette to the floor and steps on it, dousing the burn. 

Back on ground-level, the streets are crowded with demons leaving the venue. Ever the contrarian, Blitzø fights the crowd and swims upstream, telling himself he’s planning to snatch some cash off the drunk bitches. Or maybe he’s looking for the sick satisfaction of hearing people bitch about favoritism; the whole thing is rigged, anyway. 

That makes sense. 

That isn’t weird. 

Except Blitzø goes around back, where the performer's rear exits (ha) would be, and there are no crowds. No gossip. Just muted bass from the music still playing inside the open-air theater. 

Dumb fucking bitch. Dumb idiot. Blitzo, you’re the stupidest fucking bitch there ever was. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, just loitering in the shadows. He sure as fuck isn’t making any move to go inside. Maybe he’s waiting for Fizz to leave. Maybe he’s just a masochist.

At some point, inevitably, someone else rounds the side of the venue. Call it muscle memory, but Blitzø still knows a pervy fan when he sees one—and no, it has nothing to do with the homemade Fizzarolli shirt the guy is wearing. 

“Alright, taintwad,” Blitzø cocks his gun. “Gonna give you a generous five to get the fuck outta here before I blow your asshole to shreds.” 

The guy stops, eyes wide for just a moment before they narrow into slits. “What, are you some kind of security?” 

“Something like that, sure.” 

“How do I know you don’t just want to get in there first? Slobber all over that new twinky little celebrity?” 

“Eh, been there, had that,” Blitzø shrugs. “Not all it's cracked up to be. Three seconds.” 

“Wait, what does—” 

“Two.” 

The guy makes the smart, although boring, choice and slinks back to the general public area. He would keep his asshole intact. For now. 

The doorknob turns, shitty nails rattling. Blitzø dives for the bushes, waiting with a pulse pounding in his throat. 

“Mr. Fizzarolli, Mammon has the press ready for you.” 

From his hiding spot, Blitzø can see him. Not on a screen. Not on a poster. Not a half glimpse of him in a hospital bed. 

Fizz is wearing a large jester’s cap, striped and jingling with bells. He’s still in full costume and makeup, glittery in a way that tells Blitzø this getup is worth a fuckton more than the ones they’d worn in the circus. 

“Sorry, one sec,” Fizz says. “I coulda sworn I heard something.” 

His voice is different. 

Blitzø doesn’t know why that hadn’t occurred to him before. Maybe he should’ve expected it. His own throat had been raw for weeks after the fire, the smoke inhalation tearing up his lungs. Fizz had gotten it way worse. Of course there’s permanent damage. 

Where before his voice was smooth, there’s an unmistakable gravel now. Like talking hurts. Maybe it does. 

“Mr. Fizzarolli, we don’t want to keep Mammon waiting.” 

“No, we don’t,” Fizz agrees with a light little laugh, still scanning the area. For just half a second, his eyes pass over the bush. 

His eyes. 

His eyes are the same. 

Blitzø digs his nails into his palm so hard he draws blood as the pieces finally, finally connect in his brain. That’s Fizz. Fizz is right there. He could just step out and let Fizz yell at him or something, but at least he might be able to talk to him before the fancy new security guards put bullets in his skull. 

“He’s also got a new merch partner lined up who wants to speak with you after the reporters,” the escort says. 

“Booked and busy. Just how I like it.” 

The clip-clop of Fizz’s heels fade, and the door shuts. Blitzø scrambles out of the bush and gets as far from that fucking place as he can. Past the general audience sections. Past the merch stalls. Back to the streets of Greed. 

Sellout. 

Draped in glitter and fans. 

Sellout. 

Press tours. 

Sellout. 

His face on t-shirts and signs and tote bags. 

Sellout. 

It’s pathetic, really. Is that what he wanted? Is he happier now that he has it? 

Blitzø passes another poster for the show and tears down, wadding it up and throwing it into the street. 

With every day that passes, with every commercial he sees, with every scrap of fame that Fizzarolli basks in, Blitzø's disgust grows. 

At Loo Loo land, Blitzø hands out Fizzarolli plushes to whining implings. He listens to the fucking bastard of a robot scare them shitless. Did Fizzarolli program it to recognize him? Did he spend money and time creating a robot with a system designed to make Blitzø want to jump off a bridge? 

Selfish. Sellout. Sack of shit. 

If Blitzø says it enough times, maybe he’ll believe it. 

/// 

“Hello, is this Blitzo Buckzo?” 

“Satan’s ballsack, the O is fucking silent—who is this? I have a gun.” 

“Sir, this is St. An's Hospital. Please verify your identity as Blitzo Buckzo.” 

A weird chill runs through Blitzø. He glances at Loona’s bedroom door, shut tight as usual. Bass shakes the apartment ever so slightly, which means she’s probably still awake. Not in some Sloth hospital. 

Who else does he know? 

Moxxie. 

“Fuck,” he says into the phone. “Is it Moxxie? What did that fucking idiot do? Tell him I’m not paying for surgery on the company’s dime, and no worker’s comp—” 

“Uh. I’m sorry. So… this is Blitzo Buckzo?” 

Are those the only words this person knows?  

Blitzø's heart is doing a tumbling routine in his chest. He manages to grit out a confirmation, swallowing the correction to his name again, and waiting for more. 

“Your Barbie Wire Buckzo is in our Emergency Department. She was brought in unresponsive this evening…"

Everything fades to a dull whine behind Blitzø's head. 

Words like “hydromorphone” and “overdose” swirl around him, none of them really penetrating deeper than surface level. He gets the basic understanding: bad shit. 

She’s alive. Barely.

Blitzø is shouting something to Loona and grabbing his van keys without really processing. He drives like a bat out of hell, but that isn’t unique to this circumstance. He’s done worse going three blocks down for some iced coffee. 

There’s a weird sense of deja vu as he stalks through the hospital halls. This Sloth hospital is way nicer than whatever piece of shit Greed center they’d all ended up at after the fire, but it sets Blitzø's teeth on edge anyway. Are they all doomed to just keep ending up here? 

“Why’d you call me?” he asks the hospital, the question coming out more aggressive than he’d meant it. “How’d you get my number?” 

“We were unable to get a hold of her first two emergency contacts, Mr. Buckzo,” they tell him. “She told us to call you.” 

Blitzø has a lot of follow-up questions, including but not limited to why the hell Barbie would list him as a contact at all, but he shoves them way, way down. He needs to see his sister first. If they know she usually doesn’t want anything to do with him, they might send him away.

So Blitzø takes a deep breath. “Can I see her?” 

Barbie looks like… well, like shit. She’s hooked up to a dozen machines, unconscious and rail-thin. He hasn’t actually been in the same room with her in a couple years now, and the difference nearly bowls him over. 

Years. 

The word tugs at his chest so hard he thinks his heart might pop. 

Every bone in her body is visible. Her eyes are sunken and bruised, with dark circles that resemble black eyes more than anything else. 

This? This is his vibrant, weird sister who used to giggle when Mamma put her on the high wire for the first time? The mirror image of himself who reached for him in the dark and kicked his shins under the table and painted his nails? 

Blitzø's fists curl, his breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. He wants to hunt down whoever did this to her, wants to fucking kill them over and over and over again, even though he knows. 

Overdose, they’d said. 

She did this to herself. 

He wants someone else to blame. Someone who isn’t half-dead in a hospital bed right now. Someone who isn’t his twin, his other half, the second part of his stupid awful soul. Cash is an obvious choice. Tilla never would’ve let this happen. But if Tilla were still alive, the fire wouldn’t have happened, and Barb probably wouldn’t have needed the drugs at all. 

Blitzø catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of his dark phone screen. 

Target acquired. 

He really isn’t sure how many hours he spends in that hospital. Maybe days. He’s either outside her door or in the waiting room or hovering by the bed. At some point, she mumbles his name, and it’s not filled with absolute hatred. 

“Right here, Barb,” he promises from his chair, biting at his nails. “Not going anywhere.”  

That doesn’t last long. 

“Get the fuck out,” she snarls at him the moment she’s actually stable enough to remember what he did. “I don’t want you here.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Blitzø waves a hand. “H8? Really? There’s way better shit out there that won’t fucking kill you from the inside out, dumbass.” 

“It’s none of your business what’s killing me.” 

“Okay, sure. Fuck me for trying, right?” 

“Exactly. Get out.” 

“Barb—” 

“No, I’m serious, get out.” Barbie’s face is angrier than he’s ever seen it. It’s kind of impressive for someone who was clinging to life only a day before. “After what you did to Fizz—” 

“That sellout clown is fucking fine. Have you seen his commercials?” 

“After what you did to Mamma—” 

“Don’t fucking bring her into this; you have no idea—” 

“You don’t get to play hero anymore, Blitzo. You burned that card. Bye. That’s done. Fucking over.” 

“Do you even have money to pay these fancy fucks for saving your life?” 

She scoffs, which means no. “I don’t need yours, if that’s what you’re offering. Get the fuck out, or I’ll flatline myself on purpose, and it'll be your fault. You wanna kill another one of us? Do it. I dare you.” 

Blitzø slams the door as he leaves. It rattles the wired window pane and sends several nurses running. Good. They should go check on her. 

He pays for Barbie’s hospital bills, anyway. He also pays to check her into the rehab program recommended by the doctors. She can hate him for it all she fucking wants; at least if she’s hating him, she’ll be alive to do it. 

Loona doesn’t question where he’s been when he gets home. She just asks if she can order food on his card and goes back to her room. It’s fine. Blitzø doesn’t really want to hash it all out anyway. Nothing matters. 

He collapses on the couch alone, too tired to even find the remote for the TV even though he’d really like to fill the silence. 

His phone is in reach, though, so he unlocks it and scrolls through old photos. He doesn’t have very many of him and Barb, but it helps, sometimes, to look at the proof that she’d cared about him once. At some point in their lives, she’d looked at him with something other than disgust and heartbreak and betrayal and whatever else was there now. 

You’re both fighters, Tilla had told them once.

He and Barbie had nearly come to blows over something dumb—he really couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about now—and Tilla had sat their asses down after the squabbling had become too much. 

You’re both fighters, and that’s a good thing. You gotta be tough to survive this world. But you need to survive it together. 

She’d never liked it when they’d joked about one of them being an “accident” or “unwanted,” even if that was absolutely the truth. No way had Cash wanted two babies. 

Your little souls came as a package deal, she’d said. Your father loves a good bargain. Two for the price of one. 

When Blitzø had pointed out that only sinners had souls, Tilla had shaken her head and sworn that wasn’t true. 

Now, a lifetime of shit later, Blitzø buries his face in the threadbare couch cushion and hopes she was right. He hopes his Mamma’s soul is somewhere peaceful. Somewhere happy. No circus. No Cash. No sickness. 

Maybe she’s waiting for her baby. Maybe she’s waiting for both of them. 

///

The Lust rain drizzles on the roof of the stolen car, a steady, gentle pattering. All the adrenaline has faded. What’s left is… well, Blitzø doesn’t really know what’s left. All of this is uncharted territory. 

“You should go inside.” 

“I should.” 

Blitzø and Fizz have been parked outside Asmodeous’ (Ozzie, as Fizz says, full of love) palace for ten minutes in the car Blitzø hotwired. They haven’t moved. Today has been… unreal. Like Blitzø will blink, and he’ll have dreamed it all up. 

“Your chicken’s gonna be wanting you,” Blitzø says again, gently, because he knows Fizz might freeze further if he demands it. “Come on, Fizz, out you get.” 

“If I leave this car…” Fizz’s voice wobbles only a little. “Are you going to see me again?”

Probably not. 

We shouldn’t. 

You have a good life now. You said it yourself. I can’t fuck that up for you again. 

“Well,” Blitzø cracks a grin. “You’re on, like, every billboard these days. And cereal box. Hard to miss.” 

“Not The Great Fizzarolli.” Fizz shakes his head, bells jingling. One prosthetic is sputtering, sparks occasionally bursting from the exposed wires. He definitely needs to get that looked at. “Just me, Blitzo.” 

Blitzø studies that perfect little face. Fuck, he’s spent so long cursing every single sight of it just to cover up the missinghurthurthurtmissingimissyou that he can’t fix right below it. He presses at the spot right between his eyes. Wishes his exhale wasn’t shaky. Tries to find another joke, something else to say that’s smart and funny and not dragged from the very depths of his being. 

“I don’t think I ever stopped. Seeing you, I mean.” 

“Oh.” 

“From afar.” 

“Well… can you do it closer?” 

Always. Yes. Say the word, and I’m there. 

“You’re hurt. You need to get looked at." Blitzø runs the back of his hand under his nose. “Your boyfriend can do that, right? Fix you up?” 

“Not my boyfriend.” 

“Can he?” 

“He can.” 

Blitzø unwraps his arms from Fizz’s shoulders. It takes everything in him to do it. 

Fizz takes the hint and reaches for the car door, looking over his shoulder. “I’ll see you soon?” 

“If you want.” 

Blitzø truly doesn’t expect him to. Most of him figures that once Fizz returns to the palace, he won’t need him anymore. He’ll go back to his life. Blitzø will go back to his. This will be a weird little blip in their otherwise estranged history. 

But the text comes in the very next day. 

Apparently, Fizz does want. 

hang soon?

yea k ware?

uhhhh 

there’s a good burger place near me 

suld.

Lust typically has pretty decent food. 

It’s nothing like a Bee-party, but eroticism and food sort of go hand-in-hand, so there’s a higher quality in the ring than most. Blitzø is surprised, however, that Fizz has chosen a somewhat divey place. Nothing fancy—just a small hole-in-the-wall sandwiched between two strip clubs. 

Fizz is waiting for him in the back, wearing a small, striped jester’s cap with fewer (literal) bells and whistles. It matches the cute pink and yellow romper he’s wearing. 

“Hi.” Blitzø sits down across from him, one leg already bouncing. “This is weird.” 

“Super weird.” Fizz pushes a basket of fries towards him. “Peace offering?” 

“I thought that was me saving your life.” 

“That helped.” 

Blitzø eats a few, wishing he could focus on the delicious greasy salt instead of the heavy pit in his stomach. Something curls around his leg and he reaches for his gun automatically, but then he pauses. Fizz’s tail has curled around the leg that won’t stop bouncing. Blitzø snaps his gaze up and finds Fizz giving him a half smile, lips quirked up at the corner.

“It’s just me, Blitzo.”

Blitzø nods. Huffs a laugh. “I’m not, like, nervous or anything.” 

Fizz’s tail gives a small squeeze to his calf, and Fizz rolls his eyes. “Well, I fucking am. This is awkward and uncomfortable and I—I kinda just wanna skip to the part where we’re friends again.” 

Is that possible? Can we have that? I’ll take anything. 

“Pretty sure that’s not how this shit works,” he says instead. 

More silence. 

Blitzø twirls a fry between his fingers, feeling it grow cold and soggy. It’s kind of like having a dick go flaccid, and he opens his mouth to make the joke, but Fizz beats him to it 

“Sad to see your handjob skills have actually eroded over time.” 

Blitzø laughs before schooling his face into something like faux offense. “Shut your whore mouth until you’ve seen my skills in action, homo.” 

And then they’re both laughing, and the sound is so familiar, so good, that Blitzø forgets to be scared. He’s got his best friend across from him in a diner booth, his tail wrapped around his leg, and they’re cackling about dicks. 

He feels good enough to order actual food when the waiter comes by, both of them digging into burgers the size of their faces with sauces that drip down their wrists; Lust burger places definitely get their inspiration from the best places.

“So, we’ve covered that you still like horses a completely normal amount,” Fizz says as they eat. “And you’ve got this scary gun action movie thing going. What else do I need to know?”  

“I can make pretty good pancakes.” 

“No shit? Without setting the kitchen on fire?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

The joke hangs in the air, a bit too close to the Thing Blitzø Did for comfort. Blitzø clears his throat, wishing they could go back to talking about dicks. 

“Sorry.” Fizz actually does look apologetic. “Wasn’t thinking. Didn’t mean it like that.” 

“It’d be okay if you did.” An awkward pause. “You’re not like… forever traumatized by fire?” 

Fizz rolls his eyes. “I can say the word fire without losing it, idiot. I even perform with it sometimes. You should see my flaming-baton number. It slaps.” 

“Shit. That’s… wow, Fizz.” 

Blitzø still has nightmares about fire. If he’d been blown up… would he be as strong as Fizz is? No. No, he wouldn’t. Blitzø is over here bitching over his scars, and Fizz is onstage performing with the thing that cost him all his limbs. 

Typical. You just love to feel sorry for yourself, don’t you, Blitzo? Everything’s always about you and your boohoo life. You don’t give a shit about anyone else so long as you can milk your own shit for all its worth. 

Fizz seems to sense the sourness in Blitzø's expression and instantly tries to backtrack. “It definitely still fucks me up sometimes, too. During the firework display they did last year for Sexfest, Ozzie found me shaking like a leaf, which sucked because the fireworks were super fucking cool. They were shaped like titties and cocks that shot sparks of cum into the air.” 

“No, fuck, wait,” Blitzø coughs, saliva vacating his mouth for a moment. “You don’t have to try and make me feel better.” 

“That was a true story, though.” 

“No, I know, but you’re—” be nice, be nice. “Stronger than me. Stronger than anyone, maybe. Not because it’s impossible to bounce back after something like that or anything. Shit. I suck at this. I’m just fuckin’ sorry. For everything I did. Or didn’t do. For all of it. There. Is that… is that a good apology? Cause I can try again.” 

The vulnerability threatens to eat Blitzø away from the inside out. He sits with the feeling, hating every second of it. 

Fizz stares at him. Big, beautiful eyes, pupils blown. He dabs away the mist at the corner, giving him a crooked smile that Blitzø has missed so goddamn much. 

“No, that one works. Thanks, Blitzø.” 

For a crazy moment, Blitzø actually misses Fizz using the “o.” He’s a hypocrite through and through. 

To avoid saying that, he flicks his gaze to the robotic arms. He has so many questions about them. Once again, Fizz seems to understand without him saying anything at all, pulling the sleeve of his romper back to show where the arm attaches.

“Ozzie made these. Way better than the shit they gave me in that Greed hospital. Could barely fucking walk with those, let alone dance.” 

“I thought you didn’t dance,” Blitzø says. “Routines, remember?” 

Fizz rolls his eyes. “I was like, seventeen, oh my fuck.” 

“You were pretentious and annoying.” 

“Your type on paper.” 

“Oh, you wish, jester.” 

Fizz steals the pickles from the side of Blitzø's plate as retribution, hamming it up as he enjoys them. Blitzø can’t help smiling. He feels… different. Like the ugly hole inside him has started to fill, taped off as construction finally starts. 

He and Fizz go from texting every few days to texting every single day in rapid succession. 

Blitzø's photo album of Fizz, which used to contain woefully few images, starts to fill up. There’s a photo of the two of them at the burger place. Another of them grabbing iced coffee in Pride. Fizz giving him a factory floor tour. And don’t get him started on the selfies Fizz sends after his rehearsals or in the morning or basically whenever he feels like it. Blitzø saves each one, clinging to them, just in case this all goes tits up again. 

There’s so much he still wants to say to Fizz. The jester was never supposed to leave his life. Or come back. Where does that leave them now? 

Could we have had this all along? How much time have we missed? I should’ve gone to you sooner. I should’ve jumped out of that bush back in the day and run to you, security be damned. I was a coward. 

So, instead, he sends something poignant and memorable like: 

lmoa ur sooo gay u faggit

Fizz always laughs, so maybe it’s okay. 

“You having a kid is still so weird to me,” Fizz says during one of their hangouts as they lounge on the fancy ass couch in one of his sugar daddy’s opulent screening rooms. Blitzø always feels like he’s trespassing whenever they end up at the palace, seeing glimpses of a life that doesn’t belong to him. 

But Fizz has made sure the staff knows who he is, and no one has kicked him out yet. Emphasis on yet. 

“Loonie’s the best. You’ll like her. She’s a bitch like you.” He says it with all the affection and pride in the world. 

“Ha.” Fizz flicks his fingers. “Introduce me then, dick for brains.” 

What universe am I living in? What is happening right now? 

“It’s funny.” Fizz adjusts the volume on the TV as they watch a shitty reality show. “I always figured you’d be a good dad.” 

Blitzø's face flushes. “Well, when you’re judging by the piece of shit one we had, anyone looks good by comparison.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” Fizz clinks his soda can against Blitzø's, making the exaggerated sound with his mouth. Dork. 

“Not that I don’t love grape juice, bitch, but do you have any adult drinks? With alcohol?” 

“Yes.” Fizz rolls his eyes. “But I’m trying to keep my vocal chords hydrated. I have a show this weekend. You can come, if you want.” 

“I’ll have to check my calendar. I have a real person job, remember?” Blitzø will clear the whole thing. 

They make it through a few more episodes of the shitty show. A succubus drops off snacks as “gifts from Asmodeus,” which sets Blitzø's teeth on edge. 

Is the food… a sign? A warning? A show of power? 

You come into my palace? Hang out with my little jester? I’ll show you who he belongs to now, lowly little impling. 

Blitzø's brain comes up with all sorts of messages Asmodeous might be trying to send him. He eats the food anyway, though, especially after Fizz assures him for the millionth time that it’s not poisoned. No sense in turning down free food. 

Fizz is very careful about portioning snacks outside mealtime, and Blitzo notices, he’s just not sure he’s allowed to say anything anymore. They’re in this weird place now, where they know everything and nothing. Fizz used to be his—more than anyone else’s. That’s just not true anymore. Will never be true again. 

Whose fault is that, Buckzo? Go cry in a gutter. 

A thought dawns on him, not for the first time. 

“Have you seen Barb?” 

Blitzø is going for nonchalant or bitter or anything other than fragile, but he’s already concentrating so fucking hard on not losing his shit tonight, and he’s only got so much self-control, okay? 

“I’ve seen her.” Fizz doesn’t elaborate. See? Bitch. 

“Me too.” Blitzø shuts his mouth tight, chapped lips pressing together. 

“I know you want to ask more.” 

“Fuck you. What do you know, anyway?” 

“Tail.” 

Blitzø looks down at his traitorous tail, which is swishing in agitation.

Well, fuck Fizz for knowing him. Now he’s definitely not going to ask again. He reaches for the fancy sleek metal TV remote, which has like exactly one unlabeled button and is ninety percent touch sensitive. Rich people are the worst. 

“I’m not gonna say anything unless you ask for it.” 

“Satan’s balls.” Blitzø shoves another handful of whatever spicy-sweet chip thing is in the bag between them. “You’re a brat—anyone ever tell you that?” 

“Daddy does.” Fizz pokes his tongue out, and it’s so goddamn cute for absolutely no reason. 

Blitzø pretends not to notice. “Well. Yeah. Good.” 

“I just know you’ve been a nosy hoe your whole life,” Fizz shrugs, feigning innocence. “And a lousy stalker, so if you—”

“I’ll have you know I am a great fucking stalker, Fizz. I’m an assassin. I get paid to stalk people.” 

“Just ask the damn question.” 

“I don’t care if you know every fucking thing about Barb. I’m not gonna ask.” 

“So you don’t care.” 

“Of course I care.” Blitzø whips his head so hard he nearly cracks his neck. “She’s my sister, dickwad.” 

Fizz looks so smug. 

Blitzø wonders if he’ll ever stop falling into the traps laid for him by Fizzarolli. Anyone else, and Blitzø would’ve maybe held his ground. Could’ve doubled down and backed out of it and thrown it in their face. But this is Fizz. His Fizz. 

Not yours anymore. 

And if he asked, Blitzø would lay in the middle of traffic for him. Take any bullet. Jump off any cliff. 

“Last I saw her,” Blitzø relents quietly. “She was working for some shitfuck in Sloth. Think I got her fired.” 

“You definitely got her fired.” 

That means Fizz has seen Barb more recently than him. Just great. He tries to find it in himself to be jealous, and he is, but he’s also just fucking relived she has someone. Even if that’s not him.

Blitzø has walked around for the better part of fifteen years feeling like a sawed-off piece, just a part of an act that required three people to function. 

“I—” Blitzø swallows hard. “Fuck. You can tell me.” 

“Tell you what?” 

“How bad I messed up. How much I fucking failed.” Both of you. I failed both of you. 

“It wasn’t your job to save us, dumbass.” 

“I wanted it to be.” Blitzø honestly never wanted anything more.

 “That might be the first real thing you’ve ever said.” 

“I wanted it real bad.” 

“We can’t always have the things we want.” Fizz’s tail curls around Blitzø's, intertwining like they used to, and at least in that moment, Blitzø wonders if that’s a lie. He has this. Whatever they are. 

At some point, Fizz gets up to get another soda, and Blitzø hears him and Ozzie laughing in the hallway. It’s soft. It’s sweet. Full of love. 

“Hi, Blitzø.” Asmodeous pokes his head into the room, setting Fizz down from the comfy perch in his arms. “How’s he behaving?” 

Fizz gasps in mock hurt, and Blitzø chuckles. “Bratty.” 

“Figures.” 

“Go do your paperwork.” Fizz shoves his boyfriend out the door. “I do not like the gang up that’s happening between you and him.” 

“One of these days you’ll have to tell me more about Froggie as a kid,” Asmodeous hums as he allows himself to be removed from the room. Fizz shrieks and slams the door, glaring at Blitzø. 

“Don’t you dare ever tell him anything.” 

Blitzø bats his eyelashes. “But he asks so nice.” 

“I do.” That was Asmodeous from outside the door. 

“I will throw such a fit.” Fizz stomps his foot as proof. 

The Sin laughs and leaves them to the rest of their hangout (playdate, he calls it—what a fucking loaded word to use) and Fizz scrambles back up to curl into Blitzø's side. 

///

Stolas is asleep on the couch. 

Blitzø is both too wired and too exhausted to do the same. And, well, the couch usually is his bed, so… he’s gonna have to figure that out in the long run. The beanbag isn’t exactly comfortable. 

Add it to the goddamn mile-long list. 

He’s silenced his phone, since the buzzing of new hits, job requests and general buzz about him almost getting his stupid head knocked off a few days ago in front of all of hell caused just a tiny bit of a stir, but one text bypasses the do not disturb banner. 

Fizz abuses the “notify anyway” button like nobody else. 

need to see you 

r u k? in danjer?

send locashun

fizz? 

anser

fizz

Blitzø is tired. He’s so tired. The last thing he wants to do is get his ass up, but if Fizz isn’t okay, there isn’t anywhere he wouldn’t go. He’ll cart him back here and plop his tiny ass next to Stolas where he can watch over them both forever and ever and ever. 

can i come over? 

oz can open a portal 

u can cummmmm ;P 

i can also open a portul bich

tell ur chiken that

it’s not a competition you dumbest fuck

also he made that crystal 

checkmate

i dont play chekers

When the portal opens, Blitzø puts a finger to his lips, pointing to the couch and his sad, beautiful bird passed out on the cushions. He drags Fizz to the balcony, and the moment they’re outside, long robotic arms are wrapping around his whole body. 

At first, he thinks Fizz is laughing, his shoulders shaking, but then a choked little sound comes out, and he realizes that Fizz is crying. 

“Whoa, whoa.” Blitzø holds him. “What happened? Who do I need to kill?” 

Fizz buries his head on Blitzø's shoulder and doesn’t say anything, which is even more concerning. Has he taken a breath? Is he just gonna cry until he passes out? 

“Fizz. If you stop breathing, I’m gonna have to smack you.” 

“You almost died.” 

“Is that what this is about?” Cool relief flows through Blitzø. “Holy shit, I thought something bad happened.” 

Fizz actually pulls back, his expression as shocked as if Blitzø had actually smacked him. “You cannot be serious,” he says wetly. “Blitzø, they had your fucking head on—” 

“I know; I was there.” Blitzø doesn’t let go of him. “But it’s fine. It’s all fine. Stolas saved me, for some fucking reason, still don’t know why—” 

“Because he loves you.” 

Blitzø chokes a little. “Okay, no, that’s not… he just…” 

“I texted Oz.” A tear rolls down Fizz’s cheek. “I begged him to do something. I tried to save you. I couldn’t do anything.” 

“You? Tried to save me?” Blitzø can’t help cracking a smile, maybe because it’s easier than falling to pieces, too. He’s always been weak around Fizz. “What an upset. Bets all over the ring have been disrupted. The reporters are calling it a once-in-a-blue-moon-situation.” 

“You’re an ass.” 

Blitzø looks through the window at Stolas’ sleeping form on the couch, his smile falling. “Yeah, I know.” 

“How is he?” 

“Not good.” Blitzø takes a shaky breath. “Depressed. As shit. Which, like, fair. But still. Never seen him this bad.” 

“What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Are you also depressed as shit?” 

Blitzø snorts, in spite of everything. “Funny enough, no. Loona’s been real nice to me since it happened. Well, nicer. Business is booming. Stols is living here which is crazy. Maybe almost dying was the best damn thing that could’ve happened.” 

“Don’t joke about that.” Fizz looks deadly serious. “Blitzø, if you die, I’ll kill you.” 

“Death by clown.” Blitzø clutches his chest. “What a way to go.” 

“I’ll make it painful.” Fizz draws a finger across his throat. “And you’ll hate every second of it.” 

I don’t think I could hate anything you did to me. 

“Not true. Remember when I fucked up your favorite eyeliner pencil that one time when we were teenagers? You stayed mad for, like, a week.” 

Oh. Blitzø must’ve spoken the inside thought out loud for once. His legs go a little weak, face hot with embarrassment. 

Fizz untangles himself from Blitzø, guiding him to sit on the balcony floor. It makes Blitzø feel… warm. Sweaty, even, despite the relatively cool evening air (well, cool for hell). 

“Fizz?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

“Are you happy?” 

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” 

“I don’t know.” Blitzø's spines rise in defense. “I almost died. Maybe I get to ask these questions now.” 

The slight whirring of Fizz’s limbs punctates the silence. “I think… I am.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Fizz has gained a little weight back since telling Mammon to suck his own cock. He sends photos of him and his royal boyfriend constantly. He’s even slipped it to Blitzø that he’s working on his own post-Mam solo performance. 

“See?” Blitzø knocks his horns affectionately against Fizz’s cap. Old habit. “You woulda been fine, bitch. If they’d really gone choppy choppy in the courtroom.” 

Fizz’s robotic fingers dig into Blitzø's arms, near painful. “Oh, fuck you, Blitzø. You’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t you? I’m happy because of you. You and Oz both helped me leave Mammon. I want you to come work on a routine with me for my new show—” 

“Whoa, wait, I don’t perform anymore, jester—” 

“Bullshit. Your bird would love it. Also, shut up, I’m monologuing.” 

Blitzø motions for him to continue, shutting his mouth. 

“Thank you.” Fizz clears his throat. “I guess my point is: don’t die.” 

“Not much of a monologue.” 

“I hate you.” 

“I know.” 

Blitzø's eyes get heavy as he leans against Fizz, and he wonders if he could actually fall asleep out here. That would be nice. At least if Stolas needed something or someone broke in or Satan tried to take back his pardon, Fizz would be there. He could wake him up. 

“Do you think Barb saw it?” Blitzø says it so quietly he isn’t sure whether he really said it at all. 

“Everyone saw it.” 

It certainly feels like it some days. Half of fucking hell has texted him following the trial. Except Barbie. 

Fizz runs his claws across Blitzø's horns and forehead in a pattern. Tilla’s pattern. She used to do it whenever they couldn’t sleep.

“She saw it,” Fizz says. “Just trust me. She’s figuring shit out. But she didn’t want you to die, either.” 

Blitzø's throat is too tight to answer right away. The gentle patterns of Fizz’s fingers continue. 

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Blitzø says when he can talk again.

“Is it working?” 

“No.” Blitzø fights a yawn. 

“Go to sleep.” Fizz intertwines their tails. His purr starts, rumbling and sweet. Still so sweet, all these years later. 

“You said you knew that Stolas loved me because he tried to save me.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you tried to save me.” 

“Do the math, Shitzo.” 

The nickname means Fizz has talked to Barbie recently. Very recently. And it’s not enough; it’s not the same as having his sister right beside him, but it’s better than nothing. 

“Go the fuck to sleep, Blitzø.” 

“Use the O.” 

A pause. “You sure?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“Go the fuck to sleep, Blitzo.” 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be the one protecting Fizz and Barbie. But it’s nice here, next to Fizz. Listening to the sirens and shouts of Imp City at night, undercut by the steady purring from his best friend. 

So maybe just this once, Blitzø will make an exception.