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Stolas was still getting used to the lumpy, overstuffed cushions of Blitz’s couch. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful—after everything that had happened with Andrealphus and the fallout of the trial, Stolas was still astonished Blitz even let him crash here. Still, the springs poked into his back and the couch’s squeak was a nightly reminder of his changed circumstances.
Tonight, though, the couch didn’t feel so lonely. Blitz sat cross-legged on the floor, his trademark horse mug in hand, glaring intently at the TV. The glow of an old action movie bathed the small living room in flashes of blue and orange, the over-the-top explosions seeming almost tame compared to their usual chaotic lives.
Stolas stole a glance at Blitz, the shirt he was wearing making him giggle. It was exactly the kind of crude humor that suited the imp perfectly. Stolas hadn’t laughed much since the trial but seeing Blitz now, watching the TV so intently in a stupid t-shirt. It was ridiculous, but… endearing. Blitz’s unapologetic confidence was one of the many things Stolas had grown to admire.
Blitz caught the look and smirked, raising an eyebrow. “What? You like the view, feathers?”
Stolas let out a full bodied laugh, wiggling his toes under the blanket he’d draped over himself. He was wearing a pair of shorts he’d found in one of Blitz’s random piles of clothes, with Locally Hated printed across the back. It felt almost… poetic. “The shirt is quite... bold, Blitz. Very you.”
Blitz’s smirk softened into something closer to a smile. He plopped back against the couch, his shoulder brushing against Stolas’s leg. “Damn right it’s me. You gotta own who you are, Stols. Even if that means wearing shirts that make prudes clutch their pearls.”
Stolas chuckled, sipping his tea from one of Blitz’s mismatched mugs. “A philosophy worth living by. Though I do wonder if my shorts send the same message.”
“Oh, they send a message all right,” he said, repositioning himself to sit next to Stolas on the all too small couch. “You’re officially one of us degenerates now. Welcome to the club.”
Stolas looked at Blitz, now sat facing him on the couch, a small smile appearing on his face.
“You’re staring again. What’s the deal?”
“Can I not simply admire you?” Stolas teased, his voice dropping into the flirtatious lilt he knew made Blitz squirm.
And squirm Blitz did. His tail flicked, and he shoved at Stolas’s shin lightly. “Save the corny lines for date night, Romeo. We’re supposed to be having a lazy night, remember?”
Stolas relented, settling back into the couch. He pulled the blanket up to his chest and let the warmth of the moment settle over him. For all the extravagance he’d once surrounded himself with, nights like this—simple, quiet, shared—were what he found himself longing for the most now.
“So, what’s this one about?” he asked, nodding toward the screen.
Blitz waved his hand dismissively. “It’s one of those ‘avenge my family, kill everyone’ kinda flicks. Real high art.”
“Ah, a classic,” Stolas replied, a smile tugging at his beak. “Though I doubt the critics would agree.”
Blitz snorted. “Critics don’t know shit. Sometimes you just wanna turn your brain off and watch stuff blow up. That’s therapy, right there, Stols!”
Stolas trilled in agreement, though his attention was only half on the film. His hand drifted down to Blitz’s, his talons resting on the imp’s hand. Blitz didn’t flinch or pull away, which Stolas took as a small victory.
“You’re not as much of a pain in the ass as I thought you’d be,” he said, almost begrudgingly.
Stolas grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Blitz shot back, but his words lacked their usual edge.
Blitz got up and returned with a sharing box of popcorn. He repositioned himself on the couch so he was practically cuddling up with Stolas, the space between them almost non-existent.
A comfortable silence came upon them, punctuated by the occasional crunch of popcorn—mostly Blitz, who had a small bowl of the snack balanced precariously on his lap. The movie reached its climactic fight scene, filled with horses of course, but Stolas found himself more interested in the steady rise and fall of Blitz’s shoulders. There was something grounding about it, a reminder that no matter how chaotic things had become, they still had this. They still had each other.
As the credits rolled, Blitz stretched with a dramatic groan, the popcorn bowl tumbling to the floor. “Welp, that’s another masterpiece in the books. What’s next? Horror? Rom-com? Porn?”
Stolas laughed, his chest warm. “I’ll leave the choice to you, Blitz. Though I might veto the last option.”
“Your loss,” Blitz said with a wink, but his tone was more playful than lewd. He grabbed the remote and started flipping through the options, mumbling to himself about how “all these streaming services suck.”
Blitz settled on another movie—something animated about a horse that can talk somehow, and just so happened to get captured, and was now trying to make its way back home—and rested his hand dangerously near Stolas’s again. “You better not fall asleep during this one,” he warned.
Stolas smiled, his eyes already half-closed. “No promises.”
As the opening credits rolled, Blitz cuddled up to Stolas and pulled the blanket over the both of them. Neither mentioned it, but they didn’t need to. The warmth of the blanket, and each other, was enough.
“Thank you for tonight, Blitz,” Stolas said quietly. “I know this isn’t exactly what either of us envisioned, but... I’m glad to be here. With you.”
Blitz hesitated, his fingers finally intertwining with Stolas’s. He held his hand and gently squeezed it as a sign of reassurance. “Yeah, well, you’re not the worst couch-squatter I’ve had. Don’t go getting all mushy on me, though. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Especially now that I’m basically famous.”
Stolas chuckled and rolled his eyes, savouring the warmth of the moment and lightly tracing Blitz’s hand with his talons. The couch might have been lumpy, and the TV might have been ancient, but as far as he was concerned, this was the coziest he’d felt in years.