Archive of Our Own

When the fog lifted, Stolas’ scars started to ache. Between ending the deal with Blitz, having his heart shattered for the first time in his life, losing… everything. There had been his month without his medications, the withdrawal and anxiety and darkness threatening to swallow him whole. 

He hadn’t really had the time to feel anything, let alone his scars. 

Blitz had been there, though, through it all, like a shining star through the darkest night. Like the Full Moon in the middle of winter, where hope slips through fingers like sand. It filled Stolas with guilt, that he was still so emotionally dependent on Blitz, but now he was also financially dependent on him too. It seemed that, no matter how hard he tried, he would always be a burden, a nuisance, an obligation; taking, taking, taking. 

Then Blitz would smile at him, hold his hand so gently or coax him through the hardships as though completely un-phased by the worst parts of Stolas. They were the parts of him that he had spent a lifetime burying. His insolence. His anger. His frustrations. His sorrow. They were the parts of him that had taken the place of his happiness, his hope, his dreams; all of them snuffed out after his eleventh birthday and replaced with the parts of him that were still not enough. 

The scars were old, hardened and aching. Scars from the loneliness of childhood. Scars from the loneliness that continued into adulthood. Scars from a wife that never wanted him and took their plight out on him. Scars from emotional abuse, physical abuse, over and over and over again until Stolas was certain that the pain would never end. 

Scars from watching his daughter, his only light for so long, drifting away from him. 

He couldn’t blame Octavia. If Stolas had had the chance, he would drift away from himself too. For years, Stolas had felt himself floating through the stars, searching them desperately for answers, always knowing that he would never receive any. Instead, all he had to show for everything was his scars. 

Only one of the scars was visible. That was the thing about being an immortal, powerful Prince of Hell: your body healed before it could even really register the trauma. The scars on the inside, though? The ones in his heart and in his head and in his gut? Those were always there, building upon each other, deep down where no one could ever see them. If someone were to look, if someone were to see, Stolas was sure there was nothing left of him but scar tissue. 

His only visible scar was still silvery and new, starting high on his shoulder and cutting deep into the other side. Stolas was certain that he could still feel the blade that had left that mark on him, and often wondered if the blessing, somehow, remained trapped. There were some days that the ache was so deep and gnawing, that Stolas thought he would go mad. Like the blade was burning him from the inside out. They were almost like attacks, sucking the breath from his lungs and the thoughts from his head, leaving nothing but pain and anguish and sorrow. 

He deserved the pain. He knew that. After everything he had done to Via, to Blitz; the only people whom had ever cared for him—or, he had thought had cared for him— and he had hurt them and broken them in his selfishness. He had told himself that it was his desperation, his loneliness, his hunger for love. 

It was no excuse. Blitz had nearly died, had nearly lost everything because of him. 

So when the wound on his shoulder started to ache, Stolas grit his beak to bear it. It wasn’t that difficult; he had, after all, become a professional at hiding his pain. 

Or so he thought. 

Stolas sat at his desk, looking through some of the contracts Blitz had asked him to review and find the more interesting cases for them to take first. The last few months had shown a dramatic rise in pettiness amongst the Sinner demographic, it seemed, or perhaps it was Blitz’s newfound fame among Hell’s citizens that showed the uptick in business. In the end, it didn’t really matter; Blitz’s business was taking off and Stolas could see the way that it was such a positive impact on Blitz’s life. 

Unlike him who had spent a week on Blitz’s couch after Sinsmas, unable to get up, though knowing he would have to the moment Blitz inevitably kicked him out. 

It never happened, though. Instead, Blitz brought him his pills, sat with him until he had to go to work, his thumb smoothing the feathers along the bridge of Stolas’ beak soothingly. It was all comfort and it was all welcome, filling Stolas with hope and affection and gratitude. 

In the back of his head, though, that thought played over and over in his mind: he didn’t deserve this. 

So even when the pain started to become unbearable, Stolas kept it to himself. He’d almost been caught, then, when he’d been holding the office phone, listening to a Sinner complain about something or other, and the twinge of pain was so sudden and unexpected that the phone had fallen out of his grip and clattered to the floor. He had reached for the scar, as though to pull the phantom blade from the wound itself but stopped himself as Blitz stepped up to him, picking up the phone. 

“You okay, Stols?” Blitz asked softly, and Stolas forced a smile on his face. He knew Blitz could see right through it, that Blitz didn’t believe a single muscle on Stolas’ face. That was fine. Stolas had been trained to smile through it anyway. He’d excelled at being a disappointment too.

“Yes, fine,”  Stolas murmured as he reached for the phone. “Just a spasm, is all.”

As the days went by, the pain got worse; it was a burning ache, bone deep and nearly unbearable. There were times that his hand drifted to his shoulder, pressing into the wound, hoping that the pressure would be enough to make it stop. 

If he caught Blitz looking, though, Stolas would drop his hand, force his smile, and carry on as though it were nothing. 

It was worse whenever they happened to be in Lust where the rain seemed to upset the months old wound, and soon Stolas declined to join in whenever the team made plans to go to the Lust Ring. It was sore in Wrath, where the heat and dry air made his skin feel tight and sensitive. Millie’s family had invited the team to join them. Stolas couldn’t remember the circumstances, just that he hadn’t wanted to go. 

Blitz had insisted that Stolas wasn’t alone, though, and Stolas couldn’t, in good conscious, deny Blitz time spent with his friends. So Stolas had gone, determined to stay quiet and inconspicuous and out of the way. 

Still, it had been very clear, very quickly, that Stolas hadn’t exactly been welcome.

There had been no room in the house for him, apparently, and so Stolas had been relegated to the barn. Millie had tried to scold her parents about hospitality, but Stolas had only told her that it was better that way. He could look up at the sky more easily, stretch out his legs.

It wasn’t a big deal, he had said. 

From the way that Blitz’s tail thrashed behind him, that he had grabbed their bags and taken Stolas to a motel down the road instead, it was apparently a very big deal. 

“I’m s—”

“Don’t,” Blitz murmured as he threw the van into park. “Don’t fucking apologize.”

“But—”

“Stolas,” Blitz pressed back into his seat, his eyes shut tightly. “You wouldn’t have ever fucking made them sleep in a fucking barn if the roles were reversed. Millie’s not upset with you or me or anything. She’s pissed that her parents are playing into this fucking ‘Punish the Prince’ bullshit. Like this isn’t the same fucking shit that makes imps hate Royal demons so much in the first place and now the tables are turned and they’re just as fucking shitty. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you come.”

“You didn’t,” Stolas replied. “I came so you could spend time with your friends and have a good time.”

And now, Stolas was ruining it. Again.

They sat in silence, looking up at the motel lights. Blitz would have to check in, soon, and Stolas couldn’t help but wonder how far it would set Blitz back. It would be better if Stolas just went back to the apartment, if Blitz would just open a portal and let him go home so he could get some rest with everyone else in the farmhouse. 

He was so tired of causing problems for Blitz. 

He was just about to make the offer, to tell Blitz to leave him here or in the apartment or in the van or in the barn. Anywhere, so long as Blitz could still be with the people he loved. So long as Blitz was no longer tethered to him, bound to him, like Stolas was a weight dragging him to the bottom of the sea. 

“Is your shoulder still bothering you?” Blitz’s words caught him off guard, dragging him from the abyss. Stolas realized he had been pressing into the scar, struggling to breathe through the pain. In an instant, Stolas steadied his breath, dropped his hand, put up his masks and his walls and his denials. “I fucking hate when you do that.”

“Do what?” Stolas blinked at him, but Blitz was still looking at the motel sign. 

“Where you pretend everything is okay to appease me,” Blitz muttered. “You’re clearly upset and bothered and hurting and you have been for fucking weeks but every time I ask, you shut me out and pretend everything is fine. You go from Stolas to Prince Stolas in the blink of an eye and I just… I hate that you think you have to do that or if it’s just a habit from… all the bullshit. I just hate it, Stols. Don’t apologize.”

Stolas closed his beak, reached for the wound again. They sat in silence again; Stolas knew Blitz was waiting for him to speak, hoping that the walls were cracked enough that Stolas could let something through. 

Finally, he managed, “I was taught from a young age that emotions were unbecoming of a prince. At first there were just… gentle reminders from the butler who oversaw my rearing, then my tutors who were a little more forceful and cruel. I had to learn to bury it all so deep that they couldn’t see it and just felt like a failure that, after everything, I still had those feelings. I kept thinking ‘What a pitiful prince I am, to have such a thing as sorrow.’ I’ve been doing it for so long, smiling through everything… The wedding, the wedding night, the marriage… everything. It’s been a difficult habit to break.”

“You don’t have to do that with me,” Blitz had turned to him, given him his full attention. Stolas couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that for him, had truly listened to what he said unless it was a Royal decree. 

“I know,” Stolas choked the words out, wiping furiously at his eyes.

“Is your shoulder still bothering you?” Blitz asked again, but now the words seemed to be stuck in Stolas’ throat like molasses. Blitz reached over, pulling the loose neck of Stolas’ cotton shirt to look at the scar. His thumb traced the outlines of it, once then twice, before following it exactly. 

Sometimes, Stolas forgot that Blitz had seen the scar, that first night after the trial where he had cared for Stolas. He’d been so lost, so broken, he hadn’t even thought about it. As the weeks went by, however, and Stolas wore Loona’s old sweater that hung off his shoulder, he’d caught Blitz looking at it from time to time. He kept waiting for Blitz to bring it up; he wasn’t strong enough to bring it up himself. Eventually, he thought that maybe nothing needed to be said about it. 

Apparently they were past that, now. 

Blitz was still waiting for an answer, but Stolas didn’t know what to say. How could he tell Blitz that this was just another punishment for the way he had treated Blitz and Via and Blitz’s daughter and friends? That he didn’t want Blitz to do anything about the pain because he deserved to have it? How he couldn’t ask Blitz to help him with this, because it was just another reminder that he was yet another burden on Blitz, that he hadn’t deserved Blitz then and he didn’t deserve him now. 

Blitz sighed and got out of the van, headed towards the motel office to get a room. Stolas waited, hugging his knees closer to his chest and trying to dissociate to keep the pain away. It didn’t work, not like it had worked for the last eighteen years, but it gave him something to focus on nonetheless. 

His door opening made him jump, and he looked down to see Blitz smiling up at him apologetically. Blitz held his hand out for him, and Stolas was too weak to refuse it, letting Blitz guide him out of the van. 

The ceiling in the motel room was only slightly taller than the apartment or the farmhouse; at least, Stolas was able to actually stand up. There was only one bed, a queen sized but thin-mattress set up that looked both uncomfortable and uninviting, but at least Stolas would be able to stretch out his legs. He was about to sit on the edge when Blitz stopped him and Stolas watched as Blitz pulled the corners of the sheets up to inspect the mattress. 

“Hellbugs,” Blitz explained. “A lot of fucking places are infested around here and you do not want those bitches all up in your feathers.”

Finally, he was given the okay to take a seat, another chance to pretend that nothing was happening. That he was fine. That he wasn’t there in his aching body. He could hear Blitz moving around the room, but it was a distant noise that Stolas couldn’t quite hone in on. There was a warmth against his scar that jolted him out of his stupor and he looked over to see Blitz holding a cloth to Stolas’ shoulder. 

“Hold this here, ‘kay?” Blitz said softly and Stolas nodded, watching Blitz hop off the bed and head towards the door. “I’ll be back.”

Stolas nodded, gave a reassuring smile, but he knew it didn’t reach his eyes. It seemed that Blitz was going to take Stolas up on his offer and make his way back to the farm house with everyone else. It was fine. It was what Blitz deserved and Stolas would be happy for him. The loneliness, though, was difficult to ignore. 

Stolas didn’t know how long he sat there; the damp cloth Blitz had given him had long since gone cold. He wondered, briefly, if Blitz would just leave him here, go back to Imp City with his friends and daughter without Stolas there to drag them all down. It would certainly be the smart thing to do, just leave Stolas out here in the middle of Wrath to either pick himself up or give up. 

He didn’t think he had enough strength to do this alone, but that certainly wasn’t Blitz’s problem.

Stolas would simply have to take this one day at a time; one hour; one minute; one second. So he got up and brought the cloth back into the bathroom, draping it over the sink faucet to dry. He got in the shower and stood there until the water ran cold again, grateful that he didn’t have to feel guilty about whatever a water bill was.  

When Stolas could, he turned off the icy water and wrapped a towel around himself before heading back to the bedroom. 

He froze when he saw Blitz on the bed, flicking through channels on the motel’s ancient television. His… whatever Blitz was to him now, looked up at Stolas and smiled that same soft smile he’d had for weeks. Reaching over to pat the top of the bed for Stolas to come back and sit with him. 

“Got some shit,” Blitz announced, dragging a bag from the edge of the bed over to them. “Sloth is a fucking madhouse this time of day, but I think I got enough to figure out what works and what doesn’t.”

“Works?” Stolas asked. Watching as Blitz pulled out a small bottle of cream, tearing open the top and smelling it with a grimace. “What is all this?”

“This cream is for the pain,” Blitz said. “And I got some good ol’ fashioned pills for that too, but the cream will probably work better. These gel wraps are to moisturize too. Sometimes scars hurt like a bitch because the skin is more sensitive and tends to dry out. I’m sure your muscles are spasming too because of how deep the injury was, so this pressure garment will help with that and protect it.”

“Blitz, this must have cost—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Blitz replied and squeezed the cream onto his hand, massaging it into the back of Stolas’ shoulder. There was an immediate cooling effect and Stolas finally felt like he could breathe. Behind him, he could hear Blitz chuckle. “See? Already working.”

“Blitz,” Stolas sighed, but the words caught in his throat. He had never deserved the care and gentleness that Blitz had started handling him with, ever since the trial. He didn’t deserve this relief. “You’ve already done too much for me.”

“Fuck you,” Blitz said quietly, but there was no heat to the words. “Stolas, I’ve been here before, okay? I’ve let my hurt and trauma take over because I thought that I deserved it. You don’t, okay? You did nothing wrong.”

“I cheated on my wife.”

“Cheating fucking implies there was a relationship to cheat on,” Blitz snapped. Weeks ago, Stolas would have flinched at the vitriol, cowered from the gut response to anger he’d had for years. Now, he knew enough that Blitz wasn’t upset with him, that Blitz would never hurt him. “After all the bullshit you told me—Fuck, Stols, I think about going over there and slitting her throat every day. You did nothing to deserve what she did to you, okay?”

“Hmm,” Stolas hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He’d meant what he said about feeling bad if he had hurt Stella, but he’d always been so powerless against her. Still, his affair with Blitz had hurt Via, had hurt Blitz. He couldn’t just ignore all that.

“All I’m saying is,” Blitz sighed as he wrapped the gel material around Stolas’ shoulder and arm. “Sitting there, just taking the pain, it isn’t going to change what happened and it isn’t going to make anything better, okay?”

Next came the sleeve. It was black like Stolas’ arms and legs, the material soft and compressing as Blitz helped Stolas slide into it. It started at Stolas’ elbow, covering his arm and shoulder, crossing over his ribs to secure the piece. He had thought that the pressure would be too much, that it would only constrict and exacerbate the pain. 

He glanced back at Blitz and found the imp smiling up at him. Stolas managed a smile back, a real smile, testing his movement with the garment on.   

“Thank you,” Stolas murmured and watched Blitz flop back onto the bed. 

“You just gotta ask, Stolas,” Blitz replied. He grabbed another bag from the side table. “Got some grub too, and some of that chimes meal tea you like so much.”

“Chamomile, dar—Blitz,” Stolas accepted the paper mug happily, smelling the floral medley within. They ate quietly as the tv played in the background. Blitz continued to surf through the various channels, stopping only long enough for them both to laugh and poke fun at whatever they happened to land on. 

Stolas still expected Blitz to leave him there alone, to go back to his friends and daughter and his people, back to where Stolas did not belong. 

When he felt himself succumbing to sleep, he turned onto his good shoulder, not even bothering with the blankets. Soon enough, they were pulled over him anyway. 

There was another warmth, this one far more comforting and familiar to him. The feel of Blitz’s arms around his waist, his tail curled lazily around Stolas’ thigh, Blitz’s breath against the back of his neck. Blitz was not only staying with him; he was making sure Stolas felt safe and cared for and less alone.

Just as he always did. 

For the first night in weeks, Stolas was able to get a full night’s sleep. 

The thing was, though, was that Stolas couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

Blitz had clearly tossed the receipts of his purchases before Stolas could look at them. Recently, Stolas had insisted on keeping receipts, tallying up everything that he owed Blitz, now that he knew how expensive everything truly was. Blitz always tried to wave it off, tell him that he didn’t owe anything. 

But Stolas was trying to be better. To earn everything Blitz had done for him. He didn’t think it would ever be possible. He’d blown his chance before he’d ever had one, but he could still try. 

No wonder Blitz hadn’t wanted Stolas to keep track. 

Stolas hadn’t felt great about himself or their situation since. 

He was sitting on the couch, hugging his knees to his chest as he watched Blitz channel surf beside him. Next to him, a steaming cup of chamomile sat cooling, waiting for him to sip. Tomorrow, Loona would be going out to spend the day with friends, and Stolas would be tagging along as Blitz ran errands, trying to be helpful but only getting further in the way. 

He felt Blitz’s tail begin to wind around his waist, the imp inching closer as he settled on something to watch. Stolas wasn’t really paying attention to the television, his thoughts spiraling, desperate to think of ways that he could make up the cash to pay Blitz back. The ways that he could be better. The ways he was still, always failing.

Blitz was always caring for him, even before the trial, before the deal, when they had been in limbo between one night stands and friends and lovers. Blitz had always been kind to him, in his abrasive kind of way, softening when Stolas needed it. 

What had Stolas ever done for Blitz?

He’d let him use his Grimoire, but only for a price. He’d gotten Blitz’s business raided, his family nearly executed; Blitz, himself, too. Now, he was just another burden. 

There was a sudden tug around his waist, and Stolas released a surprised hoot as he fell against Blitz. The imp snickered, guiding Stolas’ head into his lap. He felt Blitz’s claws through his head feathers, the sensation comforting just as it always was. 

“Hey,” Blitz’s fingers pulled gently, leading Stolas’ gaze up to his. “I told you not to worry about that Wrath bullshit. You’ve been fucking quiet since we got back and I know you’re dwelling on it, bitch.”

“Blitz, I looked up how much everything was,” Stolas turned his gaze back to the television, still not exactly seeing what was happening. 

Behind him, Blitz sighed, his fingers soothing again. “Stolas, I don’t want you to pay me back.”

“But I should,” Stolas murmured. “You’ve done so much for me and I have nothing to offer you.”

“Stolas, you saved my life.”

That was that, then, Stolas supposed. Blitz was doing all of this out of guilt, out of obligation. Proof of his burden. 

It hurt more than it should have. 

“Your life is priceless, Blitz, it’s not the same.” Stolas sat up again, detangling himself. He reached for his tea, let the warmth of the cup soothe him. “I don’t want you to just let me skate by because of that.”

“Stols, the last thing I’m going to do is let you skate by,” Blitz said and Stolas could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re going through a really hard fucking time, okay? And I’ve been there before. You don’t need to worry about paying people back for their kindness, you just need kindness.”

“But—”

“It’s not a transaction,” Blitz said before the words could escape from Stolas’ mouth. “And if it is, then I owe you.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because I like taking care of you,” Blitz grinned up at him, his hands moving to Stolas’ chest plumage. “I’m fucking selfish like that. So drink your fucking tea.”

Stolas managed a smile in return, though there was still something gnawing at him about it. He sipped at his chamomile, trying to focus on Blitz’s hand still caressing him, on Blitz’s body pressed against his, the show on the screen. He supposed that it made sense that Blitz enjoyed caring for Stolas. After all, why else would Blitz continue to do it? Stolas thought about those days, before the deal, when he had brought Blitz his iced coffees, something to eat, because he liked the way Blitz’s eyes brightened whenever he did. 

“What about you?” Stolas asked and Blitz blinked up at him, confused. “What… what would you like in return? What would make you happy?”

“Stolas, I just said—”

“I know,” Stolas set his cup down again, turning to face Blitz. “I just mean… If I wanted to be selfish too, if I want to care for you too.”

Blitz blinked up at him, confused, it seemed, by the request. Stolas waited, but Blitz only continued to look up at him, to blush, before finally saying, “Stolas, you really don’t need to do that.”

“But I want to,” Stolas insisted. “You said yourself not to refuse help and kindness.” 

“That’s for you,” Blitz scoffed. “I’m fine.” 

Stolas couldn’t help it; he pouted. 

Blitz sighed, reaching for Stolas cup to hand to him again. “Stols, not to be a dick, but you’re not really in a place to do shit right now. You’re still… I mean Sinsmas was just… Let me take care of you for a while, okay? We’ll talk about all of this when you’re better.”

Stolas continued to sip his tea, continued to pout. He didn’t want to sit by and let Blitz put in all the emotional work. He didn’t want to sit by while Blitz carried everything on his shoulders, while Stolas continued to be a burden on him in every sense of the word. He didn’t fucking want to watch the world happen around him anymore. 

Stolas had lost his home, his status, his purpose, his daughter, but he still had Blitz. Miraculously, despite everything, he still had Blitz. 

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lose him again. 

His tea was lukewarm now and Stolas realized that he had zoned out and missed half the movie that Blitz had managed to find. Beside him, Blitz had already fallen asleep, his head against the arm of the couch, his legs tucked up close against the cold. It was happening more, these days; Blitz falling asleep early. Stolas supposed it came with the territory of having higher demand for your services. 

Both within and outside the work place. 

Stolas pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, draping it over Blitz’s body. He dared himself to lean down, press a kiss against Blitz’s scarred cheek, let his thumb smooth it in as though that would help it absorb. 

He got up, carrying his mug out to the balcony for some fresh air. He liked to come out here when everything became too much, when he wanted to pretend that he could still see the stars, the cosmos. He liked to watch the citizens of hell too, walking down the street, carrying on with their lives. He wished he could join them, truly join them, where the hurt and the sorrow couldn’t follow him. 

They had their own problems, their own hurts and sorrows; he knew that. 

For just a moment, though, he wished he could be anyone but Stolas. 

Across the street was the flower shop. Blitz had taken Stolas there just days after Sinsmas, trying to cheer him up. They hadn’t been able to purchase anything, though; the plants were marketed towards sinners; Earth plants that had been smuggled into Hell to sell at exuberant prices. Still, Stolas liked to go there, to surround himself in the greenery. They weren’t his gardens, they weren’t his home, but they were something. 

Stolas’ shoulder started to ache again and Stolas adjusted the compression sleeve. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last dregs of his tea, dappled in moonlight. 

When Stolas had been young, books and plants had been his only companion. When he had learned that plants could listen, could hear, that talking to them could help them to grow, he had made a habit of sharing everything with them. He told them about the stars, his grimoire, his lessons, he told them about the imp boy who had come to spend his birthday with him, he told them his fears and his hurts and his sorrow. 

He wondered if his oldest plant was doing alright. He wondered if anyone was feeding her, watering her, talking to her. 

It was unlikely. With Stolas’ luck, he would never see his plants again. 

It was psychosomatic, but Stolas was certain that his arm began to ache with the guilt. 

He glanced back into the apartment, towards Blitz, passed out on the sofa, and longed to sleep next to him. Every bone in his body ached, his scars ached, and it had felt like it had been years since he had last been able to sleep a full night without nightmares. Usually, Blitz was there to sooth him, wake him, help him fall back to sleep, but it didn’t help when Stolas only ever saw Striker when he closed his eyes. 

It had been like that since that day, when he had, for the first time in his life, been afraid that he would lose it. 

The dreams always started with the memory of fear, of pain. Stolas had thought that he knew what it was like to be powerless. His whole life had been written in stone; every choice had not been his to make, the world had been kept from him. It wasn’t until he had been wrapped in that blessed rope that he had truly felt helpless and powerless. He keenly remembered the blade through his leg, through his shoulder, the pain that he couldn’t control, couldn’t hide from. He remembered trying to be strong, trying to keep his pain and fear behind his mask, to protect him from Striker’s cruelty, to buy Blitz time to save him. 

That was when the dream changed. 

His eyes were closed in the dream, longing for Blitz to come and end the pain. When he opened them again, expecting to see Striker grinning down at him, instead it was Blitz’s face, twisted with hate and cruelty, glaring down at him. 

“Treat me like one of your butler imps,” Blitz would snarl in the dream. “You royal fucks think you can do this every time, like you can just play with our feelings because we’re smaller and not as important.”

Blitz twisted the knife, both literally and figuratively. 

“Well, I’m not letting you, bitch.”

The blade was yanked from his shoulder and Stolas couldn’t help but curl in against himself as Blitz continued talking, his words shifting from his own voice into Striker’s and then back. “Some of us have everything we care about taken away by fuckers like you.”

“Blitz,” Stolas begged, tears in his eyes. “Please—”

“You don’t get to talk over me! I don’t have to listen to your bullshit. All you royals ever do is try to talk over us!”

In real life, he had tried to use his powers against Striker to try and protect himself, the first time he had ever tried to use those powers when it wasn’t to protect his daughter. He couldn’t do that now. He couldn’t do that to Blitz. 

Hurting Blitz would kill him.

Hurting Blitz was not an option.

“Stolas,” Blitz’s voice became softer, more familiar. A hand against his cheek, his thumb brushing the tears away from his feathers. Stolas couldn’t hold back the shuddering sob he’d been trying to hold back. 

When he opened his eyes again after the dream, he would find himself back in the apartment, Blitz sitting on the edge of the couch beside him. Blitz would touch him, hold him, dry his tears. He never asked about the dreams, and Stolas was grateful for that. He didn’t think he could voice it if given the chance. What if he found out that Blitz would agree with everything that was said? What if he found out that Blitz was not interested in having him around? 

Stolas finished the rest of his tea and hugged himself as he looked out over the city. He wasn’t tired now, afraid to close his eyes, his scar was screaming. 

“Hey,” Blitz’s voice, groggy with sleep, made Stolas jump. He looked back to see Blitz rubbing his eyes. Blitz lit a cigarette, taking a drag before handing it over to Stolas. Stolas held it, watched the ember and smoke before taking a drag of his own. “You okay?”

“Can’t sleep,” Stolas replied.

“Your scar?” Blitz asked. It was as good a reason as any; a truth without the full truth, so Stolas nodded. “Come on, I’ll put something on it.”

Stolas put out the cigarette and followed Blitz inside. 

The routine was familiar, now, the way that Blitz would rub the cream into Stolas’ shoulder, wrap the scar in the gel, replace the compression sleeve. Stolas let himself accept the affection, now that he knew that Blitz didn’t hate taking care of him. When his scar was taken care of, Blitz hands stayed against him, trailing over his shoulder, his chest. Stolas wished he could stop time, to just stay here and absorb the comfort Blitz was offering. 

It wasn’t fair to Blitz, though, to hold onto that comfort. 

“What are you thinking about?” Blitz asked. He was preening Stolas now, removing old, loose feathers and the sheaths that were ready to come off the new feathers. 

“You,” Stolas replied and Blitz smiled at him.

“Oh yeah?”

“Is that so surprising?” 

“Nah,” Blitz grinned. “You always were a thirsty bitch.”

Stolas smiled back at him, settling back into the couch. “What about you? What are you thinking about?”

“You,” Blitz shrugged and Stolas couldn’t help but grin back. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Poor Blitz,” Stolas hummed, wrapping his arms around Blitz’s shoulders. The scar still ached, but it was a lesser ache and the scent of chamomile soothed the last of his anxieties. “So tormented.”

“You bet your feathered ass, I’m tormented,” Blitz’s hands trailed up Stolas’ arms, down his ribs, his waist, resting on his hips. “You keep wearing those tight fucking clothes.” 

“You picked them.”

“Because you look hot as shit,” Blitz scoffed. “It’s still your fault.”

“Of course darling,” Stolas trailed his hands over Blitz’s horns, feeling their smoothness. “How silly of me.” 

Blitz was smiling up at him, his chin resting in Stolas’ chest fluff. They sat in the silence for a moment, two, just breathing each other in. Finally, Blitz asked, “Ready to sleep yet?”

Stolas wasn’t, but he nodded anyway. It wasn’t fair to keep Blitz awake. He expected Blitz to leave him, to go to his usual spot on the bean bag chair by the window. Instead, Blitz pulled the blankets over them both, settled down against Stolas’ side and buried his face into the plumage on Stolas’ chest. 

The days passed without much progress on Stolas trying to find a way he could reciprocate Blitz’s kindness. Blitz continued that kindness, rubbing the healing cream into his old wounds, which only served to stitch up the deeper wounds in his heart that no one could see. Their routine consisted of morning sessions, ensuring that Stolas’ pain was taken care throughout the day and again in the evening when he’d grown tired and achy from the day. 

They were running low on the medicated creams and gel wraps, and the guilt was eating Stolas alive. It would be another expense to add to the growing tally Stolas was keeping, another chain pulling Stolas down.

Blitz told him not to worry about paying him back, but Stolas couldn’t help it.

So the routine continued.  

Blitz gave Stolas the afternoon off to allow him to get some rest while they had a newly rare lull in business. Stolas decided to walk home instead of accepting the portal that Blitz offered to open for him. He had his glock in his pocket, though it sat heavily and uncomfortably. He’d been doing well in his lessons, but shooting a gun in the controlled conditions of a gun range was different than the potentiality of having to use it on a life. He was trying to be more independent, though, and Blitz had taught him ways to incapacitate attackers without killing them, but Stolas was still nervous as he walked down the street, trying to shrink further and further into himself to avoid being noticed.

He kept his steps hurried, wanting to get home as quickly as he could so he could finally breathe. 

He slowed down when he saw the plant nursery. 

This block had gotten used to Stolas being a part of the community, even if they weren’t exactly welcoming or glad that he was there. Stolas usually went straight home when he had one of these rare jaunts on his own, but he longed to see the greenery in the nursery, and so he made his way through the door, careful to avoid the vines that curled around the door frame. 

He couldn’t afford any of the plants, but that didn’t matter, just being near them was like a breath of air after so long without. 

“You!” A voice called out as Stolas looked over the roses that were beginning to bloom. He froze, wide eyed, and looked up towards the sinner who owned this shop. She had been old when she had passed, and every year of her life and after life appeared written on her face, seared into his hands which were calloused and knotted from the arthritis she had died with. She stormed up to him, and Stolas flinched, despite knowing that that was simply the way she carried herself. Still, he was so used to Stella, so used to nightmares of Striker, that he still found himself shrinking away. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harper,” Stolas said, looking down at her as she stood too close to him, glaring up at him. 

“You,” she said again, “follow me.”

Stolas didn’t, at first, too confused to start walking, but caught up to her in just a few short strides. He followed her through the green house, towards a sapling that he had been checking on for the last couple weeks. He hadn’t meant to overstep; he just knew from experience how difficult it was to keep plants from the Mortal Realm alive here in hell. 

“You fixed it,” Mrs. Harper said. Stolas blinked at her. “The bush was dying. I couldn’t get it to grow.” 

“I… helped,” Stolas murmured. “I’m sorry, am I… am I in trouble?”

“No!” Mrs. Harper waved him off. “Come.”

Now he followed her into the back, her stride short but quick. She lead him to a sprouting box, a heat lamp set over the pods, but there was no sign of life yet. Stolas knelt down to look at them. The soil was moist, disheveled, like someone had moved the dirt to check if the seeds were sprouting. He longed to get his hands into the soil, but he held back, still unsure if he had done something wrong. 

“Fix these too?” Mrs. Harper asked. “They’re supposed to be chamomile.” 

“Chamomile?” 

“The red dickhead brought chamomile,” Mrs. Harper waved it away as inconsequential, but Stolas couldn’t help but blush. Blitz had only joined him at the plant nursery once or twice, both times ended with Mrs. Harper kicking him out and telling Stolas he deserved better. Stolas wasn’t sure of the history between the two of them, but he could tell that there was no real heat behind the words the two lobbed at each other. “Asked me to grow it, but I’ve been struggling.” 

Stolas inspected the soil with renewed interest, looking over the light, the moisture of the soil, all the basics. In the Living World, these would already be flourishing, but Hell was drier, darker, hotter and Stolas had perfected growing mortal plants. So Stolas got to work, rearranging the heat lamps and making sure that the plants had more water and soil was a little moister. It felt good to feel the dirt beneath his fingers, but it also made him long for his own garden that he had built up himself. 

“If you check them every few hours, and re-water them, they should be sprouting in no time,” Stolas explained.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Harper said. “Wait here.” 

Stolas was happy to, kneeling down to watch the plants as if he could watch them sprout in real time. When he had his powers, he could have peaked and, as an owlet just coming into power, he often did so he could see how the plants turned out. Eventually, he stopped. 

It was disheartening seeing so many of them destroyed at the hands of the wife he hadn’t chosen and never wanted. 

When Mrs. Harper returned, she had a couple pots of green herbs that she handed to him. “These are the plants I already had imported, I told this to the dickhead, but he was insistent. I think he wanted you to be able to help. Take them.” 

“But—” Stolas blinked, looked down at the nursery pots. 

“They’ll do just fine now that you’ve intervened,” she said. “These were meant for you. I just needed to repot them. Take them.”

“Thank you,” Stolas murmured. Chamomile. He’d told Blitz that chamomile was his favorite tea, that he enjoyed the earthy, floral calmness that it gave him. It was an exotic tea, though, here in Hell, and Stolas felt too guilty to ask Blitz for it. Still, when Blitz had gone to the palace to get some of Stolas’ things, he’d managed to take the stash of tea leaves that Stolas had had stashed away. 

Now, Blitz was going out of his way to ensure that Stolas had a steady supply. 

“You are too good for him,” Mrs. Harper said, as she always did in lieu of goodbye. 

Stolas smiled. “Believe me, I am the lucky one.” 

He brought the chamomile plant home, setting it out on the balcony for fresh air. He clipped off some of the plant, binding it in twine to hang from the doorway to dry out. 

He sat on the sofa, looking out towards his new plant, feeling warm and safe and seen for the first time in so many moons. He knew Blitz didn’t want to be thanked, that Blitz didn’t want this to be a reciprocal thing, but Stolas needed to show Blitz how much he appreciated this thought and care, how much he wanted to do these things for Blitz too. 

He’d read books about plants and their different uses, a long, long time ago. Chamomile was his favorite, because it was so versatile and he loved the simplicity of their flowers. They were calming, beautiful, and healing. 

An idea began to form. 

Stolas didn’t have much in terms of savings, and he still wasn’t exactly sure how to use his card himself, but Stolas was determined. He left a note on the table for Blitz that he had gone to the store and made his way out of the apartment again. He ignored the people that glared at him as he walked down the street; he was, after all, on a mission. 

It was difficult finding the ingredients he needed given that things like Vitamin E oil and beeswax were imported from the Living World. He needed to find affordable equivalents. He collected what he needed and was glad to see that it didn’t completely deplete his savings, so he rushed home, hoping to get there before Blitz got home.

Stolas had never cooked by himself before and he didn’t think it was a good idea to start. Instead, he ordered food on his way home and struggled to carry all the bags himself on his way home. 

When Stolas got back to the apartment, he clipped a few more specimens off his chamomile plant and got to work. Making the salve was difficult and Stolas found himself cursing under his breath more often than not. He spent hours on it and was finally able to put it in the fridge to set as Blitz walked through the door. 

“Hey, Stols,” Blitz found him in the kitchen and at least tried to look like he wasn’t concerned. Still, Blitz’s gaze wandered around the kitchen for signs of destruction. “What’s going on?”

“I got dinner,” Stolas said, setting the plates at the table. “Now you can just have a relaxing evening.”

“What’s the occasion?” Blitz asked suspiciously, but gladly took his seat. Stolas sat across from him. 

“To thank you,” Stolas replied. “For being so patient and kind to me.”

“Stolas, you don’t—”

“I know,” Stolas answered. “I am being selfish, because I want to.” 

Blitz rolled his eyes, but there was a blush on his cheeks as he dug into his food. They ate quietly, but Stolas didn’t find that they needed to fill the silence. It was comfortable, safe, without the pressure of needing to try to relate to those at the table or feeling like a failure when he couldn’t do so. Whenever their eyes met across the table top, they smiled at one another. 

“Thanks for dinner,” Blitz said, heading towards the sink to do the dishes. 

“I’ll do those later,” Stolas took Blitz’s hand, started leading him away from the kitchen. “Why don’t you go get washed up. I have another surprise for you.” 

“You’re going to get me excited, Stolas,” Blitz blushed. “What’s the surprise?”

“It’s a surprise,” Stolas said again, leaning down to kiss Blitz’s cheek.

As soon as Blitz closed the bathroom door and Stolas heard the shower going, Stolas pulled the balm he’d made out of the fridge and was glad to see that it had set. He tested the balm between his fingers and could have cried when he found that it was perfect. Now, all he needed to do was wait. 

Blitz left the bathroom wearing his boxers and loose t-shirt, and Stolas was only a little disappointed that Blitz wasn’t only in a towel. He didn’t think he was ready, yet, to resume their physical relationship, if that was what Blitz even wanted, but he felt the first embers of desire nonetheless. 

“Sit here,” Stolas moved over on the sofa, patting the cushion beside him. When Blitz did, Stolas held out the chamomile balm. 

Blitz looked at it, then looked at Stolas. 

“It’s a balm.” 

“It looks like cream.”

“Balm, darling,” Stolas smiled. “Not bomb.”

Blitz stared at him. 

“Nevermind,” Stolas inched closer, opened the jar and smelled the contents before holding it out for Blitz to smell too. “It’s a chamomile balm. For scars.”

“Stolas,” Blitz smiled up at him kindly, his hand over Stolas’ and the jar. “I told you that you didn’t have to worry about it.”

“No, Blitz,” Stolas dabbed his finger into the balm and began to massage it into the scars across Blitz’s hand. “I made it. I saw Mrs. Harper today, she showed me your gift—”

“Bitter old hag can’t keep a secret,” Blitz muttered to himself and Stolas held his face, brushed his thumb against Blitz’s cheek to smear some of the balm against the scar there. 

“You’re so very kind, Blitz,” Stolas said softly. “I can’t… I can’t take advantage of that.”

“You’re n—”

“It may not be true,” Stolas agreed, “but that is how I feel. We do not need expensive creams from Sloth. I can make whatever we need, using plants. This batch, specifically, is for you.”

Blitz watched as Stolas continued to rub the balm into Blitz’s hand, massaging every finger, every knuckle, every square inch of Blitz’s hand. He half expected to hear Blitz purr, and when he didn’t, he looked up to see Blitz frowning. 

“You don’t like it,” Stolas let go of Blitz’s hand, put distance between them. Stupid. He hadn’t asked Blitz if it was okay to touch him, had assumed that Blitz would be okay with it because Stolas was okay with it. He had taken advantage of his kindness again.

“What?” Blitz’s voice broke as he caught Stolas’ hand, holding it close. “No. No that’s not— Stolas, I don’t deserve this.”

Stolas wanted to argue, to tell Blitz that he was wrong, that Blitz deserved so much more, but he hadn’t listened to what Blitz was trying to say during their last full moon, hadn’t retained much of what Blitz had said at that party. He wanted so desperately to understand…

“I should have been there,” Blitz said softly, his voice cracking. “I should have fucking… You gave up everything to save me when I didn’t. I couldn’t even fucking visit you in the hospital. I fucking left you for dead and then broke your heart—”

“Blitz,” Stolas set the balm aside. “I wouldn’t be here without you.” 

“That’s what I’m saying!” 

“No,” Stolas cupped Blitz’s face, held his gaze. “Without you, I would still be trapped in a loveless marriage with an abusive wife. I would have been wishing, every day, for it all to end. You gave me hope. You saved me, time and time again. I would be nothing without you.”

“Stols.”

“You are my light,” Stolas continued. “And I want to take care of you and help you shine.” 

He brushed a tear away from Blitz’s eye, pressed his forehead against Blitz’s and smiled when the imp nodded. Stolas kissed the scar on Blitz’s cheek and picked up the jar, continuing to spread the balm against the scars of Blitz’s other hand. 

He moved slowly and methodically, over every part of Blitz’s arm, moving up towards his elbow. When he got to the sleeve of Blitz’s shirt, Blitz pulled away and pulled the shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. Stolas smiled at him and continued up Blitz’s arm, over his shoulder, his neck, his clavicle, down to his chest and stomach. He left no scar uncared for, lingering on the muscles of Blitz’s torso. 

Blitz pulled him into a kiss then, deep and passionate, his fingers tangling through Stolas’ head feathers. Stolas melted against him, kissed Blitz as though he had finally found an oasis after days spent in the desert. He pressed against Blitz, directing him onto his back as he began to massage the scars against Blitz’s thigh, down to his calf and back up along the inside of his leg. He slid his fingers below Blitz’s shorts, to the scar against Blitz’s hip. 

When he pulled away for air, Blitz was grinning against his beak. 

“You know I fucking got that plant so you could have your damn tea, right,” Blitz’s voice was soft, rumbly with the purr that had started. 

Stolas smiled, brushed his beak against Blitz’s neck. “I know.” 

“And you’re using it for evil,” Blitz shivered as Stolas’ hand moved up his ribs and his beak against Blitz’s neck. 

“It’s a very versatile plant.”

Blitz laughed his arms around Stolas to keep him close. Stolas felt victorious. They spent the rest of the night curled up against each other, pressing kisses into each other’s skin. Blitz pulled off Stolas’ arm brace, kissed his scar before rubbing the balm into it too. 

By morning, Stolas woke to sunlight filtering through the windows, his arms around Blitz, holding him close. For the first morning in years, Stolas didn’t dread opening his eyes, wasn’t bogged down with nightmares. For the first time in months, his scar didn’t ache. The balm helped, of course, but he knew it was more than that. It was all Blitz. 

He turned to face the sun light, looking out to the balcony. Outside, his chamomile plant billowed in the morning breeze. 

Stolas pulled Blitz closer, and closed his eyes to go back to sleep.