Blitzø knows, after the fact, that he should've seen it coming.
There were signs. Little gifts, unprompted, left for him to find with plausible deniability, and no complaints or hopeful looks even when he didn't comment on them or do anything in return. Extra, spontaneous meetups, sometimes ones that didn't even involve sex. It had been rare, but getting less rare, and he should've noticed that. Should've put a stop to it the second they started.
He should've noticed the looks, too. He did, really, in some part of his mind. He knows that now. Is intensely aware of that now, all of them rising to the surface in a queue of accusation and damningly crystal-clear memory. Smiles, glances, blushes. He saw them.
But he hadn't been able to see them.
If he acknowledged what was happening, if he thought it, made it real and solid in his thoughts, then he would have to do something about it. Because Blitzø knows who he is, knows exactly what happens when he starts to feel—
His body is covered in jagged pale reminders of what, exactly, he is not allowed to feel. They're toxin, his feelings, poisoning whatever well they touch. He isn't allowed, knows better than to let himself have them in the first place.
But he's not a statue, either. The deep ache he carries with him is cavernous, and it can only get so big before it swallows him whole, and if he lets that happen, he knows he's never climbing out. So he lets himself walk the edge, just peeking over, glancing into the depths. But never falling.
Never crossing that line. Just close enough to keep it from getting any bigger, that's all. Keep it... manageable. Keep it within sight.
Bottomless, horrifying, and one wrong step away from swallowing him, engulfing him, and leaving nothing behind.
And then— and then, just when he thought he had it handled (he didn't have it handled, not even close, but he can't look too close, can't see inside, because if he slips—)
A stupid bird put a crystal in his glove and called him important (I care, very deeply for you—)
And it was like he'd been pushed, clear into the center of that chasm, way too far to grab for a ledge. Too far to get his footing. Too far to save himself.
So he pretended. He pretended desperately that the chasm was a fake, painted there to scare him, to put the fear of death in him, because what exactly is he supposed to do, at this point? He's out over a bottomless pit with no rope, nothing to hold onto. Maybe, just maybe if he fakes it hard enough— if he pretends there's solid ground under his feet—
But no, Stolas won't let him have that, either. Not even for a moment. He leaves him there, flailing as he falls endlessly, and for what? Some kind of— of grand romantic gesture? What the fuck?!
He never asked for this. He knows better than to ask for it. He knows he can't have it, not ever, not without destroying it and causing more pain and damage than he could ever inflict without it.
But Stolas didn't listen to him, and asked it from him anyway.
And he didn't even have the decency to crush his heart into pieces before he pushed him, and now he's stuck with the thing, bloody and oozing and battered and worthless as he descends farther down, lost, alone, knowing there's no net, not even a solid bottom to look forward to, to put him out of his misery.
He just falls, and hopes, and waits for it to eat away at whatever is left of him.