Stolas mostly felt... heavy. Weighted.
He woke up on a strange couch in a strange room, and it wasn't exactly the first time he'd woken up feeling awful, and was dimly aware that it definitely should've bothered him, being somewhere unfamiliar, not his bedroom or even anywhere in his pal—
Well. It wasn't his palace anymore, was it? It wouldn't be, for at least a hundred years. Maybe forever. Maybe it would go to Via, and he would remain... homeless. Wandering, lost, forgotten. Inconsequential.
That should probably bother him a bit more, too. He was pretty sure he was devastated, adrift, a pathetic man, just as he'd always feared, right? His nightmares had become real, impossible to escape when there was no more waking from them. But at the same time it all felt... distant. Almost like it was happening to someone else, another avian demon who just happened to resemble him. Poor fool, what a terrible life. Isn't he so tragic?
He laid on the couch, somehow both smaller, shabbier, and yet infinitely more comfortable than any of the furniture he'd ever made use of in his— in the palace. He sank into the soft, worn cushions, fraying from several seams, and while he didn't quite fit on it, it didn't matter. He had an ache in his neck, and his head hurt a little, but it was all a distant, remote irritant.
It was nothing to him, really. Even being in Blitzø's home, a place he'd imagined dozens—hundreds?—of times, didn't feel as significant, as monumental, as it should. As it once might have. What did it matter, now? It wasn't like it meant anything. It was likely... pity.
Should he be more grateful? More sorry? Should he be thinking about what he was going to do next?
He didn't even know where to begin. The weight felt monumental, crushing, and inescapable. Certainly more than he was capable of lifting by himself.
So instead, he stared at the wall. Staring at the wall was something he could do, it was within his capabilities at the moment. It was full of picture frames, post its, marker scribbles, and peeling wallpaper. Then he noticed the horns poking out from under the blanket in the corner, on some sort of... large cushion, a soft purring audible from within the mass of fabric, and he stared at that for a while instead.
He was grateful, truly. It may not be as deep a gratitude as the situation warranted, but it was there. Blitzø did not have to bring him here, care for him, provide him clothes and help him wash the dirt and thrown beverages from his feathers. Especially when he had nothing to gain from it, and when it was for— for someone who had used him so terribly. It was truly kind of him, to do all of those things, and Stolas knew he needed to find a way to repay him, to thank him, that he couldn't let himself use him unfairly ever again, not if he was ever going to tolerate himself.
But right now, all he could do was stare, and let the memories flicker across his mind, a shaky reel of his poor decisions all adding together to become the worst film of all time. Seeing the TV, rushing to the courtroom, trying so hard to convince everyone that it was all his own idea. Succeeding in his goal, his deceit, but... but failing his daughter in the process so thoroughly. His only family, the only thing he had left, who depended on him—
Well, at least she had her mother. She wouldn't be alone. That was... something. He hoped... hoped she would be happy, now. Maybe with him out of the way, not there for her to be angry with him all the time... maybe she would finally be able to be Octavia's mother, the way she couldn't before. Maybe it was... for the best.
He just hoped Via could be happy. That was all he'd ever wanted for her; to be happy, and to be free to make her own choices, as much as that was possible when you were a member of the Goetia family.
Was he finally free, then? Was this the price of achieving that freedom? Perhaps his title and powers came with shackles, and in order to slip free of one, the rest had to go along with it. Connected, inseparable. A package deal.
He supposed it was only fair.
"O-oh, you're awake. You, uh. You hungry?"
Stolas blinked, and realized he was no longer staring at a pair of horns poking out of a blanket, but two bright red eyes. Eyes he'd missed so terribly, and which made him ache in a deep, bittersweet way to see looking at him this way, without... anger, or hatred.
He was glad for that small mercy, at least. He wasn't sure what he would do if he had to face that, right now.
"I am fine," Stolas said, and he tried to smile, but he wasn't sure he managed a convincing one, because Blitzø's face pinched in concern, which was definitely not what he'd intended.
"Well, I'm hungry, so I'm gonna eat," Blitzø announced, throwing off the blanket. "You can have some or not, whatever you feel like. 'Fraid there aren't a ton of options, so it may not be, uh. What you're used to. But we can go shopping today, grab some stuff for ya." He bustled around the kitchen, grabbing plates, utensils, ingredients from cabinets and the fridge. Stolas followed him with his eyes, peering over the back of the couch, and the whole situation felt so surreal.
"Pancakes?" Loona asked, poking her head out of her room.
"Sure thing, Loonie-Toonie! Gimmee ten," Blitzø said, cheerful and bright, and seeing that sent twin sensations of happiness and a deep aching loneliness through him.
Blitzø, making food for his daughter. And she was going to eat it, and smile at him.
I love you, Dad.
The words burned, tore through him like a river of acid, because he'd had them, once. He may not have deserved them, but she used to—
"So, what about you, huh, Stols? You want pancakes?"
Stolas hastily ducked down, wiping the stray tear before anyone noticed it. "Oh, no thank you," he said, ignoring the distant rumble of his empty stomach. There was some nausea, too, and... he really didn't feel like eating. And he refused to take anything else from his littl— from Blitzø. He would be fine, he would... he would find something else.
"Well, I'm making you some anyway," Blitzø said, breaking him out of his stupor. Stolas wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, thinking, but suddenly he was handed a plate with a stack of pancakes, butter, syrup, a little pile of blueberries, and a slice of bacon. A whole, elaborate spread.
Stolas's stomach squirmed, unpleasant and full of writhing discomfort, a sharp counterbalance to the delicious smell that stoked his ravenous hunger.
"I... thank you," he said quietly, unsure how to refuse politely, unable to find the words, the decorum, his manners somewhere far away. He was terrible, for taking more from him. He should leave as soon as possible.
He just... had to figure out where to go, and then... Then he would be gone.
"No prob!" Blitzø said, smiling at him almost the same way he had at Loona, and Stolas felt like his heart was being squeezed in a press, flattened, crushed down to atoms, because it almost... it almost felt like—
"I promise to—to be out of your way by this evening," Stolas stammered, glancing down to stare hard at the food he didn't deserve and wasn't sure he'd be able to actually eat. "I won't impose on you for longer than absolutely necessary."
"What are you talking about?" Blitzø whirled on him, tossing his plate onto the counter with a loud crack of ceramic landing suddenly on a hard surface, and he scrambled around to perch on the armrest of the couch. "It's no trouble, really. You can take as much time as you need."
"No," Stolas insisted, shaking his head. "I—I won't do that to you anymore." He could barely get the words out through the thickness of his throat, the narrow passageway barely letting his words through.
"Hey," Blitzø slid onto the cushion, pulled Stolas's taloned feet onto his lap, and scooted closer. "I asked you to come here, remember? I wanted you here. I want—I want to help," Blitzø said, voice cracking, and Stolas felt it in his ribs, the pain of what he'd thought—what he wished—
"You do not—you no longer need to humor me, I have nothing to offer you any more, remember? I'm— I'm worthless, now. I have nothing. I'm not even a... a rich asshole. I'm just..."
The reality of those words were finally settling in, through the thick fog that had followed him out of the court room.
No title. No powers. No palace. No family. No friends. No—
Suddenly another pair of hands were pulling at him, where he'd pressed them into his eyes, prying them away, fingers wrapping tightly around his own. "Stolas, you're—none of that stuff is important to me," Blitzø said, placing a hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry I acted like... like that was all it was, I—I was an idiot. I was the asshole, okay? I was wrong."
Stolas frowned. "What do you mean?" Blitzø wasn't wrong about anything. Everything he said was true. "You... you were right, about all of it."
"No, I wasn't. I—" Blitzø looked away, rubbed a hand down his face, and then let out a long sigh. "I haven't been... It's hard for me, okay? I always—I thought—"
"Please, you don't have to explain," Stolas said, hating the discomfort Blitzø was clearly in. "And... And I will not be pitied. That is—" Unbecoming of a Goetia— "I— I don't want—" to need help, to be alone, to have to deal with any of this "—anyone to... to feel obligated."
"Fuck your 'obligated.' I always want to help my friends, and I do that shit for free. That's what I'm trying to tell you."
Stolas recoiled at that word, the one he'd held to so firmly, clung to, desperately, for years, only to have it torn from him. "Your..."
He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't say the word, not again. Not after—
"Yeah, you're my friend. And I want to help you. At least, I want... I want to be friends. If you're, y'know. Cool with that."
Once, it had been everything. All he'd ever wanted.
Now, it felt... ephemeral, like if he waved his hand through it, it would vanish, dissipate into the air at the slightest movement, an intangible mirage, devastating in its taunt, in the promise it offered but which was not real.
"I..." want that more than anything, is it still possible? "I don't know," he said, chest tight, a vice, all his fear holding him hostage.
"Okay. Well, I'm not going anywhere, so let me know what you decide. Until then, I'm going to try to help anyway, because I want to. Okay?"
Stolas had nothing to offer. There was absolutely nothing to be gained, nothing he could trade, or promise, or do. Blitzø knew that, and still was going to... to stay?
"You..." Stolas cleared his throat, willing himself to get the words out before his bravery failed him again, needing to know the answer. "You do not despise me, then? Truly?"
Blitzø let out a soft, startled huff, but then grinned at him. "Nah... never." He held out his other hand, and Stolas looked at it for a moment, not quite sure he believed it yet, still, but then he took it. Blitzø squeezed his fingers around him, firm but gentle, and pulled him into his arms.
And finally, as he sank into the embrace and tentatively wrapped his own arms around Blitzø in return, a thrill lit up his chest as Blitzø tucked his face into the feathers of his neck. He rested his cheek against the base of a horn, careful to avoid the little spike on his head, and Blitzø began to squeeze in earnest, nearly crushing the air from his lungs in the most wonderful way, and Stolas thought he might actually be able to believe that he meant it. That it was more than just pity.
A little of the weight that had been crushing him was suddenly gone, dissipated as easily as a single puff of smoke, and Stolas' chest felt lighter, so much lighter, relieved tears squeezing out of his eyes at he took in a shuddering breath. The pancakes that had been set aside on the coffee table suddenly smelled amazing, and his stomach stopped twisting violently and settled into only a mild discomfort, and he was warm, so warm with Blitzø pressed against him.
And... and maybe, he thought, there was a chance that somehow, everything would be okay.