Chapter Text
✩₊˚.☪︎ ⁺₊✧
May 27
“‘…until death do us part.’ Now what do you do next?”
“Um…I, er…say I do?”
“Wrong again, Your Highness!”
Stolas groaned for the fifth time that hour. “Well, how am I supposed to remember all of this? This whole exchange is such a production! Stand here, say this, walk there, do that. Why are there so many rules for a wedding between two people who don’t even care about each other? Can’t we just do this in front of a judge? We’d be in and out in half an hour, tops.”
“You know that’s not how the Goetia do things. You need to make a statement,” Peter reprimanded.
Stolas collapsed into his nearby chair, setting his arms on the surface of the desk and burying his head there. “Yes, of course. Because if one single Goetian event doesn’t have uncomfortable corsets and 70-year-old wine, someone is bound to have an aneurysm.”
“Obviously, sire.”
Stolas sighed in response. Peter, his butler, was helping him with the upcoming wedding preparations. Despite being engaged for seven years, the whole wedding nonsense really snuck up on him (perhaps because he had purposely procrastinated learning the proper Goetia wedding rituals until the last minute). So here he was, two days before his wedding, attempting to memorize every single line, every single movement, because if he made one mistake, his soon-to-be wife would most definitely take it personally.
Quite honestly, he was beyond frustrated with the whole thing! He didn’t want to be married, let alone be married to Stella, who was unbearable at best and horrifically spine-chilling at worst. She had always been…moody. Her standards were too high, especially for Stolas, who was the perfect combination of anxious and awkward, so his social skills were at an all-time low. Her voice was too angry and screechy, probably because she was constantly demanding something unreasonable. And not to mention, she had a perfect talent of always knowing how to critique something about him—his posture, his voice, his interests, his clothing, his hair, his personality—the list could go on. She really was ever the charmer.
Perhaps what really bothered Stolas was that they didn’t love each other—not even close! This marriage was for one thing and one thing only: to better the relationship between two royal families. Stolas’s family had the money, Stella’s family had the trade market—together, they’d be unstoppable. More importantly, the Goetia would improve their relationship with other upper-class families from other stuck-up provinces who liked to pretend they were better than other people.
But, shouldn’t marriage result from love? Result from mutual respect? Result from two people caring so much for each other that they would choose to bind themselves together for the rest of their lives—through every celebration, through every tribulation, and everything else in between?
Perhaps in a fantasy. Perhaps in another life. Certainly not this one. Certainly not for Stolas. At heart, he was a hopeless romantic, wishing for the day that someone would swoop him off his feet and carry him away from this absolute migraine of a life. But in his brain, he was a realist. He was a prince, he was to serve his family, and he was to marry out of obligation and produce an heir because that’s what was best for his province, so he was told anyway.
His life wasn’t a fairytale, though, far, far from it. Hell, today was his 18th birthday, and he was spending the day practicing for his upcoming marriage proceedings.
No one had even wished him a happy birthday, other than Peter. His mother was long dead. His father treated him like a piece of lint on his shirt. Stella certainly wasn’t going to make a big deal about such a “boring occasion.” He had no friends, and he barely ever interacted with his siblings.
Yes, no one cared about his birthday this year either.
Well, actually, everyone did seem to care about his birthday this year for one reason only: he was finally a legal adult able to marry another legal adult. Stella was two years older than him, so both families were waiting for him to age up. Despite it being legal, Stolas still felt the whole situation was…creepy. That’s why the wedding was scheduled for two days after his 18th birthday—his father said that would make it “less of a problem.”
Stolas felt just as uncomfortable marrying her now than if they had forced him to do it when he actually was a minor. But he had no say in the matter.
He just…wanted to go. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to break out of the chains locked tight around his limbs and hide in a place where no one else could find him ever again.
Stolas often sat out on his balcony and looked out at the province his family ruled over, Velmara. Sometimes, when the sun was just bright enough, and when the wind was just gentle enough, he could close his eyes and imagine what it would feel like to just…go—to step out of his Oxford shoes and peel off his socks and feel the wild grass kiss the soles of his feet as he ran across an open field, grazing his fingertips across the reeds as he abandoned the past and sprinted towards his future. The trees were always vibrant and luscious as they swayed in the breeze, and the birds always chirped and sang as they flew through the air.
There were no responsibilities, no obligations, no rules.
No pain.
But alas, there was no field. The sun would always stop shining, the wind would always stop blowing, and the daydream would always end.
So he’d open his eyes again. And keep them open until next time, until he could escape again for just a few seconds, imagining the feeling of freedom.
Oftentimes, he believed those few seconds were the only things keeping him sane.
“Are you listening, Your Highness?”
Stolas snapped his head up as he was pulled back into reality.
“I apologize, Peter. I was in my head again.”
“As you often are.”
“I’m sorry, I just…have a lot to think about, I suppose. I don’t want to get married, Peter. I don’t love her, and she doesn’t love me.”
Peter sighed and placed a hand on top of Stolas’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sire. I know this isn’t what you hoped for. But it’s your duty, and sometimes, duty means doing things you may regret.”
“I just—why me? Why do I have to be the one to do this? I’m the youngest of 12. I am least likely to ever need to take the throne and carry on the name. Why do I have to be some pawn in their game?”
“It’s unfair, Prince Stolas, I know it is. But the only thing you can do is make the best of your situation.”
Make the best of his situation? How was he supposed to do that? How was he supposed to ever live with that monster? He already tried to limit their interactions simply because he didn’t want to subject himself to more torture, and he was supposed to regulate that for the next, what, 50 years?
The last time he met up with Stella, she had yanked his arm and shoved his face to the side when he had shown up wearing the wrong color (whatever that meant). It wasn’t enough to leave any marks, but it was enough to scare him, enough to fear making her even more upset. He did his best to keep her happy, but he wasn’t sure what she wanted, really. Did she just want his money? Did she want to control him for some reason? Did she just like the feeling of being more powerful than someone else?
After that incident, Stolas thought about telling someone about what happened, worried that it was concerning behavior. But then again, would that really stop anything? His father was the king, he had all the power, and he knew his father wouldn’t fucking care.
“Shall we take it from the top again?” Peter asked, interrupting Stolas’s train of thought once again.
It was for the best anyway. He could dream of running all he wanted. In the end, freedom was but an illusion.
“Yes.”
Stolas stood to begin the practice proceedings again. He walked back to the other end of his bedroom as Peter began to recite the officiant’s words.
Maybe none of this would be so bad if he weren’t so…alone.
Sure, Peter was a pleasant butler who took care of him and treated him kindly, but that can only get a person so far.
Stolas craved companionship. He desired intimacy. He wished to know a person so deeply that they felt as if they were truly connected.
There was that romanticism again.
His brain reprimanded him. He can’t go around having thoughts like that. He wasn’t destined for such a life. He was to be married, and he needed to learn to fall in love with his future wife, no matter how many times she made him want to rip out his hair follicles and gouge his eyeballs.
A friend would be nice, though. He wouldn’t mind having a friend.
⛧⋆˚·♱·˚⋆⛧
THUD!
Blitzø jolted awake at the sound of a metal toolbox landing on the wooden desk, which had been serving as his pillow. He blinked a few times to clear the haziness from his mind until he was able to focus on the image in front of him.
Fucking Moxxie.
“Sleeping on the job again, are we, sir?” Moxxie quipped with a sly smile.
Blitzø grabbed a wadded-up paper (one of his mistakes from earlier that day, no doubt) and flung it right at his coworker’s forehead.
“Fuck off, Moxxie. And what did I tell you about calling me sir? I told you: I’m not in charge of you; I’ve just worked here longer. Swear to God, you got a fucking daddy kink or something,” Blitzø fired back as he stood from the desk and attempted to shuffle the loose papers together.
Paperwork sucked balls.
Blitzø was “hired” as a construction worker, so why the fuck did he need to inspect the invoices and tally the company’s weekly budget? According to Adam, his shit-eating boss, it’s because he knows the business inside and out. Blitzø didn’t deny that—hell, he’d been here for almost five years now—but he knew the real reason: the company was understaffed and too broke to hire more help, so Blitzø ended up doing the extra work for free.
That tactic would always work, too, and Adam knew that. Blitzø had no way of saying no.
“Hey, don’t attack me,” Moxxie scolded. “I’m helping you out. Adam will be back any minute—do you really want him to catch you sleeping on the job? Again?”
Blitzø shoved the papers into a nearby folder. He’d have to take it home again to try to figure out the numbers. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds. He felt another migraine coming on. He knew he shouldn’t have used last night. While it instantly numbed his shit-pile of a life, it always left him feeling hungover and irritable the next day. One tiny annoyance would trigger a splitting headache.
And today, that annoyance was Moxxie.
“Look, can you just shut the fuck up? Please?”
Moxxie gave him the look. It was the look that said, “Don’t give me that attitude—you know you can’t get away with it.”
Christ, it was like they were fucking married or something.
Blitzø sighed. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Thank you, oh lord and savior, for waking me before the dickhead caught me.”
“That’s better.” Moxxie picked up the toolbox and walked to the nearby tool bench to put everything away as Blitzø glanced at the clock on the wall.
4:55
Adam would be due just abouttttttt—
“Okay, asswipes!” Blitzø’s shitty boss exclaimed as he burst through the door to their office. “Day’s over. You made decent progress on the new houses over in the zone today, so I guess that’s good enough for now. Moxxie, you’re dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Moxxie said as he quickly gathered his belongings and exited the office.
And here came Blitzø’s least favorite part of the day: the part where Adam would tell him what a shitty fucker he was and that he needed to try harder if he ever wanted to make enough money to pay off his family’s debt.
Correction: one of Blitzø’s least favorite parts of the day. It was actually quite easy to tune Adam out most days. His douchy voice mirrored TV static in Blitzø’s brain. He just talked so fucking much that everything blended together in the end.
No. Getting his ass verbally handed to him by Adam was probably not the worst part of the day.
The worst part of his day was after work, believe it or not. When he’d have to go home again, interact with his jizz wad of a father, curl up in bed hungry, and wrap his arms around himself pretending they belonged to someone else.
Fucking pathetic. Maybe tonight he’d bury his head just a bit deeper into his pillow, and he’d get lucky and suffocate in his sleep.
He’d never do it, though, despite how many times he was tempted. He loathed his father, but Blitzø couldn’t leave him.
He was family. And even when family makes mistakes, you stick around and tough it out. You help them.
That’s what you’re supposed to do anyway. Some people clearly don’t know how to follow that rule.
“Oh, Blitzo! Done with that paperwork yet, bub?” Adam questioned, bringing Blitzø back to reality.
“No, sorry. We spent longer out in the work zone than we originally planned for. I’ll get it done tonight and bring it back tomorrow.”
“You fucking better. That’s due to my supervisor by 10 am tomorrow. You can’t be late on it.”
Blitzø picked up his bag and shoved the folder into it. “Yeah, yeah, I won’t be.” Blitzø turned to walk past Adam but was stopped when Adam gripped his bicep.
“Hey. Watch the fucking attitude. Don’t forget: you’re my bitch. I own you until you can pay off your daddy’s debt. I still got you for five more months. You ain’t free yet.”
Adam squeezed tighter, nails digging into Blitzø’s skin. Blitzø knew the only way out of this was to beg like the dog he was. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. It’ll be done, I promise.”
“That’s better.” He released Blitzø’s arm. “Now get the fuck outta here, Blitzo.”
Blitzø looped the bag strap around his shoulder and swiftly left the office.
“Fucking dickhead,” he muttered only when he knew he was out of Adam’s earshot.
He bolted down the stairs and pushed the door open to exit the building. He took two steps outside when he heard a voice.
“Sir, hey, wait up!” Moxxie called.
Blitzø kept walking but did slow his pace so Moxxie could catch up.
“Why the fuck are you still here?” Blitzø asked as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.
“I waited for you. Figured we could walk home together since, ya know, we live in the same direction.”
“Why do you know where I live?”
“Despite our playful banter, I like to think that we are friends. We are friends, aren’t we, Blitzø?”
Blitzø huffed. Friends? What the fuck even were friends? People who were conveniently around each other and chose to kill their own loneliness for a bit until they moved on to something bigger and better. “Yeah, I guess so.”
They walked together for about ten minutes. Moxxie filled most of that time with his blabbering, and Blitzø participated in the conversation by adding a few hums and nods every once in a while. It’s not that he didn’t like Moxxie. He was a nice guy, he did his work, and he almost always gave Blitzø a portion of his food when he somehow figured out that Blitzø was attempting to skip lunch again.
The problem wasn’t Moxxie. The problem was Blitzø.
He wasn’t a…people person. In fact, he hated other people. They were rude, smug jerks who thought the world revolved around them. People were ruthless and cruel. They are all the fucking same: they take what they want from you until you’re a dried-up wrinkled raisin and then they toss you straight in the fucking garbage.
So Blitzø was a dickhead first. He was abrasive and cold because those sharp edges kept everyone else away from him, which was how he needed to live his life.
“Well, I guess this is where we part,” Moxxie said, breaking up Blitzø’s thoughts.
“Oh, okay. See ya tomorrow.” Blitzø turned to keep walking towards his father’s house.
“Blitzø?”
“What?”
“You know, I’m always willing to help. With the paperwork and stuff. I feel bad that you keep having to bring it home.”
Moxxie also somehow always knew that Blitzø was assigned extra work despite never being present for those conversations. Dude was fucking Sherlock Holmes or something.
It wasn’t the first time he had offered to do the paperwork, but Blitzø never let him help. Moxxie had a life. He had a pretty wife at home. They liked to cook together and then watch shitty TV while they raved about how fantastic the food was. Blitzø had had their food before. It was average at best.
Still, though, that was their life—a life that Blitzø could only dream of having one day. He wasn’t gonna interrupt that, not when he didn’t have anything to do himself.
“Nah, it’s okay. It’s pretty easy once I start to do it.”
“Well…if you’re sure…”
“Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll see ya tomorrow, Moxx.”
Before Moxxie could change his mind, Blitzø continued on his path. He walked for a few more minutes before he stepped into the house. The lights were off. His father was snoring in the armchair in the corner. Thank fuck, honestly, because Blitzø really didn’t want to deal with him after the shit day he had.
Blitzø trekked down the hall towards his bedroom. He threw his bag down and collapsed on his bed. He knew he needed to do the paperwork, but it always hurt his brain. The numbers switched places, and the letters jumped around the page. He lied when he told Moxxie it was easy. It was fucking hard, and not in the fun way. It took him hours to figure out what those invoices were saying, and he almost always ended up making a mistake anyway.
Besides, he just…needed a minute. He needed a minute to just relax.
He rolled to his side and hugged a pillow to his chest.
Five more months. Just five more months and then he could fucking leave.
He could go…hell, he could go anywhere! Like…like…
Well, that’s the thing about being someone’s servant for years. You kinda let go of all your dreams.
Okay, whatever. He didn’t know where he would go, but he would fucking go and never look back.
He could finally live a real life, a life that had been burned away years ago.
A life that he wasn’t quite sure he deserved to live.