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Silence drowned the entire flat in itself, save for the persistent ticking of the clock hanging on the wall opposite him. Stolas’ breath caught midway as the slight chill in the air breached the layers of his clothing, past his feathers, and brushed the bare skin beneath. He was certain that the windows were shut, yet the breeze roamed through the small room still, haunting him.
Night had fallen, and the glow of Pride Ring’s sky covered the floorboards in bloody pink streaks. Stolas rocked one leg over the other, catching the light on his jet-black skin, watching it vanish the moment he moved again.
He had hoped the quiet would soothe the wild nerves running around, driving him mad, especially after the earlier clamor—and indeed, it did.
His eyes caught a pinprick of maroon light shining in a small dot under the table, something he had only just noticed. Carefully, he crouched down on the ground, reaching for it, only for his fingers to close around a cold shard.
A broken piece of Blitz’s favourite mug. Or what remained of it after Stolas had hurled it across the room.
He turned the fragment in his hand, inspecting it as the gravity of everything he’d said—everything he’d accused Blitz of—dawned on him all at once. And the unforgiving fact that he could never take them back.
Blitz had just wanted to help. He always did lately. But only lately, and that set Stolas off.
The imp, who held nothing but resentment and distance for him, now moved with such careful precision around him that Stolas would think he was a method actor. It sat wrong in Stolas’ chest, that gentleness. It edged too close to pity. He would much rather Blitz mistreat him the way he used to instead of feeling sorry for him.
So when Blitz had suggested he accompany Loona when she went to visit Octavia, something in him snapped.
He had started snapping at Blitz before he could stop himself, and somehow, a span of seven minutes was enough to completely dismantle him. His words turned sharp, slurring together as he screamed at Blitz for deciding his life for him, for pretending to care about Stolas at all.
He couldn’t remember every word he’d said. But he remembered Blitz’s reaction. Or rather, the absence of one.
He’d been confused, not understanding what set Stolas off, and no matter how much Stolas accused him of treating his relationship—or lack thereof—with his daughter like a chore, Blitz wouldn’t budge. Instead of getting furious in return and using that colorful vocabulary he used to have to describe Stolas as, he would shake his head and say that hadn’t been what he meant. He apologized. More than once. He even stepped forward, reaching for Stolas’ arm, trying to stop him from fisting the tiny feathers there hard enough to pull them free.
That’s when Stolas lost it completely.
Even the mere image of Blitz’s face as he shoved him away, hard, then started screaming—demanding he be honest for once, demanding he stop pretending and be as cruel as he clearly wanted to be—was enough to squeeze his heart painfully tight in his chest.
And when Blitz didn’t comply—when he refused to curse and throw stuff around the room instead of just… staring at him with those eyes—Stolas did it himself.
Blitz hadn’t stopped him. He only stood there as Stolas ridiculed the entirety of their connection, tearing open old wounds and prodding at scars they had both endured. He leapt to the foulest conclusions his imagination could conjure. He hadn’t meant any of it. He only wanted a rise out of Blitz, hysterically stitching word to word into some kind of shield—whether to protect himself, or to force Blitz to shatter it.
The imp simply watched as Stolas fell apart and dragged him down along with him.
And then Stolas told him he didn’t love him.
“I lied,” he said, no longer really seeing the imp in front of him through the blur of his vision, though he was certain he heard a small gasp.
It felt good. Horribly, cruelly good. Proof that his breakdown hadn’t been for nothing, that he wasn’t just being dramatic like some petulant child. He had finally struck a nerve. Blitz was hurting too, and that knowledge brought him a thin, poisonous sense of peace.
It didn’t last.
“Do you mean it?” Blitz asked, his voice unsteady, and something in Stolas’s stomach tipped over with the sudden realization of how far he’d gone.
The guiding voice in him begged for a break, telling him to back down, to blame it on the withdrawal from the pills he’d been flushing down the toilet.
Instead, he said, “Yes.”
Without another word, Blitz had walked past him. angling his shoulder away to not crash into his hips as if Stolas were a disease. He grabbed his jacket and left, leaving Stolas a weeping mess in the middle of his living room.
He didn’t quite know the reason behind his tears. He had just collapsed on the couch, letting himself mourn his new life, the mistakes he’d made and couldn’t take back, and the one he’d apparently just added to the list. Everything he’d kept bottled up, numbed with Blitz’s leftover beers and thirteen hours of sleep a day, finally spilled over.
He was tired. So tired of always running around, doing his best, only to realize he had made yet another horrid mistake all over again.
It’d been hours since then.
When his body refused to let another sob claw its way out of his throat, Stolas had no choice but to get up. He couldn’t leave things as they were. He knew he had fucked up royally, but he wasn’t about to let it go.
Determination filled him. He had to make amends with the only person who had stuck around, to make Blitz understand that he could never not love him. Their love—it was engraved into his heart, pumping through his veins along with his blood, and echoing through the hollow space inside his bones. To abandon that love meant to abandon himself. And he knew by then that he could run away from many things, but never from himself.
He rose on wobbly legs, feeling his joints ache, his eyes burn, and a spot on his arm sting from where he had picked at the tiny feathers until bare patches showed through. Still, he forced himself forward. Mortifying as it all was, he couldn’t leave the place looking like he’d detonated inside it.
He started with the feathers. They clung to cushions, the rug below, and scattered across the floor. He gathered each accusatory reminder of his own lack of control in his palms, refusing to keep count of how many he’d plucked. The table of snacks he had knocked over. The mug he’d smashed against the floor.
The kitchen felt colder than the rest of the apartment. More inviting somehow. He flickered on the lights, revealing the abandoned empty chip bags and mini-mice packages Blitz had left behind. He threw them away, washing the dishes with what little skill he had gained in that matter, and wiped the counters clean.
Cooking felt absurd after the fight he had caused, but he needed something to do. Something that could silence, ever briefly, the static in his head, replaying his vile behavior over and over again.
He set a pot on the stove, having to hunch down to reach the low setting that was not designed for his height, and started making the only dish he could figure out on his own. Roasted vegetables and beef.
It was simple enough. Just cut everything up and throw it on medium heat until edible. He could do that.
And before he realized, his sour mood started lifting with hope. He lost himself in the rhythm, listening to the sizzle on the stove as he rehearsed his apology under his breath. Blitz wouldn’t stay angry forever. He never did. But Stolas needed to wash the hurt away, needed to make sure his cruelty wasn’t the last thing the imp remembered him by.
He set the table, a task he enjoyed most. Plates aligned perfectly, polishing the cutlery until he could see the faint outline of four ruby eyes in the reflection. He lit a dozen candles and planted them around the table, placing the small Lily pot Blitz had gotten him a week earlier there too to add a green splash to the set, and he was done.
He stepped back. It was perfect. It would have been perfect, at least on a better night.
He checked his phone, some small, hopeful part of him straining for a notification from Blitz, and felt the disappointment settle when there was none. There was still time before dinner, and Blitz might come home late. So Stolas turned off the heat and sat to wait.
What he hadn’t anticipated was just how late.
Hours had passed. Their food grew cold and chewy, untouched in the pan. The wax dripped down from the candles, pooling on the surface below, though Stolas didn’t dare blow them out, afraid Blitz would show up the second he did.
But he never did.
A sharp bolt of pain shot up his talon, bringing him back to the present.
He was still crouched on the floor, holding the broken mug piece, now cutting into his newly vulnerable skin. He hadn’t realized he’d started squeezing it; he might have done it purposefully. He wasn’t sure.
He studied the jagged edge numbly as it pressed past his skin, causing the droplets of black blood to turn into a trail. It would have blended perfectly with his skin if it weren’t for the slightly navy tone the liquid held.
Stolas pressed on the scar one last time before releasing the sharp piece, letting it fall in his lap. It left a dark stain over his sweater, but he didn’t bother worry. He stared at his bloody hand, almost dissociated from the scene as sleep pulled at his eyes, making them shine dimmer and strain with exhaustion.
He thought of Blitz, somewhere out in the city. Sitting at a bar, perhaps, regretting ever opening his home to a disgraced prince. Scowling into a drink, convincing himself that Stolas’ devotion had never been real, just another lie, exactly as Stolas had insisted it was.
It was a strange thing, self-sabotage. Stolas wondered how his own mind could twist so fiercely, how it could let such cruelty slip from his mouth in a single instant, undoing all the careful effort he’d poured into being better. How could he torch everything just to feel something?
But the damage was done.
And Blitz… Blitz likely despised him now. Probably thinking of every possible way to remove Stolas from his life permanently, hating him the way he had in the early days. Stolas had always been cursed with naïveté, even now, believing he could backtrack so simply with a dinner and an apology.
He didn’t know how long it passed with those thoughts swirling around his head, but judging by the brightening light outside and his swollen legs folded beneath him, it’d been hours, nearing dawn.
Then suddenly, he heard the keys jingling outside, turning the lock with too many failed attempts.
Like lightning, Stolas shot upright, wincing as pain shot through his entire back because of the terrible posture he’d held for so long. He let the broken glass fall to the table as he tried to wipe the tiredness off his eyes, pulling his clothes, begging them to stand properly.
Hope, foolishly flickered to life in his body yet again as he stood stiff as a stick and awaited the door to fling open.
When it did, Stolas caught Blitz stumbling inside. The hallway fluorescents caught him first, casting his shadow across the floor before his body passed through the threshold.
He looked terrible. Not worse than Stolas, but close.
The yellow hue of his eyes was now red-rimmed, not from tears, Stolas suspected, but from hours of smoke, blinding neon lights, and whatever rotgut he'd drowned himself in. His jacket hung off one of his narrow shoulders, half covering the red shirt underneath.
Stolas could have sworn the imp had been in his Hellpony tee before throwing on the jacket and leaving… perhaps he had changed. He also smelled—Lucifer—like a bar floor. He easily picked the scent of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes, even with the distance between them.
Blitz blinked blearily, trying to focus, and failed.
He missed the first attempt to kick the door shut behind him, but the second landed with a curse muttered under his breath. His steps weren’t straight, not entirely. He wasn’t dangerously drunk, but combined with the exhaustion clouding his eyes, it was enough to loosen his posture, fray his expression.
His gaze lifted then.
With a punch of nausea, Stolas watched the imp's eyes slide past him without a pause, as though he wasn’t even there. He just scanned around the apartment, not with anger, not with softness either, just a deep weariness that made Stolas’ heart twist.
He ought to speak; he knew that. But in a moment of heartbreak, his mind had lost all the well-practiced lines he had memorized to the wind. He opened his beak, intending to call his name, to insist it had all been a lie, to beg forgiveness one last time.
But his vocal cords didn’t cooperate with him, and a quiet, pathetic gasp was the only thing that escaped his throat. He moved to step closer, but that seemed enough to trigger Blitz.
Without so much as a glance his way, he marched to the bathroom and slammed the door closed behind him. The spray of the water from the showerhead hitting the porcelain tub was the next thing he heard, followed by the heavy sound of fabric falling to the ground.
Stolas stared at the chipped wooden door, his pupils shaking, but he didn’t allow them to tear up again. He had pushed Blitz away, so of course he wasn’t gonna jump into his arms right away.
He let out a deep exhale and felt he might faint with how loud his nervous system was forcing his heart to pump. He started moving regardless, retreating to the kitchen to reheat the food. Blitz had probably done nothing but whiskey shots, and Stolas wasn’t about to let him go to sleep hungry.
The fifteen minutes Blitz spent in the shower stretched into an eternity, but the owl kept himself busy in the kitchen, re-wiping, re-washing.
The bathroom door opened with a silenced click, and the entire house filled with the scent of Blitz’s body wash and the steam accompanying it. Stolas turned quickly, only to find the imp’s attention elsewhere, just as before.
He was wearing his black shorts, his torso left unclad except for the damp towel that was draped over his shoulders. His body was now clean of the night he had obviously crawled through, but the fatigue still clung to his eyes.
He dropped down on the couch, and Stolas cursed himself for forgetting to take the bloody shard of glass off the table. He picked up Blitz’s plate and rushed over before the imp’s eyes could catch the mess, but that hurried act had him forget he had to actually speak to Blitz upon his arrival.
So for two awkward seconds, he just towered in front of him, watching the imp avoiding his gaze stubbornly.
“Here,” he whispered, clearing his throat right after, when he realized how strained he sounded. “I made some food, but I’m not really hungry anymore. I couldn’t make your favorite dish, but I’m sure you’ll—”
“I’m not hungry.” Blitz bit out, his voice tight.
“Oh,” he whispered, but didn’t back down. “Well, I’m going to leave it here, in case you change your mind.”
He bent down to place the plate on the table, pushing the broken mug piece under a magazine with his other hand discreetly. Blitz didn’t object; he barely even acknowledged him, his head laid back with a crease between his eyebrows.
Stolas swallowed. He didn’t know what to do with his hands now that he didn’t have something to hold. He fiddled with his fingers, feeling the dried blood crust off his skin with each movement.
“Blitz,” he started, trying to calm his trembling figure. “I wanted to tell you, I’m really—”
“Stop.” Blitz groaned, lifting a hand. “I don’t want to talk anymore tonight.”
Stolas’ beak bit his bottom lip. This was already harder than he had imagined.
His sensible self was telling him that he shouldn’t push Blitz. That they’d both experienced a rough night, and he should let them both rest and talk tomorrow. When they weren’t emotionally fried and mentally worn out.
But his other side was screaming at him that if he didn’t fix his mistake now, he would lose Blitz for good. That wounds needed cleaning before they festered. That the longer Blitz was left alone with his thoughts, the further Stolas would have to reach to get him back.
And that latter voice only grew louder the longer Blitz wouldn’t meet his fucking eyes.
“Please, darling…” he said, the word falling out like a reflex. He watched the frown deepen beneath the heart tattoo on Blitz’s forehead. “Just let me speak.”
“You’ve done plenty of that tonight,” Blitz snapped, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t wanna hear it anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Stolas said anyway, desperation high-pitching his voice. “I’m so, so sorry, Blitz. I didn’t mean any of it. I swear. I was angry, and I had no right to turn that on you. My love—”
He had to pause, breath hitching, as Blitz still hid behind his palms.
“My love,” he rasped, taking a step closer, “I would never ever wish to hurt you. You—you are the only thing I have left, the only warmth I know in this cold. Please.”
Stolas felt a warm drop slide down the feathers on his face. He raised his arm quickly, wiping forcefully at the traitorous tear. He needed to be strong for this. For Blitz.
“Please hear me out. I know I’ve failed, but please let me fix it. I’m sorry for everything I’ve said, everything I’ve done. I didn’t mean any of it. I swear, tonight was just…” He swallowed. “I’m terrified. Of losing the ones I love. Of remembering I can’t get back the ones I already lost.”
His words sounded small to his own ears, almost childlike.
Blitz sighed, his tail thumping weakly against the couch. He let his arms fall from his face, and for the first time that night, Stolas saw how truly devastated he looked, pain evident in every twitch of his features. And he wondered why that was.
He should be angry, furious at Stolas, flinging those clever jabs at him over and over again. tell him he was still a pompous asshole, that he had been fooling Blitz and himself all along.
But this… this hurt on his face was scaring Stolas. As if the imp knew something he didn’t. As if he had already made up his mind.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Blitz muttered, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, and burying his face in his hands. “None of it… None of it matters anymore.”
The finality in his voice was something Stolas wasn’t prepared for. He gasped in terror, moving before he could stop himself. Stolas barely felt the pain blooming from his knees as he fell onto them in front of Blitz, searching blindly for his hands.
“No, no, don’t—” he pleaded, bringing Blitz’s palm to his forehead, hiding his face so he wouldn't see the petrified look on his face. “Don’t say that, Blitz, please. I’ll do anything. Anything. Just tell me how to fix this.”
Blitz didn’t pull away, his arm slack in Stolas’s grasp.
“Please don’t do this to me,” he went on, pressing his face to the imp’s skin. “I know I’m an idiot. I know I’m selfish. Useless. Everything you’ve ever said I was. I don’t deserve you… I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but please—”
His breath hitched, feeling oddly better wearing those titles. Titles he had spent his whole life running from. Maybe if he owned them now, Blitz would finally understand.
“I—I don’t want to live in a world where I’ve lost you. I can’t—I can’t—”
A choked sob cut him off. His breathing had dangerously picked up as panic grew stronger in his chest. He placed a wobbly kiss on Blitz’s knuckles, then another, then another to somehow seal the words inside through his skin.
“I know you hate me, but I—”
A weight settled on the top of his head, and Stolas felt Blitz’s fingers comb through his feathers. He froze in his spot, afraid Blitz would deny him the touch if he moved an inch.
“I don’t hate you, Stolas,” he said quietly.
Stolas whimpered in relief. He raised his head, pushing into Blitz’s touch and catching his eyes for the first time since he came back. The side of his face, the beautifully scarred one, was lit by the gentle greyish sun outside, and the other side glowed with the dim gleam of Stolas’ ruby reds.
His eyes, though... They didn’t carry the softness his voice did. There was still that ache, buried somewhere deep but still very noticeable.
Without a second thought, Stolas leaped forward and caught his lips in a kiss. The hard edge of his beak pulled at Blitz’s bottom lip, pleading with him to reciprocate.
He had lost track of what was the right thing to do about ten minutes ago. He was running on instinct alone now, his mind on autopilot as he clawed at anything that could bring back the spark between them. Anything to wipe off that fucking look off Blitz’s face. To convince him, Stolas still wanted him, that he still craved him like the air that entered his lungs.
To make him realize he still wanted Stolas, too.
But Blitz just refused to kiss him back. His mouth stayed still beneath Stolas’s, unresponsive. So he rose slowly, pushing forward to crawl onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around Blitz, running his fingers along the underside of his horns, and deepened the kiss. He slid his tongue over Blitz’s mouth, willing him to grant permission to slip inside.
And at last, Blitz growled and gave in.
Of course he did, Stolas thought hopefully. This physical bond between them, this invisible thread pulling them close every time they were in a room together, was the very thing that brought them to each other in the first place. Neither of them could ignore that, no matter what happened.
Stolas whined into the kiss, which was mostly his eager beak, biting and pulling at Blitz’s mouth. He reached down, grabbing the imp’s arms lying motionless on the couch and guided them up to his waist, under his bloody sweatshirt that Blitz hadn’t noticed yet. Reluctantly, those rough fingers held onto his body, almost rounding his thin frame.
Stolas could taste the tobacco on Blitz’s tongue, combined with a hint of booze and something minty. Mouthwash perhaps. Their fight was apparently enough to force the imp to realize the importance of oral hygiene all of a sudden, for some reason.
Stolas dragged his beak lower, grinding his hips down against Blitz’s crotch, hoping to drive him as desperate as he was. A broken moan slipped out at the pressure. His talons skimmed over the taut muscles of Blitz’s chest as he pressed sloppy, wet kisses along his neck.
Blitz hissed, and Stolas nearly cried in joy, and rocked down again over the bulge in Blitz’s shorts, gasping in pleasure when his cloaca clenched around nothing. He dug his beak into Blitz’s neck, drawing more rough sounds from his throat as his body surrendered to Stolas, like it always did.
“Stolas…” Blitz groaned, squeezing his fingers over Stolas’s waist with bruising force.
“Yes,” Stolas breathed, dragging his claws down the imp’s arm, biting at his neck again, hitting every button he’d learned under their moonlit nights.
He’d missed Blitz.
Missed this.
Stolas opened his eyes just enough to shift, grazing his beak along the other side of Blitz’s neck. But then his eyes landed on something unfamiliar. Faint at first, then unmistakable in the dim light: bruises scattered across the skin there, mottled and fresh between the whites of his scarring.
His mind barely paused. The sight barely registered before instinct pulled him forward again. He pressed closer, lips brushing over the marks as he murmured, almost absently, “What happened to you, darling?”
Blitz’s grip on his waist loosened.
Every warning bell in Stolas’s head went off at once. His hands slid down fast, palming Blitz through the fabric of his shorts, trying to pull him back, to anchor him again. But that didn’t seem enough to win his attention back again.
“Stolas…” Blitz mumbled, reaching for his wrist, but Stolas swatted his hand away.
He pressed one last kiss to the bruised skin and moved back up for his lips. But before he could capture them, his eyes snagged on something else. Two small marks, right below Blitz’s jaw. Close together. Too neat. They looked like punctures. As though something sharp had sunk in. Needles.
Or fangs.
“I fucked someone, Stolas.”
Simple and plain, Blitz confessed abruptly.
Stolas’ brain short-circuited, still stuck on the bite marks blooming across Blitz’s neck, and it took about five horrible seconds for the words to actually sink in.
His breath stuttered, and his vision went black for just a second. Then it was back, leaving him face to face with that look again. That guilty look, he now knew the reason for.
“…What?”
A whisper scraped out of him, hoarse and thin. Maybe he’d misheard. Maybe Blitz was being cruel on purpose, saying something silly just to hurt him back.
Then Blitz said it again, steadier this time, and Stolas felt his whole world collapse upon him.
“I fucked someone else,” Blitz said, holding his gaze. “I got wasted, and I started making out with this random succubus. I wasn’t too drunk, so I—"
Blitz kept talking, explaining every detail as if it would make a difference, but Stolas had stopped hearing him.
He felt stupid. So stupid. Touching Blitz, kissing over the bruises someone else had left behind. Pulling at the lips someone else had kissed. He was stupid to think Blitz would forgive him. Letting himself believe, even for a second, that Blitz had come home for him.
But now his talons burned, his beak stung where they had grazed upon another’s touch on the body he thought belonged solely to him. A body he belonged to.
And suddenly, all his fear of not being enough, of falling short right before the line, came crashing down on him with full force. They weren’t just fears of his insecure mind anymore. In the space of those five seconds, they’d become his reality.
He hadn’t been enough.
And of course Blitz had gone searching for comfort in another’s arms. Of course he wouldn’t settle down for him, who only ever brought nothing but misery and extra obligation to his life.
Images flickered through Stolas’s mind. All the nights they had spent together tangled between his sheets. The rare moments Blitz felt comfortable enough to drop one single piece of personal information with him after Stolas had summarized his entire life for his approval. Those rare smiles that warmed his face when he thought the owl wasn’t watching. Everything he had done for him after the trial.
They instantly lost all their meaning.
Blitz had been right. None of that mattered anymore.
He had done this.
If only he had kept his mouth shut, if he hadn’t pushed the imp away because he still hadn’t learned to regulate his emotions well into his mid-thirties, Blitz would still be his.
But no, he just had to ruin the last good thing in his life, like everything else.
He blinked, dragging himself back into his body, only to realize it all hadn’t been a nightmare. He was still straddling Blitz’s lap. The bruises and bite marks were still there, right where Stolas knew he liked them. Blitz had gone quiet by then. The word mistake had never once surfaced in his rambling.
Stolas clenched his jaw, applying enough pressure to stop his chin from wobbling. His finger twitched, and without thinking, he moved his hand from where it had been frozen on Blitz’s crotch up to his waistband.
If this had been his doing, he would undo it.
He had to.
He pulled the fabric away, watching Blitz’s confusion give way to something closer to despair as he realized what Stolas was doing. He didn’t try to stop him.
Stolas nodded to himself, hoping the motion might make it true. “It’s okay,” he whispered.
“Stolas—”
He took Blitz’s soft shaft in his hand, shifting to settle himself more securely, then leaned back into Blitz’s neck. His eyes burned as he blinked too fast, fighting the dampness behind his eyelids again, quietly pleading with himself not to let them seep through and kill the imp’s mood.
“It’s okay, Blitz. I get it. I’ve been…” He hummed, moving his hand in slow, familiar strokes over his cock, circling the head the way he used to love. “I haven’t been good. I’m sorry. I can be better, I swear. Just give me five minutes.”
He would get Blitz back if he could just prove he could be as worthy as the ones he had fallen into bed with; he would get him back, right? That was why this had happened. Blitz had thought Stolas didn’t want him. That he wouldn’t put in the work.
But he did want him, oh so badly, more than anything in his life. Stolas loved him.
He’d meant it when he said he couldn’t live without Blitz, and if he could just make him want Stolas again, everything would be okay again. because if he couldn’t, the alternative was…
Stolas shook his head at his own monologue. There was no alternative.
“You want me too,” he sniffed, forcing the words out as Blitz remained limp in his grasp. “I know you do, love. I just—”
He faltered. A tear slipped free from his upper eye, trailing down onto Blitz’s neck. Stolas kissed the spot immediately, the back of his throat burning with acid when he realized he was placing kisses over the bruised skin again, where he could now smell the faint stink of someone else’s touch.
He could endure it. He would. He would force his body to accept it for eternity, this ache that shot through his chest; it was nothing compared to what he would feel alone.
Blitz’s scarred hand landed on his, frantically moving between their bodies to halt him to a stop.
“No,” Stolas almost screamed, batting the hand away and trying to keep going. “Please—”
His breath kept coming out shorter and shorter each time, his heart almost slamming right out from beneath his ribs. His hands shook uncontrollably now, ruining the rhythm of his strokes. That had to be why Blitz was still soft. If he could just—
“Stolas, baby…” Blitz tried again, gripping his arms, holding them tight against his sides to still the tremors.
Stolas just let his head fall down to Blitz’s shoulder, tears soaking into the crimson-and-white skin.
A sob tore from his throat, loud and ugly. His arm was starting to cramp, and there was still not an ounce of pleasure coursing south in Blitz’s body.
Blitz grabbed his wrist again, this time with all his strength, stopping his movement. He pulled his hand off, tucking himself back in his shorts with the other while Stolas could do nothing but pathetically struggle in Blitz’s hold and wail on his shoulder.
It was over.
There was nothing he could do anymore to salvage what they’d had. He’d held the only thing he had ever desired, the only person who had ever desired him, and smashed it right against the ground himself.
He felt Blitz’s arms surround him, holding him as he rose from his seat, but before he could savor the warmth, it was gone. Blitz placed his body on the couch, facing away, and Stolas curled into himself the second he was deprived of the touch.
In his head, he imagined a world where Blitz would crawl in behind Stolas on the couch. A world where he would hold him and say he was sorry, that he forgave Stolas and understood him. He would place soft kisses on Stolas’s shoulder and tell him that he had made a mistake and that he was the only one he wanted.
Or another world. A simpler one. One where Stolas had never lost his temper in the first place. Where they had spent half the movie making out like teenagers and had fallen asleep in each other’s arms when the screen went black, filled with popcorn and chocolate.
Image after image filled his head as his breathing eventually slowed down, unlike his tears. But nonetheless, the last thing he heard was the front door slamming shut again for the second time that night.