following seas

Fizz spends an embarrassing amount of time trying to pick an outfit before ultimately choosing something comfy (because who's he trying to impress, right? He's giving himself side-eye at this point.) and calling one of Ozzie's cars to bring him to Pride. In just under an hour he's sitting in a coffee shop a block down from IMP waiting for his order (a heinously sweet concoction for himself and an iced coffee for Blitzø) and reevaluating all of his life choices.

They call his name for the order, both his and Blitzø's coffee getting a smiley face on the cup (and he understands his, but Blitzø's?), and head's out and face the challenge. The car is waiting outside, and will be nearby until he wants to head back to Lust, but he decides to walk. Take the opportunity to figure out what the fuck he's actually going to say.

For the millionth time in the last hour he thinks that he should've texted Blitzø to make sure it was a good time, but he knew that he'd chicken out the minute he opened the text chat, so he's winging it. They've known each other since they were kids, they've reconnected after the deepest traumas tore them apart, surely dropping in unannounced can be forgiven, right? (And it isn't at all that he'd be heartbroken if he wasn't welcome right now. Not at all.)

The outside of the building, when he arrives, is a bit worse for the wear. It looks like it's been freshly plastered in some places, but overall it looks like it took a beating fairly recently, but he's not entirely sure if that's related to the trial or just one of the many charms of Imp City. It's impossible not to notice, however, that the building (and most around it) are absolutely covered in graffiti of Blitzø's name and it occurs to Fizz, for the first time, that all of Hell saw the trial. There were articles about the employees of IMP, and their fearless leader, being the only imps to ever survive a run-in with the Sins, but it isn't until now that Fizz realizes that Blitzø went from being down on his luck to a veritable people's hero overnight.

Fizz is still famous, but Blitzø has some notoriety in his own right now. Something warm settles in him at that. Blitzø has made mistakes (but they're in Hell, who hasn't?), but he's worked hard for what he has and Fizz is happy for him. Happy that he's getting some positive recognition for once. Happy that perhaps there will be something to fight the self-hatred that's taken root and simmered in his friend since they were children.

He decides he's dilly-dallied enough and pushes through the door into the building. He walks down the hallway and finds the sign for IMP. He immediately recognizes the art as Blitzø's style and, not for the first time since they reconnected, he's impressed by his friend's skill. Maybe clowning wasn't his forte, but he's always been creative in his own way, always been resourceful and powerful. This small bit of art shows that and he feels that same warm feeling settle again. Fizz thinks about knocking, but before he does, he takes a second to peep through the window and what he sees nearly resets his brain chemistry.

The inside of the office looks typical at first glance; just a small office with the typical office accoutrements (nothing like the penthouse he shares with Ozzie, dripping in erotic opulence), but on second look he realizes that the inside seems warm. It radiates a home-y feel, from the mismatched furniture to the fact that it's still decorated for Sinsmas, despite the holiday having passed. It's chaotic in a way that screams Blitzø, but that's not what stops Fizz in his tracks.

Front and center is what he assumes is the reception desk, manned by none other than Stolas, formerly of the Ars Goetia. Gone are his fancy clothes and fuckass hat. He's in a soft looking (admittedly cute as fuck) sweater and a basic set of trousers - regular clothes. Something not amiss on anyone in Imp City.

That, too, is not what sends him reeling.

It's what Blitzø is doing. The former prince looks close to tears as he stares at his phone; the look on his face is sad and nearly despondent. It's the look of someone who has lost everything and is hanging by a thread. But then there's Blitzø; brash, loud, chaotic Blitzø, who was nowhere when Fizz had that look on his face, who is gently rubbing Stolas's back with one hand, pushing a mug that reads "I'm a Hoot" in Blitzø's illegible handwriting towards the owl with the other, all while leaning his head nearly on the bird's shoulder and whispering so low Fizz can't hear. He may not be able to decipher the words, but his friend looking up at the bird like he alone set Blitzø's world spinning. And he just might have.

Fizz hasn't seen that look on Blitzø's face since they were teenagers, and now  has the feeling that he understands something he likely missed when he was young. Blitzø used to look at him like that. And now he knows what it means.

Suddenly, peeping through the window seems like an invasion of privacy, like he's seeing something he shouldn't be. He breaks the tension by opening the door before he can talk himself out of it.

Stolas looks up first, four claret eyes meeting Fizz's across the lobby, and the way he immediately smooths his face into an indifferent mask sets Fizz's teeth on edge. It's partially deserved, considering they've only been in the same room once before and Fizz was publicly roasting Blitzø as Ozzie dragged Stolas through the mud, but he hates it all the same.

Sensing the change in the bird's demeanor, or more likely feeling him tense, Blitzø turns toward him and his jaw drops a little before splitting into a grin that gives Fizz stomach flutters like he's walking a high wire. The fact that Blitzø noticed him because of Stolas's reaction instead of his own entrance only burns him a little.

"Fizz!", Blitzø nearly yells, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

While he seems happy, Fizz also notices that Blitzø's eyes start anxiously darting around the office, and it looks like he's trying to decide if he should be embarrassed or not. That burns Fizz's a little too, that he's so far out of Blitzø's orbit that he feels like he needs to clean his life up to meet Fizz's standards. As if they didn't grow up in the same shitty tent in the same shitty circus under the same shitty circumstances.

Just wanted to see your dumb face, he should say. Just wanted to see how the lower half lives, is what he would've said a year ago.

What he does is so much worse. The whole situation closes in on him, the thought that he was moments from losing any chance at this moment, the fact that he went without Blitzø in his life for over a decade, the fact that he's possibly been in love with this jackass since he was ten and was more than likely loved in return for some part of that, that even after all the animosity Blitzø saved his life and then supported him without the promise of anything at all (and offering Fizz the knowledge that Blitzø blames himself, hates himself even), and it all weighs down on him at once. He feels the begrudging sting of tears and fuck this couldn't happen at a worse time.

He goes to take a breath in but he chokes and ends up wheezing, "I missed you," before looking down at the splotchy carpet and drowning in a maelstrom of emotions only Blitzø could evoke in him. Before he knows it, he feels himself ensconced in familiar, strong, warm arms.

The smell hits him next. There's so much about it that's familiar, cheap detergent and cheaper cologne, but there are newer layers like gunpowder and something that smells an awful lot like lavender preening oil (and doesn't that stir something awful and sweet in Fizz's chest?). In any version, it's like a blanket and Fizz is squeezing the life out of Blitzø before he knows it and gross crying into his shoulder. There's a thunk with a subsequent splash that Fizz registers in his periphery but couldn't be fucked to care about because Blitzø is alive and here and holding him and fuck.

"Fuck Fizz, you okay? You need me to call your big chicken?", and that just makes Fizz cry harder. Because sure, there's a part of him that'd love to bury his face in Ozzie's feathers and let his soothing touch lull him to sleep, but that feels like so much right now and this feels like everything too. Blitzø's voice is soft like he hasn't heard it in years, not since the Before when they were young and unfinished and the soft tone of Blitzø's voice came with the cracks of puberty.

All at once Fizz is relieved and furious. "You almost died you absolute asshole," Fizz's voices gives out into a whine and Blitzø snorts but holds him tighter, stroking his back like he's made of glass. He hates it and loves it and hates that he loves it.

"I didn't though! I'm right here. It's all good," Blitzø reassures, allowing a fucking purr to run beneath the words and the open vulnerability and intimacy makes Fizz want to scream and cry and maybe propose marriage. He hasn't heard that sound since before the fire.

He purrs back best he can, gravelly and uneven, and hears Blitzø breath in sharp, like he didn't expect it. 

Everything is a bit hazy and they're lost in their own world. Vaguely, Fizz hears someone say, "I'll just grab these," before the he feels someone move near them to start to pick up what he dropped. The fucking coffees, he remembers. He'd intended to give Blitzø a coffee before he came here, which seems like a decision he made a thousand years ago for how slowly time is moving. Fizz moves to disengage and help clean up his mess, but he's promptly pulled back into the embrace (not that he minds at all) and realizes that Stolas is taking care of it.

This whole situation is weird and he feels like the bird is giving him major side-eye but he can't even be fucked to care because Blitzø is holding him so tight, holding him together, and he thinks he might've been craving this for fifteen years. It feels like maybe Blitzø was too.

Stolas looms over them for a second, whispers something to Blitzø, to which the imp nods, and then they're both shepherded over to the couch, still embracing, where Fizz promptly entangles himself with as much of Blitzø as possible. Cybernetic limbs wind around flesh and blood and it seems like they can't stop pulling the other closer, reveling in it.

The purring and back stroking is hypnotic, as is the feeling of their tails twisting together (Fizz tries hard not to think about other implications there because it is not the time and this moment is perfect, but the thought lingers), and Blitzø's reassuring whispers that he's here and they're fine start to calm Fizz's racing heartbeat. Time passes like syrup and Fizz has no idea how his eyes have been closed when he finally opens them.

He's wedged in the corner of the couch with Blitzø's back to the room and Fizz has a clear eyeline over Blitzø's shoulder to desk where Stolas is watching them passively. He can read in that gaze the exhaustion, the weariness, and the concern that lives under the surface. It's a familiar look. Fizz should know.

They make eye contact and he gets a terse smile from the owl. He gives one back, trying to convey "I'm sorry I was a dick to you in public" and "thank you for saving this asshole, he means the world to me" and "I'm sorry I might be in love with both your sort-of boyfriend and a deadly sin that would've let him die" with nothing but his eyes and teeth and thinks he might've gotten about 30% of it across before Stolas looks away pointedly.

Blitzø must be exhausted too, because Fizz feels him get heavier in his arms, feels his whispering taper off into tiny snores and sleepy purrs and Fizz realizes in that moment that he'll stay here all night holding him if he needs to. Hell, he's not sure he could leave if he was asked to. At the moment this is right where he wants to be.

There's a metric shit load of nonsense for them to work through, each layer more complicated than the next, but he's realizing that he's ready to do it.

His therapist is going to have a fucking field day when they meet the following week, but for now he'll hold his best friend (and guy he kind of maybe definitely loves) in the office of the business he built himself, in eye and earshot of the former prince who saved his life and sit in the complexity.

It feels good. It feels right.