#stolitz angst

Blitz made as if to take his hands off Stolas, but Stolas couldn't bear it. He clutched them with his own, needing to keep them selfishly close to himself. A silent prayer, the words too vulnerable to say out loud. Please, let yourself stay in this moment with me.

Desperate to close the emotional distance, he thumbed at Blitz's knuckles, hoping he would look back and meet Stolas’ gaze.

That was when he noticed them.

Wounds and gashes were littered across Blitz's knuckles, his white skin split messily open. And bruises, dark and angry, bloomed underneath. Worried, he tried to touch his finger to a bruise, but Blitz pulled back harshly, holding his hands close to his chest and away from Stolas.

“Blitz—”

“Don't—” he interrupted, brows furrowing. “Just—don't, Stolas.”

It hurt to breathe, but for a much more unpleasant reason now. He couldn't bear to see Blitz like this. So distant. So terrified.

He couldn't bear that, somehow, despite the care and the intimacy and the physical closeness between them, they always inevitably ended up here: the ground split open underneath them, a wedge that just couldn't be bridged.

Stolas sat up on the bed, and Blitz turned away from him, back hunched and legs curled under himself.

“Look, I just—I ran out of bullets on a mission,” Blitz murmured. “Nothing for your feathered ass to worry about, ‘kay?”

Stolas opened his mouth, but… what was there to say? He couldn't comprehend what was going on in Blitz's mind, and to ask, or to attempt to explain how much he did worry, would just drive them further apart. All he could do was ache, and hope if he breathed quietly enough, Blitz wouldn't be scared completely away.

“It's just a few stupid cuts anyway, it's not like it hurts,” Blitz retorted, disdain clear in his voice. Barely audibly, he added, “You weren't supposed to see them.” And hugged himself around the waist, tail curling around his leg.

He looked so painfully, unbearably small.

“Blitz—”

“I'm sorry,” Blitz said brokenly. “I didn't mean to ruin your night. It's whatever. I should just—I should just go.”

Stolas ached.

“I mean, I'm sure you don't care that much anyway. I'm probably being stupid. It's fine. I'm fine. Just text me whenever you're done with the book, and I'll come get it. Or you can swing by if you prefer. Or send it over, if you don't want to see me—”

Stolas couldn't bear it any longer: crawling closer, he rested his hands on Blitz's arms and pressed his beak to Blitz's shoulder in a soft kiss, which thankfully made Blitz go quiet. 

He dragged out the kiss, using the opportunity to breathe Blitz in and bask in the warmth of his skin.

When he eventually pulled back, Blitz looked dangerously close to tears.

Stolas wanted nothing more than to hold Blitz close to himself—to bury him in his chest and not let go until Blitz felt safe.

Instead, knowing Blitz would not allow himself to be so vulnerable around Stolas, he simply cradled Blitz's cheek with a hand, thumbing softly at his cheekbone.

Blitz didn't move away from the touch. Still, he wouldn't look Stolas in the eye, his gaze trained on the bed instead.

It wasn't enough, not nearly so. But it would have to do. If the alternative was for Blitz to push him fully away, then this fragile tolerance of comfort would simply have to do.

That was what Stolas kept telling himself, even if it broke his heart. Even if he didn't know how long he could keep going with just the breadcrumbs of true connection.

Even if he knew, deep down, that he would eventually have to be the one to let go, or this half-happiness, this barely-out-of-reach love, would break him beyond repair.

“Please, stay,” Stolas breathed, hoping it was the right thing to say. “I understand if you'd rather leave, but I—I would rather you stay.”

After a second that lasted an eon, and during which Stolas held his breath and braced for the worst, Blitz closed his eyes and nodded against his palm.