The Secret Was The Same Now As It Had Always Been: When Blitz Asked Fizz To Look At Him And Count, It

The secret was the same now as it had always been: when Blitz asked Fizz to look at him and count, it wasn't because he thought it would fix anything, but because he was terrified, too. Always terrified of losing his friend, of not being enough of one day not being able to hold on hard enough when Fizz's hands needed to let go. Blitz had always been afraid of his best friend's anxiety attacks, because he knew, he knew inadequate he was, how unable to help. But as long as Fizz could take that pause, then it couldn't be a crisis beyond repair, right?

The fear had shown in Blitz's eyes before, and it did so now, although he tried to hide it. And when Fizz spoke, he nodded and let out a shaky breath. Life wasn't going to mean shit if Fizz wasn't there in it, even if they were enemies; Blitz would willingly go hand-in-hand off a cliff with this man, if that was what it took.

"Keep your--" His voice shook. Blitz cleared his throat and exhaled shakily, gripping the wheel of the stolen car tightly. "Keep your head down. If you can get down there, curl up down on the floorboard in front of your seat. Don't stick any part of you up til we're outta this. Fuck this shit, and this shitty ring, and this shitty fucking day." Blitz abruptly tore his jacket off and tossed it over Fizz to give him something to help hide under, the dark colors way less likely to stand out than Fizzarolli's colorful clothing--or scar tissue.

This was all a nightmare. It had all happened so quickly, and the painful goodness of actually being able to talk to each other about the shit that had been choking them both for fifteen years, but none of this shit felt real. None of it. People trying to kill his best friend, his first love, trying to take Fizzie out of the world--

No. Never.

Never, never, never.

Blitz punched the radio as the tires squealed and they tore out of there. The sound quality was terrible, classic rock blaring in and out, in and out, but that went along just fine with the car's engine. It roared and revved and seemed likely to shake apart any time Blitz slowed down.

As soon as he could, he got into traffic, into populated areas, and Blitz did what he could to treat this like a hit, to think of Fizz as a client, not as the only goddamn thing he'd cared about for so long that... Nope. Nope. He got into the traffic pattern and drove with the flow, constantly checking for a tail, for any sign that this whole shitty thing was a bigger setup...

But it didn't seem to be. And slowly, slowly, Blitz relaxed. He eased up his grip on the wheel, breathing a little more deeply, and pulled up in front of a group of punkass looking teens, rolling the window down.

"Hey, losers. You wanna buy a car?"

"Uh... how much?" The young shark who'd spoken looked surprised but very, very interested.

"Twenty bucks." It would cover the Hellevator toll to get back to the Lust ring, at least; Blitz had been too focused on weapons and fighting during their escape to get any of his cash back.

The kids conferred, the cash was gathered, and Blitz shut the car down.

"We're not too far from the Hellevator," he said, looking around one more time before he actually got out of the car, gun in hand. No one seemed to be watching them--certainly no sign of that fucker, Striker. It looked clear. "You good to go, Fizz? We'll go on foot from here to the ferry, get the fuck out of this shithole."

The attempt at a distraction did nothing to calm his nerves. Inside, they squirmed like furious wasps, their stings sharp and relentless, threatening to make him sick. It wouldn't be the first time FizzaRolli succumbed to anxiety-induced nausea in front of Blitzo, but after fifteen years, he was hoping not to appear as vulnerable and pitiful as he had in his youth.

Despite the years that had passed, Blitzo evidently remembered one of the tactics he had come up with to soothe him. His feelings about this were mixed, but he'd overthink that later, once he was calm and secure again. He gazed intently into the other's eyes, trying to concentrate solely on that. The red irises stood out against the glowing yellow. In his mind, he began counting to ten, taking his time.

It was somewhat effective; it staved off the crippling anxiety attack that would have certainly left him inert. But he was simply trading now for later. His prosthetic was damaged, and a confrontation with Mammon loomed in the future. But presently, their priority was to get out of the scrapyard. They were possibly lingering on mafia-controlled land, and the chance of more gang members arriving to inspect the havoc was imminent—he was useless, and he questioned how much more fight the other had in him. "Blitzo?" he called out, mentally noting the 'o' was meant to be silent now. "Please, take me home. I just want to go home."

Fizz broke their gaze first, blinking away the moment before settling back into the car. This time, noticeably absent of his chipper quip about royal jesters. Blitzo had always been much kinder to him than he was anyone else. Opening doors and offering chairs; he even once carried him piggyback up a flight of stairs to avoid the mess of spilled popcorn and sticky carnival cotton candy. But Fizz wasn't in the mood to reminisce over the good times; it felt too soon, too muddled with confusion.

Tears were welling up in the performer's eyes.

"Please, I just want to go home," Fizz pleaded again, his voice breaking with a raw desperation that made it even froggier than usual. As an ever-sensitive Imp, he had always worn his heart on his sleeve, contrasting with Blitzo's tougher, more assertive demeanor. Fizz always admired Blitzo's courage, his ability to confront anyone regardless of who they were. Despite years of wishing for that same boldness, Fizz found himself very much unchanged after more than a decade. "I have a penthouse in Lust. Can you take me there? Please?"

All he desired was to burrow into his bed and stay there indefinitely; to never step on stage again, to never answer to Mammon again. The tears he'd been holding back finally flowed down his cheeks, hastily erased with the frilled edge of his jester's garb—that was another thing. He never wanted to wear this costume ever again. The world seemed perpetually overwhelming, incessantly loud, and always frightening.

I love making these sm.

[Scrap]

Blitz really can't stand knowing he hurt someone he cares about. I'm not just talking about the fire, either.

We all know that he immediately tried to apologize once he realized he'd genuinely hurt Stolas at the end of Full Moon, though he was portaled out before he could finish the words.

But even in Truth Seekers, when the truth serum caused him to tell Moxxie he had shitty taste in music, he IMMEDIATELY apologized, like as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and even started CRYING while lamenting about having hurt Moxxie and lied to him a lot.

Idk I just think it's important to point out that underneath all the trauma, Blitz is a big ole softy who can't stand knowing he's hurt the feelings of people he cares about.

Rewatched 'Western Energy' and I was thinking Blitz sure would have left in that same van they rushed Stolas to the hospital in, huh?

for @infinity-cantos, continued from here--

"Uh huh," Blitz said, stirring his drink idly, "right. Thievery is so much cleaner than murder. You just violate people's sense of security and steal their mementos and their fortunes. I deliver them to the afterlife they've earned." He took another drink, getting whip cream all over his upper lip. "Guess neither of us needs to lose any sleep over it, though." Even if it was fun to needle a fellow menace to society about the things they did, Blitz didn't fully believe she was that awful. It was Hell, why wouldn't there be someone ready to take everything good away from you the moment you let your guard down? That was what life was. That was all it was.

It wasn't like happiness was attainable or real, not beyond a fuckin' cute drink with your best friend's face on the cup, or a ten second orgasm, or sleeping in after canceling plans.

Don't get all fuckin' bitter, he told himself, briefly scowling.

Blitz licked his lip, then looked out the window, watching a group of Hellhounds pass by. They looked like tourists up from another ring, probably fascinated by all of the Sinners, all of the chaos of Pride. None of them were Loona, though, and so his interest faded.

Blitz looked back at Kaizaan. "So what's going on? We really run into each other by happenstance here? I probably shouldn't flatter myself by thinking that you need my help for something, so... what gives, am I your next target?"

A crystal, after all, seemed right up her alley. Not that the Asmodean Crystal could be parted from him, it seemed. Blitz had tried. Whether he had his glove on or not, the crystal was always there now, a part of his hand, his body. When he needed it to, he was learning to make it seem to disappear, but it was always there. He could feel its energy entwined with his, feel how intimately they were tied together. Stealing it might not work--at least, not while he was alive.

Sipping at his glittery drink, Blitz studied her eyes, wondering just how far she'd go.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, Val was fucking serious. He was serious. He was being introspective, and he was serious. While Vox knew he should be happy for him, knew he should be proud of him, every word hit him like goddamn ice-water. His screen flickered around the edges, hints of static coming through as he listened. He was mindful never to actually squeeze Valentino's hands the way he suddenly wanted to, as if squeezing them, inflicting some measure of pain, could help. Val wasn't always the most introspective type, none of them really were, so for him to have come to this conclusion, taken the time to plan this, this, this--

Farewell dinner?

Vox abruptly let go. If he didn't, he was going to dig his claws into Val's hands. Violence was fine in the bedroom, as far as he was concerned; the two of them were fully capable of discussing what they wanted and consenting to it together. But unprompted violence towards his partner? Not acceptable. No matter how much this hurt. No matter how it felt like iron bands were suddenly wrapped around his chest, tightening fast and hard and cruel.

"You're serious." Vox's screen flickered again, the brightness turning up, and his eyes seemed to double in size just for a moment there. Electricity crackled over the backs of his hands, down his neck, and his veins and arteries began to take on a subtle gleam, followed by the larger nerves--a private light, when he was trying too hard to hold something back, that usually only Val got to see, and even then usually only during sex, when Vox was losing the fight against an orgasm.

This couldn't be farther from that.

He stepped back, started to reach up to grab his own head, stopped himself halfway, hands in the air, palms out towards Val as if Valentino were the one who needed to calm down here, not himself.

"Val, are you--are you leaving the Vees? Or are you leaving me? Is it both, are you--does going off to become a better person mean you can't--fucking," he pressed a hand to his forehead now, screen flickering again, "can't fucking be around me? Is that--is that--"

Not helping, he checked himself. He was getting defensive and angry and that wasn't helping.

Vox shoved his emotions back and folded his arms. "Val. Baby. I don't--understand," he quirked an eyebrow, his entire body seeming to hum with electricity even as he held himself as still and composed as he could, trying not to explode, "but I want to be on your side here. What do you... need. From me? To make your goals happen."

It was a dangerous question to ask and he goddamn knew it, because Vox suspected, not so very deep down at all, that he knew what Val was going to say, that this fucking mothpimp was going to walk out that door and take his heart with him.

"I don't want you to leave," he added quickly, "but I won't force you to stay. I'll fight for you. But I won't force you. Have you--you've thought this through? What might happen to you out there? How are you going to--

"What are you going to do with all of your souls?"

His hands curled into fists on the table, the sudden silence between them weighing heavy on his shoulders. But Val didn't say anything else, wanting to give Vox time to process his announcement.

He gritted his teeth when his partner circled the table to get to him, his eyes averted when the other knelt before him and took his hands in his own.

The moth had expected many things. Anger, disbelief, bitterness... but not this. The unexpected tenderness extended to him by his lover was in some way more painful than anything else he could've confronted him with.

He took a deep breath, calming himself.

ཐིཋྀ "It's not that. Nobody is fucking with me, Vox..."

His grimace morphed into a sorrowful expression when he tilted his head to once again look at the other. Not wanting to be a coward.

"... this afterlife... our operation and my part in it... it's just like the mess I got caught up in as a human. I'm doing the same things, over and over... I'm just like... someone I never wanted to resemble. I didn't realize it before because I never knew anything else. The drugs, the sex, the killing... it's not that I don't enjoy those things but they're limiting me. I never found the courage to take a different path while alive, and I kept repeating the same mistakes in death."