Vox Started To Answer, But Stopped Himself With A Shake Of His Head, Taking A Moment To Think About It

Vox started to answer, but stopped himself with a shake of his head, taking a moment to think about it instead. He had to step up onto one of the rungs of the fence so he could lean over enough to look down; from up there on the bridge, they had a lovely view of the graceful creatures gliding past them, directly underneath.

"I guess it's that they're so... effortless. Or they look that way. The way they move, how they glide. They fly. Like they're completely free. I only saw one once while I was alive, and I was too stunned to be afraid. It swam past me, majestic. The master of its domain.

"They're dangerous. They don't stop. They can't stop. They process so much information so readily, without needing any powers to do it. I guess maybe I envy them. Their ease. Their--how they just fit. They belong. There are no acts to put on, no shows, no lines, nothing but their grace. If they have to kill, they do it. They don't--regret it. I can't imagine it's every hard for a shark." He leaned over a little farther, carefully tucking one heel under a rung to ensure he couldn't slip, or be pushed, the kind of precaution most Sinners in Hell were likely fully accustomed to themselves; one never knew when a friend might decide to turn foe.

Once the sharks had finally wandered out of view, Vox pushed himself up. He went and leaned against the fence on the other side of the bridge from Angel, elbows comfortably back on it. Their feet were fairly close together, the angle of their bodies making a nice vee away from each other. In the darkening evening air, it felt nice, he thought. Comfortable. Not wanting the moment to end, Vox thought back to the other things Angel had said, and asked about. Smiling, he shrugged.

"You do look amazing. Kind of your thing, right? And sure, I try not to notice. You're Val's boyfriend," Vox said it with a completely straight face, "and I try not to intrude on your whole... thing you two have going on. Despite sometimes getting jealous. But I am capable of seeing beauty, Angel." Some sort of small dragonish hellbeast flew over. Vox tilted his head back to look at it, watching its flight. "And you're right, Val threw a shitfit. I left a few hours after you did. I wasn't going to come, but he was throwing such a tantrum, I hit my wall. There's only so much Val Anger Management I can do before," he made an explosion sound, quiet but augmented by his speakers to sound nearly like the real thing, "I want to explode.

"But hey, screw Val. He's an idiot and we love him, but he's not here and we are. Tell me something about yourself, Angel? Something you want me to know, though, I'm not trying to pressure you for secrets."

"Mm, why do yeh' think ah'm layin' here doin' a bunch of nothin'?" He teased right back, though Vox would know. While Angel Dust wasn't nearly as go go go as the other sinner was, he certainly worked himself to exhaustion. Or, well, Valentino did. The amount of live shows lined up, the hours of terribly written pornos, the overnights on the street to earn his pimp more money. Angel Dust deserved the fucking break. Relaxing on the beach was well earned.

Though he had certainly heard the allegedly, and he knew exactly what Vox had meant - the Overlord was not just doing nothing on this beach trip. It had been part of why he had agreed to go see the sharks, maybe to take Vox away from the many other screens he possessed. Maybe because the other had offered him free booze which he would never pass up on. Maybe because Vox looked stunning like this, even if he had hid himself away - oh yeah, Angel had noticed.

He didn't really notice the thrill that came with seeing the sharks, but it was nice to see the other so....happy. It wasn't a mood that he had ever witnessed Vox in much. He'd seen his angry, manipulative side. He'd seen his overly cheery positive CEO face. He'd seen the stressed, running on too much coffee, working himself to exhaustion mode. But this? Considering his disdain for the Vees, for many obvious reasons, it was....nice. To see a side of Vox that he hadn't really gotten to experience.

He was caught off guard by the question, to the point that the words, "Yeh' think ah' look incredible?" spilled out before he could even think about them. This day was just full of surprises, wasn't it? Angel was glad that his sunglasses hid the confusion in his eyes, if only because it made no sense. Val and Vox were a thing. That much had been....incredibly fucking obvious. Angel might be Valentino's little fuck toy, but he wasn't the boyfriend. That role belonged to the man beside him.

He tried to shake off the shock, ignoring the way he could feel the flush of his cheeks, shrugging his shoulders. "Guess ah'm doin' whateva' Charlie decides tah' do f' activities. Ah'm here tah' support her mostly. Cause ah' know damn well Val is gonna be pissed that ah' took a week off." A sigh at that, though he still kept on a smile. "Ah' know she's doin' an open mic night, which ah'm definitely not gonna miss. And th' fireworks do sound pretty cool."

Crossing the bridge to the lagoon in which Vox had spoken about, Angel found himself leaning slightly over the somewhat fenced area, looking at the sharks that were swimming. Hell was weird. Some animals acted like animals - Keke and Fat Nuggets being prime examples - while some sinners were animals. He'd had enough run-ins with sharks to not find them appealing, though a lot of them did give the mafia vibes he thought were kinda hot.

"So, sharks. What is it about sharks, hm?" He asked, tilting his head, never taking his eyes off the giant fish. "When ah' was alive, th' only use sharks had was tah' eat th' bodies we'd throw out inta' the river, once they hit the ocean. Yeh' know, th' whole stereotype of swimmin' wit' th' fishes." A roll of eyes - mobsters were so dramatic.

Blitz treats all of his one-night stands, or one week stands, like they're a lover. That's the reality he doesn't let people see when they're not in bed together; in bed is the only place his walls actually come down, and he lets himself be incredibly affectionate. He loves to praise his partners. He'll do dirty talk if he thinks they want it. He'll do damn near anything he thinks they want.

But what he wants? Is to give affection, both physical and romantic.

Blitz confuses his one night stands, I think, by being really goddamn nice to them in bed, and afterwards. He loves holding them. Snuggling them. Being the big spoon. He treats them like a lover in love...

So when he then doesn't call them a few days later, I don't think anyone can blame them for aching. Blitz mixes every damn message. Treats them like they're all that matters when they're together, and then afterwards, doesn't understand why this one night stand sent him a voice memo where they're obviously crying.

He's starting to figure that out, post Apology Tour. He'll get there.

Thankfully, they were far enough out from shore that the waves and the morning breezes probably carried away at least some of Angel's scream, if not most of it, but Blitz still jumped, eyes widening in startlement. He turned to look, closing the portal as he did--

Angel.

Human Angel.

Angel how he was supposed to look, once upon a time. Beautiful and alive, eyes sparkling with vitality even if his upset and precious face was sparkling with seawater. Blitz didn't know if Angel was alive again or if the crystal had just given him a damn good disguise, but either way, he was stunning.... aaaaand they'd just had that discussion about drowning.

Blitz moved over to help him back up onto his surfboard. The imp was still in his demonic form, so he was careful with his claws as he helped pull Angel up. After a moment though, just the briefest hesitation, Blitz touched the crystal again, connecting to the energy that was so deeply a part of him now.

The human disguise took quickly.

Blitz wasn't anywhere near as beautiful as Angel. He was muscular, the build of a fighter so different than the musculature of a dancer. Dark olive skin--save for his burns. Angel might not have known they were burns before, Blitz reflected, but there was no missing it now. His burns scars were thick and dark, an ugly testament to the pain of that survival. He looked down at his hands, at the warped skin that brought back too many memories. Imp-skin took scars more elegantly--almost like Lucifer had made them to suffer, Blitz thought.

"Guess we better look the part." Blitz smiled, albeit a little hesitantly. The mark on his forehead was still there, and his head was clean-shaven, his eyes a rich and inviting maroon with little flecks of gold. He looked sweet--dangerous, sure, he absolutely looked like the kind of guy who could beat a man to death, but there was absolutely a sweetness there, a sincerity.

"I just figured, you know. If we're gonna have a beach week, let's have a few hours where it's real. Where it... doesn't feel so fuckin' hopeless and hollow." He looked back at the lush green hills, at the cliffs rising here and there with patches of golden beach between them. The air smelled incredible, a smell that Hell could never, never compete with. No amount of Bee's brews or confections could be as sweet as this.

Blitz closed his eyes and leaned his head back. It felt strange not to have a tail or horns, but for a little while, it was nice. So nice.

"You okay?"

Most people would probably think that a twink like Angel Dust wouldn't be able to keep up with something this athletic. Joke's on fucking them. Being a stripper and a dancer meant he had plenty of strength, and he didn't even struggle or lose breath as he paddled out, following Blitz. It probably helped that he had extra arms, and way more height than the other, but it wasn't hard to keep up at all.

He stopped when the imp had, sitting up and resting two of his hands back against the surfboard behind him, leaning back as they just, well, bobbed there. Like Blitz had said. Once the other started speaking, Angel raised an eyebrow in confused curiosity, "....ah' ain't got no shrooms or molly or nothin' out here, man, so ah' ain't know how we gonna take a trip." A snort, though his eyes widened as Blitz raised up that crystal and -

"Holy. Fucking. Shit." It took a lot for Angel Dust to be absolutely stunned into silence, but this was one of those moments. It wasn't the Earth that he knew, because he had never been anywhere close to Hawai'i. He was part of the concrete jungle of Brooklyn, the most water access he had being the Hudson River, whenever him or his brother or dad had to throw bodies into it.

But he knew that was Earth. The human world. The world of the living. He hesitated, not even out of fear, but because...what if he couldn't go through that portal? What if he double died? Sinners weren't allowed to leave the Pride Ring. He had obviously never tried it, but. Blitz seemed to go through no problem, but of course he hadn't - he was an imp. He was hellborn. Hellborn didn't have the same limitations as sinners.

But Angel Dust would hate himself if he didn't try. If he double died, so be it he supposed. At least he would get to feel genuine sunlight one last time. He took a huge breath as if steadying himself, before paddling up and towards the portal, pushing himself through it and - oh. Oh. Okay. He wasn't...he wasn't dead. He knew that much. He had closed his eyes far too tightly as he had passed through, but felt the warmth of the sun right away, the lap of the waves on his legs.

It felt....different. Eyes peeking open, one at a time, he laughed lightly, pushing hands through his hair. "Holy crap, that was...what was...wait...." Everything was happening so quickly, but he knew things for certain. Things felt different, because his hair was not just the typical fluff of his body that he had in Hell. It felt more coarse and more curly, and definitely more short. He pulled his hands away, placing them in front of his face and -

Letting out what was a scream that would honestly probably wake up half the island if they were close enough to shore. He literally flipped backwards off the board into the ocean, resurfacing and coughing as it stung and filled his lungs and his heart. His heart. He scrambled to grab onto his board, which was definitely more challenging without his other set of arms, feeling like a fucking newborn doe trying to walk again, clinging desperately. "What th' fuck. WHAT TH' FUCK. BLITZ. WHAT TH' EVA' LOVIN' FUCK DID THAT THING DO."

(Okay but this cutie in a pink bikini top I am dying.)

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.

"It's perfect," Striker agreed. It wasn't perfect. It was small and they were going to be too damn close to each other for either of their comfort, but it would do the job. Looking around for some extra barrier, he grabbed a metal door off of its tracks from under a counter. It was loud, but there was so damn much noise out there right now, no one was likely to notice, and it might help protect them.

Once they were inside, he nodded to Fizz to help him. The metal door was flimsy enough that they could bend it into shape inside the closet with them--line the wall and cover the lower half of the door. It wasn't much, but it was something, a secondary barrier in case things got worse. If shrapnel tore through the closet door, the metal liner they'd added might at least slow it down some, at worst.

But it's something, he reminded himself, and we get by on every little something.

Now, with nothing left to do, it was just the two of them in a little closet, eyes gleaming in the dark. Moving carefully, so as not to bump or step on the clown, Striker sat down against one wall. He stretched out his legs and folded his arms, trying to at least pretend he was comfortable, calm. That things were alright. Pretending could get a person a lot farther than giving in.

"So. Fizzarolli, right? How you been? Been a while since you an' I crossed paths." He chuckled and closed his eyes. "Guess violent chaos is our theme."

For a brief moment, Fizz freezes at the sound of that familiar voice. Oh, fucking hell, not HIM. He didn't even have to look to know his guess was right, who else could it be? Face set in a grimace, he follows closely behind Striker not wanting to get left behind. & Definitely not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

He winces at the sound of glass shattering & ducked inside the restaurant with him. "Yeah, thanks, oh knight in shining armor." he grumbles, still freshly annoyed that they had run into each other ——— again. 

At least this time was different, well, sort of. 

He nearly jumps at the sound of the massive boom. Eyes wide, he stands close behind Striker, hands awkwardly clinging to their arm. He was shaking. "Quickly, though, please." he hisses, wide eyed gaze searching the room for what they had mentioned. "I'd like to keep myself in check. Or else Angel's gonna get my fucking title." 

Not saying he didn't adore working with Angel, but like hell he was gonna be the second favorite star. Head shakes at the thought, squinting as he sees something in the far corner of the restaurant. 'Wait, wait. What's that ? " Stepping forward, he tugs at their hand, pulling him along as he ducks towards a closet that looked hopefully big enough for two. 

This was going to suck. 

"What about there ? " He pulls the door open, sighing as it reveals to be empty. & Definitely enough space for two. "It's ... better than nothing, right ? " 

I love making these sm.

[Scrap]