#class differences

[haylee-bb]

That's because most people in books and TV shows are comfortably middle-class, at least. You don't catch poor people doing that shit. My grandfather grew up poor, (like no electricity or plumbing in the house poor) and even after he got older and made enough money to support his family, he was never able to shake the habits and mindset from being dirt broke. That means everything is saved until it can no longer possibly be used, everything is installed and fixed DIY style unless it's absolutely impossible to do so, and food is NEVER wasted. Whether it's old, gross, or you just don't want to eat, you better suck it up and choke that shit down because that's money going to waste.

people in books and tv shows are always getting so upset they throw an untouched meal in the trash. that would never be me. i'd receive the worst news of my life and still be like Let me put this in the fridge.

[pickledillytea]

When you are not fed love on a silver spoon you learn to lick it off knives." - Lauren Eden

[tillalives]

So, guys, can we agree that the reason Stolas is in trouble with the Goetia's isn't because he's gay, but because he's with an imp?

Because in the show, not once does anybody say things or act in a way that's homophobic.

Not even Stella.

NOT ONCE.

Stolas is only ridiculed, not for being with a guy, but for sleeping with an imp. It's a class difference problem.

Not homophobia.

[coffeelovinggayidiot]

There's a LOT of good things (and thing I personally love) that came from the assassination on Brian Thompson, but I think one of the best (and a personal favorite) is that it brigde the devide between republicans and liberals, especially those from lower classes, and it forces the 1% to see (and hopefully engage in) the conversation on class divised

[pratchettquotes]

"So that's all settled then?" said Verence.

Finally, Magrat's voice returned from some distant apogee, slightly hoarse.

"Aren't you supposed to ask me?" she demanded.

"What? Um. No, actually," said Verence. "No. Kings don't ask. I looked it up. I'm the king, you see, and you are, no offense meant, a subject. I don't have to ask."

Magrat's mouth opened for the scream of rage but, at last, her brain jolted into operation.

Yes, it said, of course you can yell at him and sweep away. And he'll probably come after you.

Very probably.

Um.

Maybe not that probably. Because he might be a nice little man with gentle runny eyes but he's also a king and he's been looking things up. But very probably quite probably.

But...

Do you want to bet the rest of your life? Isn't this what you wanted anyway? Isn't it what you came here hoping for? Really?

Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies

[bisexualseraphim]

USAmericans will literally live in a trailer working 3 jobs for $7 an hour surviving off gas station food and still call themselves ‘middle class.’

Here in the UK if you’re middle class you’re probably a neurosurgeon with a stable-barn and a mansion big enough to have its own name. US middle class is our working class.

Not got owt to say about it, just really fuckin weird innit. I’ve had a few USAmericans describe me as middle class and I’m like mate… I make half of what you do lol

EDIT: I have since been corrected on this!!! Please stop reblogging this without checking the notes first, I was quite wrong!!!

[poisonedace]

Inferna Academy

11232 words | Mature | Part 2/12 Author's AO3: PoisonedAce Story Link: Inferna Academy Part One Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Summary: Blitzo refuses to fade into the background, even as his father demands he play shadow to his childhood friend Fizzarolli at Hell’s elite university. “Fizzarolli’s our ticket to the big time.” “Don’t screw up.” “You’ll never make it on your own." Everything changes when he reunites with Stolas, a Goetia prince shackled by suffocating expectations. What begins as a quiet connection blossoms into a love neither anticipated, built on stolen glances, whispered conversations, and study sessions full of laughter. But, their happiness is short-lived. Stella’s schemes threaten to tear them apart, straining their love and fracturing Blitzo’s friendship with Fizzarolli. A story of star-crossed lovers, broken trust, and fragile hope. Can Blitzo and Stolas find their way back to each other, or are they destined to remain distant souls, yearning for what could have been?

😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈

Chapter Two

The Weight of Shadows

😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈

The administration office of Inferna Academy buzzed with chaotic energy, the hum of infernal wards mingled with the low murmur of agitated voices. Demons of all shapes and sizes jostled for space, their movements sharp and impatient as they craned their necks toward the counter. The air reeked of sulfur and old parchment. A metallic tang clung to the stone walls, sharp and unyielding. Overhead, faintly glowing runes pulsed as though the building itself were alive and watching.

Behind the counter, a bored clerk sat slouched, their horns curling lazily as they drummed clawed fingers against the desk. The glowing roster flickered faintly, emitting a low, grating hum like it was on the verge of combusting. Their indifferent expression didn’t shift, not even when a particularly loud demon barked a question about their assignment.

“Next,” the clerk called, their tone flat and lifeless, as though the word itself was a chore.

Blitzo stood near the back, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tail flicked with sharp, agitated movements as the crowd pressed closer, their overlapping voices adding to his mounting irritation. Why’s this taking so damn long? he thought bitterly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The sulfur-laced air was starting to sting his nose, and the incessant hum of the roster gnawed at his nerves.

“Blitzo Buckzo,” the clerk finally drawled, not bothering to look up as they scanned the roster with a disinterested claw. “Room 305. Assigned with... S. Goetia.”

Blitzo froze for half a second, his ears twitching as the name registered. His scowl deepened into a glare. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he muttered, stepping closer to the counter. His tail lashed sharply behind him, narrowly missing the demon standing closest to him.

The clerk flicked a claw dismissively, their gaze already shifting to the next name on the list. “305,” they repeated, their tone indifferent. “Next!”

Blitzo snatched the crumpled piece of paper with his room number and the attached key, glaring at the faintly glowing text as though it had personally insulted him.

His tail flicked sharply again as he shoved the paper into his jacket pocket. He turned on his heel, his boots scuffing against the worn stone floor as he shouldered his way through the crowd. The noise and heat of the room seemed to press in on him, his irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.

Room 305. Roommate: S. Goetia. The name lingered in his mind like a bad joke. “Bet he’s got some fancy setup with feather pillows and a dozen rules about ‘proper roommate etiquette,’” Blitzo muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, this’s gonna go over real well.”

The heavy doors creaked shut behind him as he stormed out of the office, the chaotic din muffled by the oppressive quiet of the corridor. The flickering light from the torches lining the walls cast jagged shadows that danced along the stone, the carvings seeming to glare at him with silent judgment. The corridor stretched ahead, its long shadows rippling unevenly with the flicker of the torches. As if this place wasn’t bad enough, Blitzo thought, his voice echoing faintly in his head. Now I’m stuck with some Goetian featherhead.

His claws flexed at his sides as he stomped toward his assigned room, the hum of magic in the walls buzzing faintly in his ears. Everything about this place felt designed to remind him of his place—below it all, never quite enough. Of course, they’d shove me into a corner with royalty, he thought bitterly. Probably just to make it more transparent that I don’t belong here.

His tail snapped sharply behind him as he squared his shoulders, forcing his feet to keep moving. “Gotta love this place,” he muttered, his words cutting through the oppressive silence. Room 305. S. Goetia. His jaw tightened as he repeated the name in his mind.

Ahead, the corridor plunged into darkness, the flickering torchlight barely reaching the jagged stone archway that marked the end of the hall. Even the building seemed to mock him, its cold, oppressive presence heavy against his back. Blitzo squared his shoulders, his tail snapping sharply behind him as he forced his feet to keep moving. Room 305, he thought again, his jaw tightening. Well, hope he’s ready for a helluva roommate.

~o0o~

In a quieter corner of the academy Library, Stolas sat gracefully at a polished desk by one of the large bay windows that looked over the grounds. He was poring over a paperback romance novel he had seen his mother reading over the weekend. Given her uncharacteristic shiftiness when he’d approached her about it, he knew it would be a good one. 

The soft lighting from the floating orbs above the shelves and the faint scent of aged parchment and enchanted ink that lingered in the air allowed for a soothing atmosphere away from all of his problems.

A soft knock sounded at the bookshelf behind him before a staff member clad in Inferna’s formal robes approached. “Prince Stolas, your housing assignment has been finalized,” the staff member said, their tone polite but measured. “You’ll be sharing with—”

“Blitzo,” Stolas interrupted, his gaze lifting from the page. His eyes, wide and expressive, lit up with interest, the name sparking something he hadn’t revisited in years. He leaned back slightly in his chair, one talon tapping thoughtfully against the armrest. “I see.” A small smile played at his lips, faint but genuine.

Before he could dwell on it, the door to the Library slammed open with enough force to rattle the bookshelves, a gust of displaced air disturbing the calm magic orbs above.

“Stolas!” Stella’s voice sliced through the quiet like a blade. She stormed in, her heels clicking sharply against the stone floor, the sound echoing in the otherwise serene room. Dressed in an elegant, sharply tailored gown that shimmered faintly in the light, she radiated indignation. Her icy gaze swept the room before settling on Stolas with barely restrained fury. “What’s this nonsense about you sharing a room? With some... some commoner?”

Stolas sighed, closing his book with deliberate care as if willing himself to meet her ire with patience. “It’s just a housing arrangement, Stella,” he said, his tone calm and measured though it carried the faintest edge of exasperation. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Nothing to concern myself with?” Stella’s voice rose, her hands gesturing sharply as if to punctuate her disbelief. “This is an insult! Goetias don’t share rooms—especially not with... imps!” She spat the word as though it burned her tongue, her feathers fluffing slightly in agitation.

Stolas arched an elegant brow, his talons steepling under his chin as he regarded her. “Dramatic as always, Stella,” Stolas said with a faint smirk, the humor in his tone clearly deliberate. “You’d think they’d assigned me a dungeon. It’s just a room, and even we can’t avoid the academy’s little ‘equal treatment’ quirks. It’s quite charming, really.”

“‘Equal treatment’ quirks?” Stella hissed, her voice dripping with venom. “This isn’t some minor inconvenience, Stolas. This is degrading. They’re treating you like... like some common student instead of a Goetian heir.” She practically snarled the last words, her feathers bristling further.

Before Stolas could reply, a cheerful, twangy voice called from the hall just before the door opened. “Yoo-hoo! Hello? Is this where the fancy folks are hollerin’? Should I come back later?”

Both turned to see a petite imp with long black hair peeking into the room, her wide grin as bright as the sharp accent in her voice. She stepped inside with easy confidence, her boots clicking against the floor. “Hi there! Name’s Millie,” she said, offering a quick wave. “Guess you’re Stella? Looks like you an’ me are bunkmates!”

Stella’s mouth fell open, her feathers puffing out like an offended hen. “What?” she sputtered.

“Aw, don’t look so stunned,” Millie continued, her grin widening. “Promise I’m a peach to live with! ‘Sides, they said I’d be roomin’ with someone real fancy, and—” she gave Stella an exaggerated look up and down, her tone light but teasing—“guessin’ that’s you.”

Stella’s feathers practically trembled with rage. “This is absurd!” she snapped, rounding on Stolas. “Fix this. Now. You can’t seriously expect me to share a room with... with her!” She gestured toward Millie, her feathers practically vibrating with disdain. “She’s so... loud.”

“Afraid there’s nothin’ to fix, sugar,” Millie interjected, leaning against the doorframe with an almost casual air. “They paired us up fair an’ square, so I reckon we’ll just have to make the best of it.” She extended a hand toward Stella, who stared at it as though it were cursed. “Lookin’ forward to sharin’ the space, roomie!”

Stolas’s mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile, his talons lightly tapping against the desk. “Well, the academy does keep finding creative ways to entertain me,” Stolas remarked, his gaze flicking between Millie and Stella. “Though I must admit, this pairing is particularly... inspired— it’s practically poetic.”

Stella looked moments away from either fainting or combusting. She whirled on Stolas again, her voice a low, venomous hiss. “You are going to fix this. Immediately.”

“Fix it?” Stolas tilted his head, feigning thought. “Hmm, let me see if my title can override a millennium-old academy policy... Oh, wait. It can’t. I suppose we’ll both have to cope with life’s little injustices.”

Millie’s laugh rang out, bright and unbothered. “Aw, c’mon now,” Millie said, giving Stella a friendly slap on the back that made the taller demon stumble. “A little time with me, and you’ll be sweeter than pie at a Sunday picnic!”

Stella’s horrified gasp filled the room as Millie’s grin widened. Stella stumbled forward, spinning on her heel to glare at Millie as though she’d been physically assaulted. “Did you just touch me?” she demanded, her voice an octave higher than usual.

Millie tilted her head, blinking innocently. “Well, yeah. You were lookin’ a little wobbly there.”

“Do. Not. Touch. Me,” Stella hissed, her feathers puffed to twice their usual size. “You—your hands smell like... dirt!”

Millie sniffed her palm thoughtfully. “Huh. Guess I did clean the coop this mornin’.”

With an undignified squeal, Stella stomped away from the group and out the Library door towards the administration office.

Stolas, openly smiling now, turned back to his desk with a casual air. “Do try not to cause too much of a scene, Stella,” he called to her without looking back, his talons already flipping to the next page of his book. “I’d hate for the entire academy to think you’ve lost your composure on your first day.”

By the time Stella and Millie reached the office, Stella’s tirade had reached full volume, catching the attention of anyone still on the floor. The echoes of her words bounced off the stone walls, amplifying her indignation. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor, each step as pointed as her tone as she jabbed a perfectly manicured finger toward the clerk behind the desk.

“I demand a reassignment!” she declared, her tone imperious enough to make a lesser demon cower. “We will not be subjected to this humiliation.”

The clerk barely glanced up from the glowing roster on his desk. The air around him buzzed faintly with magic, its pulse steady and indifferent to Stella’s fury. He yawned, scratching at his temple with a claw. “Housing is full. Assignments are final,” he said flatly, his tone as lifeless as the dim torches lining the walls.

Stella’s feathers bristled visibly, her hair flaring as if to intimidate him through sheer presence. “Do you even comprehend who you’re speaking to?” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the oppressive air. “This is incompetence on a monumental scale.”

The clerk finally looked up, his unimpressed gaze meeting hers. “Names don’t change square footage, Lady Stella,” he said, enunciating her title just enough to hint at sarcasm. “You’ve got your keys. Good luck.”

Before Stella could respond, the soft, deliberate sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Stolas appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the flickering torchlight. His feathers shifted slightly, and his expression a practiced blend of patience and mild exasperation, his romance book clutched tightly to his chest.

“Stella,” he began dryly, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he approached the desk. His tone carried the weary calm of someone who’d endured this sort of scene many times before. “I thought I asked you not to cause such a spectacle.”

Stella spun toward him, her feathers trembling with frustration. “Stolas, this is—”

"Outrageous, yes, Stella, so you've said," Stolas said blandly.

She faltered as her words caught in her throat. She turned to Millie, who had caught Stolas’s gaze and didn’t miss a beat. “Howdy again, Prince Fancy Feathers!” she said brightly, waving a hand in cheerful acknowledgment.

Stolas inclined his head slightly in Millie’s direction, his gaze thoughtful. “Millie, was it?” he asked, his voice polite but tinged with curiosity.

"Don't talk to her like you're friends!"

“That’s me,” Millie replied, her grin widening as she ignored Stella. “Don’t you worry none, Your Highness, I’ll keep this one in line.” She jerked her thumb toward Stella, whose feathers flared in visible protest.

Stella glared at Millie, but the imp barely came up to her waist, making the fiery energy of her confidence all the more striking. Millie didn’t hesitate, reaching out to give Stella’s side a hearty pat just above her hip, ignoring Stella’s growl. “We’re gonna have so much fun together,” Millie said, her voice bubbly and unbothered. “Why, in no time, she’ll be thankin’ your lucky stars we got paired up.”

“Lucky stars?” Stella hissed, her voice low and venomous. “This is a nightmare.”

Millie chuckled, crossing her arms and tilting her head up to meet Stella’s glare. “Nightmare, dream, it’s all about perspective. Just think—new beginnings, new friendships. Ain’t it magical?”

Stolas tilted his head, his smirk growing as he watched the exchange. “Well said, Millie,” he commented lightly. “Stella could benefit from a bit of perspective.”

“Stolas!” Stella snapped, her voice echoing sharply in the small office. “You’re not helping!”

“Oh, I disagree,” Stolas replied with mock seriousness, his talons tapping lightly against his chin. “I think I’m helping immensely.”

Millie grinned, gesturing toward the hallway with a cheerful flick of her hand. “C’mon now, roomie,” she said brightly. “Let’s go check out our digs. I’m callin’ the top bunk.”

“Top bunk?!” Stella’s voice rose sharply, echoing down the hall. “I am not sleeping in a bunk bed.”

Millie winked, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Well, you’d better get used to it. Change is good for the soul!”

As the pair disappeared down the corridor, Millie’s cheerful chatter drowned out Stella’s sharp protests. Stolas watched them go, the faint echo of Stella’s exasperated hissing still audible in the distance. He turned back to the clerk, inclining his head politely.

“Thank you for your patience,” he said smoothly, his voice calm and dignified. Then, with a soft chuckle, he murmured to himself, “Thicker than grits, indeed,” before turning on his heel and strolling away, the faint rhythm of his talons clicking against the stone floor echoing behind him.

~o0o~

The door to room 305 creaked open, causing Blitzo to wince as he shoved his way through. The room was much larger than he expected, with high ceilings and a single window dividing the space. It was painfully clear which side belonged to royalty. Velvet drapes framed the window, and suitcases embossed with intricate silver patterns were stacked neatly at the foot of the bed. A plush purple comforter, covered in golden sparkles that resembled stars, was draped across the mattress, its edges lined with embroidery that shimmered faintly in the window’s light. 

Blitzo’s side, on the other hand, was bare—soon to be overtaken by his hand-me-down blankets and a mess of odds and ends. He was pleased to see that his belongings seemed to have all made it upstairs and were lined up against the wall, grateful that he had had the foresight to bring them to the building rather than leave them in the courtyard.

A faint scent of old leather and stale cigars wafted from his things, clashing with the lavender-tinged air that lingered on the other side of the room. The contrast was almost comical, if not a bit sad.

He placed his messenger bag on the wobbly chair by his desk and began to snoop around his roommate’s side. 

He walked over to the window first, stopping in his tracks when the delicate tendrils of one of the several plants hung in neatly arranged pots hanging by the window reached out toward him.

Blitzo jumped back instinctively, his tail flicking like a whip as the plant’s tendrils twitched again. “Of course, a man-eating fern. Because why not?” he muttered, jabbing a finger at it like it owed him rent. “You try anything, and I’ll be the one doing the eating, got it?” He hesitated, then leaned slightly closer, squinting at its sharp leaves. “Okay, maybe not, but you’d better behave.” He made a mental note to steer clear of that one as he moved to the small bookshelf underneath the window.

On top of it was a collection of peculiar trinkets: an ornate hourglass filled with what looked like stardust, a notebook covered with runes drawn in ballpoint pen, and a small gilded cage housing an iridescent bird that seemed to blink whenever he looked away. 

Blitzo froze, his eyes locked on the bird. “Did—did you just blink at me?” he asked, pointing a finger at the cage. The bird stayed perfectly still, its beady eyes glinting in the light. He squinted, then waved a hand in front of the cage. The bird blinked again, slower this time. Blitzo let out a high-pitched yelp, stumbling back. “Nope! Nope, absolutely not. I don’t trust anything that blinks when I’m not looking. Creepy little bastard.” 

He moved towards the desk. At the center, encased in pristine glass, was an elaborately decorated leather book. The cover was blue, etched with intricate golden filigree, and inlaid with a smooth red gemstone on the spine. A strange, almost electric hum emanated from it, prickling Blitzo’s skin and making his tail twitch.

He narrowed his eyes, something about the book tickling the edge of his memory. He’d seen it somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite place where. “What kind of pretentious idiot puts a book in a glass case?” he muttered, shaking his head to clear the nagging thought.

His attention shifted to a photograph in an ornate frame beside the case. He lingered on the woman in the picture, narrowing his eyes as he studied the poised and regal figure. An owl demon with an almost otherworldly grace, she stood with a serene smile. Her crescent-shaped headdress caught the light in an almost breathtaking way, and her long flowing robes seemed to embody authority. For a moment, the image of a small, wide-eyed owl boy flashed in his mind—the resemblance was uncanny.

Blitzo’s tail flicked sharply, the memory hitting him harder than expected. That day a decade ago—the stolen ceremonial dagger, jewelry, and everything else he’d managed to swipe, the frantic scramble out of the palace, and the gnawing guilt that followed. The kid had seemed so lonely.

He scoffed, forcing the thought away. “No point in feeling guilty,” he muttered, his voice low and edged with bitterness. “Can’t unsteal any of it now, anyway.” The words lacked conviction, but he latched onto them, brushing the guilt aside like dust off his hands.

Just as he turned away, another photograph caught his eye. This one leaned against the frame, slightly tucked to the side. It featured a tall parrot demon with fiery plumage cascading down his back like a cape. Across the bottom, in neat handwriting, were the words: Te amo, Pajarito. The demon in the photo wore an impeccably tailored red suit, its sharp lines, and polished buttons practically screaming wealth. His impossibly long legs ended in white thigh-high boots, and he held a glass of wine in one hand, his elongated neck tilted with a smirk that exuded superiority.

Blitzo snorted. “What an uppity royal.” Blitzo crossed his arms, glaring at the photo as if it had personally insulted him. “You just know he orders drinks with extra ice to seem important,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Probably calls himself a connoisseur of wine while he swirls it around, pretending to taste 'hints of oak' or whatever fancy shit people say.” 

He gestured at the photo, his tone turning theatrical. “‘Look at me, I’m the pinnacle of sophistication! My boots are thigh-high because I’m too good for regular legs!’” His tail lashed behind him as he huffed. “Bet he smells like orange blossoms and arrogance.”

I hate him already. His tail flicked as the thought crossed his mind. The unsettling charm in the demon’s sharp gaze twisted something annoyingly pleasant in Blitzo’s stomach, causing him to turn away with a shake of his head. “I hope it’s not him I’m rooming with.”

Blitzo glanced around again, his distaste growing with every perfectly placed item. “What the hell kind of person needs a setup like this?” he muttered, tripping over one of the pristine suitcases and cursing as he shoved it aside. “Yeah,” he said under his breath as he flopped onto his creaking mattress. “Definitely a bookwormy control freak.”

He coughed as a plume of dust rose from his bed, wrinkling his nose at the musky smell that clung to the air. For a moment, he closed his eyes. A nap sounded tempting right about then, but the weight of Cash’s voice echoed in his mind: Don’t screw this up.

Grumbling, Blitzo pushed himself upright, pulled the key from his bag, and slipped it into his pocket before jumping to his feet. He shot one last glare at the glittering, over-the-top setup across the room. “Better go see what King Fizz is up to,” he muttered, shoving the door open with more force than necessary.

By the time Blitzo arrived downstairs, the group had moved from the courtyard to the cafeteria. The buzz of excitement was palpable on his tongue—this place was already beginning to grate on his nerves. He groaned inwardly and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets as he walked around the group that surrounded Fizz in the middle of the room.

“Wow!” someone called, their voice tinged with excitement. “Fizzarolli, you’re really here!”

“Your work with prosthetics is incredible,” another gushed, practically pushing past their classmates to reach him. “I read about your last showcase—brilliant!”

Lucifer, these guys are broken records. Blitzo rolled his eyes, scoffing and wording the words Fizz responded with, “Oh, you flatter me!” Blitzo copied Fizz’s pose, clasped his hands under his chin, and batted his eyes. “But please, don’t stop!”

This caused several of the people beside him to glare, but he merely gave them the finger before moving towards Fizz. He reached out and grabbed Fizz’s hand, squeezing it tightly to catch his attention, his claws pressing into Fizz’s palm. The tension in his grip matched the bitterness twisting in his chest, a silent demand to be noticed as frustration clawed its way to the surface. Fizz turned, cocking his head with a curious tilt before nodding in acknowledgment as Blitzo signed “eat” with his free hand. The crowd surged closer, their excitement pressing in, and Blitzo’s grip tightened instinctively, his frustration flaring. In response, Fizz gave his hand two deliberate squeezes—an unspoken attempt to calm him.

“Is that his assistant?” someone whispered loudly, causing Blitzo to twitch.

“Probably,” another replied. “He’s, like, his shadow or something.”

A third student snickered. “What if he’s, like, Fizzarolli’s stalker?” Their voice was low, but the laughter from their group was loud enough to reach Blitzo’s ears.

“That doesn’t even make any fucking sense!” Blitzo snapped, letting go of Fizz’s hand to turn towards the whispering demons. 

The group exchanged snickers, their eyes darting between him and Fizz like they’d won some unspoken game. Blitzo clenched his fists, his tail lashing sharply behind him, but his sharp retort died in his throat when he caught the flicker of movement as Fizz stepped forward. His prosthetic joints whirred faintly as he pulled a set of juggling balls from his pocket. With a practiced flourish, he tossed the balls high into the air, drawing the crowd’s attention instantly. Their delighted gasps drowned out the whispering students entirely, leaving Blitzo to stew in his frustration at the edge of the chaos.

Blitzo exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders unraveling into something rawer. Of course, he thought bitterly, stepping back toward the nearest pillar. He didn’t even say anything to defend me. Not once. His tail flicked restlessly, the hollow ache in his chest gnawing at him as he leaned against the cold stone.

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, watching the crowd swarm closer to Fizz. Their cheers rang in his ears like mockery, each voice seeming to shout what he already knew: Fizz belonged in the spotlight. He didn’t. The thought burned, sharp and jagged, leaving him to choke down the lump rising in his throat. Of course, Fizz didn’t need him. Why would he? This was just another reminder that Blitzo would always be the sideshow, never the act.

Fizz spun in place, the balls moving in perfect arcs before he caught the final one with ease. His grin wavered for the briefest moment—so subtle that the roaring crowd didn’t notice. Tightening his smile, he threw himself back into the act, each practiced move a polished distraction, a shield against the guilt twisting in his chest. Later, he thought bitterly as he bowed theatrically, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. I’ll deal with him later.

“Thank you, thank you,” Fizz said, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. 

Blitzo’s jaw tightened and he looked towards the floor, the crowd’s voices blurring together as white noise to his ears. He hated how small, how insignificant he felt in moments like this— like the room had swallowed him whole, leaving only Fizz’s spotlight behind. 

The crowd pressed closer, with a few students pushing forward in their excitement, their enthusiasm teetering on the edge of aggression. The heat of their bodies and the bright lantern light thickened the air, making each breath feel heavier than the last. Shadows twisted erratically along the jagged carvings in the walls, and the leering faces seemed to warp and shift with the stifling tension in the room.

“Fizz, can I get your autograph?” one student begged, shoving a notebook in his face, their hands trembling with excitement.

“Fizzarolli, are you free to collaborate on my thesis?” another interrupted, practically stepping over the first student to push their way to the front.

“Fizz! Over here!” someone else shouted, a flash going off as they snapped a photo.

Fizz’s grin faltered, his metallic fingers twitching as he tried to manage the onslaught. “Alright, one at a time!” he said, his usual charm tinged with strain. He raised a hand in an attempt to calm them, but the crowd surged closer, oblivious to his discomfort. A chair screeched loudly against the stone floor as someone shoved past it, nearly tripping in their eagerness. Another student bumped into Fizz’s side, making his joints click audibly. His grin tightened, and he shifted awkwardly, his usual composure beginning to crack. 

Blitzo watched from the sidelines, his claws digging into the flesh of his thighs, the sharp sting grounding him as his chest tightened, his breathing growing shallower as the scene unfolded. His tail lashed sharply behind him, narrowly missing a nearby table. They love him so much, they’re gonna crush him, he thought, his frustration mixing with an unshakable bitterness. And me? I’m just the invisible idiot in the corner, as usual. 

The air in the cafeteria thickened with the mingling scents of sweat, scorched magic, and stale food. Bodies jostled closer, their overlapping voices merging into a dissonant roar that rattled Blitzo’s nerves. It felt less like a crowd and more like a tide, pulling Fizz into its relentless current. Blitzo’s claws flexed, his chest tightening as the space around him seemed to shrink.

This is what they want, he thought bitterly. Fizz, the star. Me, the nobody. His tail lashed violently, catching the edge of a chair and sending it skittering across the stone floor with a sharp scrape. The sound barely registered over the roar of voices clamoring for Fizz’s attention.

Doesn’t he see it? The thought burned, raw and jagged, as Blitzo’s glare locked onto Fizz’s easy, practiced grin. Doesn’t he feel it?

The crowd’s voices a rising tide threatening to drown him, each word cutting deeper into his patience:

“Fizz, you’re a genius!”

“Your work changed my life!”

“Can we schedule a meeting? I have so many ideas to share!”

Each word landed like a dart, piercing the fragile armor Blitzo fought to keep intact. His claws flexed harder, the fabric of his pants pulling taut under the pressure until it threatened to tear. Why’s it always so easy for him? The question burned, the sting sharper with every cheer aimed at Fizz. Why’s it always him?

When a particularly overeager student grabbed Fizz’s arm, his metallic fingers flexing awkwardly in response, Blitzo snapped himself from his thoughts and strode forward with purposeful steps. The heat in his body seemed to intensify as he moved, the carvings on the walls appearing to glare down at him with disapproval.

“Alright, back the fuck off!” Blitzo barked, his voice slicing through the chaos, sharp and commanding. The words cracked through the air like a whip, silencing the room. For a split second, relief flashed in Fizz’s eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the mask of the star they demanded. “Blitzo,” he hissed in warning, watching the crowd wearily. 

The crowd had frozen, tension rippling through the space. Then, as if on cue, the murmurs began to rise again, low and uncertain, spreading from one cluster to the next. A few students shifted uneasily, their glances darting between Blitzo and Fizz. One near the back took a hesitant step away, their face tight with discomfort.

Blitzo’s tail lashed behind him, the motion a sharp echo of his irritation. “He’s not a damn circus act—give him some space!”

One student near the back whispered, “Why’s the assistant yelling?” Their words were carried, followed by a ripple of uncomfortable laughter that spread through the group. 

A student near the edge of the crowd tilted their phone for a better angle, the glow of the screen reflecting the uneasy faces shifting behind them. A ripple of whispers threaded through the room, low and buzzing, like static in the air. A faint shuffle rippled through the group as students leaned closer to Fizz, their faces a mix of awe and unease. The air around him seemed to buzz with anticipation, their bodies pressing closer as if proximity might allow them to share in his shine. 

A few students exchanged uneasy glances, while others simply stood there, unsure what to do.

Fizz’s nervous chuckle filled the silence, his grin now more of a grimace. “Blitzo, come on,” he said, his voice low but strained, the edges of his words tinged with embarrassment. He reached over and grabbed Blitzo’s wrist, rubbing his thumb gently over where he felt Blitzo’s pulse racing. “I don’t need you to play bodyguard, okay?”

Blitzo frowned, his free arm hugged tightly over his stomach, fingers digging into his tank top. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta stop you from getting trampled.”

Fizz’s smile faltered, his metallic fingers twitching against Blitzo’s wrist. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze flicking to the crowd, their eyes heavy with expectation. The weight of their stares pressed down on him, a silent demand to keep the act intact. His grip on Blitzo’s wrist tightened briefly before he released it, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. His gaze darted back to Blitzo’s, and for just a heartbeat, something softer—guilt, maybe—flickered across his face. It vanished as quickly as it had come.

Fizz’s grin twitched, but there was a flicker of something behind it—something sharp and fleeting, gone before it could take root. His voice dropped slightly, quieter but sharper. “I had it under control. You didn’t need to step in.” The words came fast, almost mechanical, as though he had spoken them more to convince himself than Blitzo.

His smile stretched too wide, the edges threatening to fray as his gaze darted back to the crowd. Their expectant stares pressed in like a weight he couldn’t shake, demanding the polished, unshakable performer they came to see. A thin crack flickered in his eyes—too fast for anyone but Blitzo to notice—before he swallowed it down and squared his shoulders. There was no room for mistakes. Not here. Not with so many eyes watching.

Blitzo tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he tightly crossed his arms over his chest. “You sure? ‘Cause it looks like you were about two seconds away from being flattened.”

Fizz’s joints creaked softly as he clenched his fists. His metallic fingers flexed again, the faint sound carrying through the unnaturally quiet room. “What I don’t need is you embarrassing me in front of everyone,” he snapped, his voice breaking the tension like a shard of glass.

The words hit harder than Blitzo expected, their force like a punch to the gut. For a brief second, his glare faltered, his tail curling into a tight coil. The sting of Fizz’s words burrowed into his chest, twisting painfully. Typical. Even when I’m trying to help, I’m just the screw-up.

He masked the hurt with a bitter glare. “Embarrassing you?” he shot back, his voice rising. “I’m the one keeping you from getting smothered!”

A ripple of whispers moved through the crowd, some students exchanging uneasy glances while others edged closer, curious but wary. One student near the back muttered, “What the hell is his problem?” The faint buzz of a phone’s recording screen caught the edge of Fizz’s vision, his fingers tightening briefly before he forced his expression neutral.

Fizz stepped closer, his joints clicking as he jabbed a metallic finger toward Blitzo’s chest. “You hate it, don’t you?” he hissed, his voice low and sharp. “That they’re looking at me. That they’re listening to me.”

Blitzo blinked, momentarily stunned. His tail stilled before snapping sharply behind him, a sharp echo of his mounting frustration. “Yeah, and you’re just lapping it up, huh? Mr. Perfect, Mr. Star of the Show,” he spat, his voice rising. “You don’t give a damn who gets stepped on as long as you get your applause!”

Fizz’s expression cracked for just a moment—too quick for most to notice. “At least I’m worth looking at!” he fired back. His prosthetic fingers flexed audibly, the faint sound of metal grating against itself cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

The crowd gasped, the tension thickening like a storm about to break. Fizz swallowed hard, his wide grin now strained as he flicked his gaze toward the audience, their eyes heavy with judgment. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, just loud enough for Blitzo to hear. “You’ve never had to. You’ll never get what it’s like to carry all this.”

“Oh, screw you, Fizz,” he spat, his voice laced with bitterness. “You know what? Deal with it yourself!”

He threw his hands up in defeat, and his tail snapped like a whip behind him as he turned away. Each step thundered against the stone floor, his boots carrying him out with a finality that silenced even the scattered murmurs of the crowd, which parted awkwardly to let him pass. Their eyes followed him with a mix of confusion and judgment. 

Near the back, heads turned, and a ripple of hushed whispers spread through the group. One student leaned toward another, their voice barely muffled as they muttered, "Did he seriously just yell like that?" The second stifled a laugh, their hand covering their mouth as they glanced at Fizz, who hadn’t yet moved.

Someone muttered, "Talk about overreacting," as Blitzo stormed by, but he didn’t turn around.

“Fine,” he thought bitterly. “Let them have their star. I’m done.” The heavy doors slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the hall like a final punctuation to his exit.

Someone else, pretending to scroll, glanced up and quietly filmed as murmurs began spreading like wildfire, low and buzzing, threading through the room. A pair of students whispered animatedly to each other, their eyes darting between Fizz and the closed door Blitzo had stormed through. Others in the crowd shifted their focus back to Fizz with uncertain eyes. One student fidgeted with their notebook, pretending to be absorbed in its blank pages, while another whispered nervously to a friend.

Fizz let out a frustrated sigh, his metallic fingers flexing restlessly as his shoulders sagged. His gaze lingered on the door Blitzo had slammed behind him, the echo of retreating footsteps still ringing faintly in his ears.

A faint click broke the stillness as someone snapped a photo and murmured, “He handled that freak so well,” barely audible over the restless shifting of the crowd.

With a practiced inhale Fizz straightened himself, smoothing his expression as if erasing the sting of Blitzo’s words. He turned back to the crowd, grin returning with an effortless shift that betrayed none of the turmoil beneath. “Sorry about that, folks,” he said, his tone honeyed but strained. “Blitzo means well, but, you know... he can get a little carried away.” 

Blitzo’s anger, Fizz knew, came from a place of care—of loyalty—but that didn’t soften the sting of his friend’s words. Not now, not with so many eyes on him, waiting for a slip in his performance.

The crowd’s nervous laughter rippled through the room, the tension easing slightly as Fizz steered their attention back to himself. His laugh echoed above the murmurs, but the sound felt hollow to his ears. Forcing a wide grin, he cracked another joke, his metallic fingers flexing reflexively—the faint clicks masked by scattered applause.

The crowd needed the act, needed the mask he wore so effortlessly. With another deep breath, Fizz straightened his posture, burying the guilt beneath the well-rehearsed layers of charm he wore like armor. He cracked a joke, his voice steady despite the tightness in his throat. The crowd’s laughter blurred into a distant hum as he refocused on their expectant faces. His grin stretched wider, polished and perfect, a performance honed through years of practice. Not now, he thought. Not here. Whatever apology Blitzo deserved would have to wait. Still, the guilt lingered, a dull throb beneath the applause. Blitzo hadn’t been wrong—not entirely—but Fizz couldn’t let that show. Not with all these eyes watching, waiting for a crack in his armor to dissect and pick apart.

~o0o~

Blitzo slammed through the first door he saw, not caring what was inside. His chest heaved, the words Fizz had spat still clawing at the edges of his mind. “Worth looking at,” he muttered bitterly, the words burning like acid. His reflection stared back at him from a cracked, tarnished mirror mounted on the wall—sharp teeth, wild eyes, a face that screamed chaos. He threw a punch, and the glass splintered under his fist, shards scattering onto the cold floor.

Is that what he sees? Blitzo wondered, staring at his bloodied fist. His tail drooped, the fire in his chest dimming just enough to let doubt creep in. Is that all I am to him?

Blitzo shoved the door open again and stormed down the hall, his tail lashing behind him. Why the hell does he care so much about what they think? He thought, bitterness flaring with every step. It’s not like they’re ever going to stop looking at him. The familiar ache gnawed at his chest, sharper now, heavier.

As he turned a corner, the towering spires of the academy came into view, framed by the arched windows that stretched almost to the ceiling. The jagged spires clawed at the crimson sky, framed by storm-like Hellfire clouds. He barely spared them a glance, his focus buried in clawing memories. The grandeur of the academy didn’t impress him—it pissed him off.

“Yeah, this place screams, ‘You don’t belong here, Blitzo.’ Fancy spires, ancient magic, and zero room for screw-ups.” He kicked a loose stone hard, watching it skitter away like it was mocking him. “Perfect fit.”

Cash’s voice echoed in his head, cold and dismissive, dripping with disdain. “Don’t embarrass the family.”

Blitzo laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and grating as it escaped his throat. “Too late for that,” he said aloud, his words bouncing back at him in the quiet. His claws flexed again, and his tail lashed again, but with less force this time, as though even it was growing weary of the fight.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his claws scraping against the loose change and fraying threads as his shoulders slumped. The fiery heat from his anger began to cool, replaced by a dull ache that settled deep in his chest. His boots dragged against the floor, his strides slowing as exhaustion crept in.

Muffled laughter broke the silence like a knife through his thoughts. Blitzo stiffened, his ears twitching. He didn’t need to hear it twice to know who it was—Fizz’s bright, carefree laugh, as if nothing had gone wrong. The sound twisted in his chest, mocking and out of reach.

Fizz’s words echoed like a sharp slap: “You’re jealous because you’re not the one they’re here for!” Blitzo’s stomach twisted, the truth hitting harder than he wanted to admit. Yeah. Maybe. But he doesn’t have to act like it’s my fault.

The hum of magic in the walls buzzed faintly in his ears, making the empty corridors feel alive, watching. He felt small against the towering arches and intricate carvings, the academy’s grandeur amplifying the ache in his chest.

“All I wanted was to help,” he thought bitterly, leaning against a cold stone window sill. The sprawling expanse below was quiet, but it still felt like it was watching him. Hellfire clouds churned endlessly on the horizon. “But no, Blitz the Screw-Up strikes again. Always too much, always in the way.”

“All I ever do is make things worse,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and bitter. “But sure, let’s pretend I’m fine, right? Blitzo the big joke—always good for a laugh.” Blitzo sighed, a long, heavy exhale that seemed to drain what little energy he had left. He leaned against the wall beside the window, his head tilting back as his tail drooped limply behind him. “Why do I even bother?” he murmured, the words barely audible over the faint crackle of the torches.

He paused, pressing himself tightly to the cold stone wall as he attempted to ground himself. The air was damper, heavier, as though the academy itself was pressing in on him. He closed his eyes, the distant hum of magic from the walls thrumming faintly in his ears. Every breath felt like dragging fire through his chest. Fizz’s words still echoed, sharp and jagged, rattling in his head.

For a moment, the noise of the academy faded. Blitzo’s tail stilled, curling loosely around his ankle as he forced himself to breathe. The rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the distance broke through the oppressive silence, grounding him just enough to let his thoughts slow. His claws flexed against the wall, scraping against the stone as he exhaled shakily. He could feel the sting of his earlier frustration curling in his gut, raw and bitter.

The sound of footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor beyond, a steady rhythm that drew closer, too deliberate to belong to one of the milling students. Blitzo frowned, his ears twitching as he straightened, instinctively squaring his shoulders. He shoved the knot of frustration deeper into his chest, plastering on the sharp-edged smirk he wore so well. 

He pushed himself off the wall and rounded the corner too quickly, running headfirst into the person whose footsteps he heard. The impact sent him sprawling onto the stone floor. The air was knocked out of him in a sharp oof, and for a moment, all he could see was the faint flicker of the torchlight reflecting off polished boots. His tail curled instinctively as he braced himself, blinking up at the figure now towering over him. 

“Watch where you’re—” Blitzo started, his voice sharp and irritated as he scrambled to his knees, his tail curled instinctively as he braced himself, blinking up at the figure now towering over him. His words caught in his throat as a familiar figure stepped into the faint glow of the torches.

Prince Stolas stood tall and elegant, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes. His graceful appearance seemed almost surreal against the dim, gothic corridor, and his navy and grey feathers gleamed faintly in the glow of the torches. A faint, lavender scent clung to him, completely contrasting with the dusty, oppressive air of the academy. His large, expressive eyes blinked down at Blitzo, wide with a mixture of surprise and recognition.

“Blitzo?” Stolas asked, tilting his head slightly. His voice was soft, kind, and laced with a curious hesitance, as though he wasn’t entirely sure it was him.

Blitzo stared, dumbfounded, for a beat too long. “Uh... yeah?” His voice cracked slightly on the last syllable, disbelief colouring his tone.

A small smile tugged at Stolas’s beak, and he extended a hand toward Blitzo, his long fingers poised delicately but firmly. “I thought that was you,” he said, his tone light with just a hint of delight as though he’d stumbled upon a treasured memory.

Blitzo hesitated, his eyes darting between Stolas’s face and the offered hand. What’s his angle? he wondered, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why’s he so damn friendly? But the warm, stupidly kind expression on Stolas’s face wasn’t mocking—it was genuine, annoyingly so. With a reluctant grunt, he reached out and let Stolas pull him to his feet with a firm but graceful grip. 

As Stolas released him, a faint warmth lingered on Blitzo’s hand. He blinked, looking down to find the blood and shallow cuts on his knuckles gone, the skin smooth and unblemished. His breath caught in his throat. What the hell just happened? His tail flicked sharply behind him, betraying his nerves. He curled his hand into a fist, flexing it experimentally, half-expecting it to hurt. It didn’t. The sting of broken skin was gone, replaced by an eerie warmth that made his stomach twist.

“Did you...?” he started, glancing up at Stolas, whose composed expression hadn’t faltered. There wasn’t a hint of acknowledgment, no smugness or explanation, just that annoyingly calm gaze that felt like it could see straight through him. Blitzo flexed his fingers experimentally, half-expecting the cuts to reappear.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Blitzo asked instead, his voice sharper than he intended. His tail lashed again, but his thoughts were racing. Why’d he do that? What does he want from me? Does he think I’m some kind of charity case?

Stolas chuckled softly, his feathers fluffing slightly in amusement. “I could ask you the same,” he replied, his tone light but curious. “I’m here for my studies. Politics, ancient magic... you know, the usual for a Goetia.”

Blitzo nodded stiffly, barely hearing the words. His gaze flicked to his hand again, then back to Stolas, who was watching him with polite interest. The casual way Stolas acted, like healing someone’s injuries was just another Tuesday, made Blitzo’s skin crawl. What’s his game?

“You didn’t answer my question,” Stolas said as he tilted his head, his large eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Blitzo snapped out of his thoughts, forcing a grin. “Oh, you know,” he said, shoving his newly healed hand into his pants pocket. “Just carrying bags, stealing fancy-dagger vibes, and not embarrassing people. The usual for a thieving circus clown.”

“Hmm,” Stolas murmured, his gaze lingering on Blitzo’s pocketed hand for the briefest moment before returning to his face. He didn’t press further, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his beak as if he found something amusing about the deflection.

Blitzo scowled. Great. Now he’s laughing at me. His tail flicked sharply again, and he resisted the urge to look at his hand one more time. What’s with this bird?

But something about Stolas’s gaze—open, unflinching, and annoyingly kind—made Blitzo’s stomach twist. He wasn’t used to being looked at like that, as if he were worth the effort of someone’s attention. Not pity, not annoyance—just... curiosity, or maybe something warmer. It felt too much like the way his mother used to look at him when he scraped a knee and swore up and down that it didn’t hurt.

“It’s good to see a familiar face,” Stolas said sincerely, his large eyes softening as they lingered on Blitzo’s disheveled appearance. There was no judgment in his gaze—just quiet curiosity, as though Blitzo were a puzzle worth solving. “I didn’t think I’d run into you here,” he added, his tone warm enough to stir something Blitzo hadn’t felt in years: the faint, unnerving sense of being seen.

Blitzo’s scowl wavered for a second, his lips twitching upward despite himself. The stupidly earnest way Stolas looked at him—like he actually saw something worth the effort—made his chest feel a little lighter. Annoying, really.

"Why the hell is he looking at me like that?" Blitzo thought, irritation and something else—something softer—twisting in his chest. He forced the smirk away before it could fully form, but the faint lightness lingered like an annoying itch.

He coughed and glanced away, forcing the faint smirk back into a frown. Shifting awkwardly, he crossed his arms over his chest. The usual sarcasm that came so easily to him felt heavier now, harder to summon under Stolas’s unwavering gaze. “Yeah, well, I’m here to carry bags and not embarrass people, apparently.” The bitterness in his tone slipped out before he could stop it, his tail curling in irritation as the weight of his earlier fight with Fizz settled on him again.

Stolas’s eyebrows lifted slightly in concern, but he didn’t press. Instead, his expression shifted as if a thought had struck him. His eyes widened slightly, and a faint smile played on his lips. “Do you remember when we first met?”

Blitzo groaned loudly, throwing his head back. “Don’t remind me. You were the weird kid who wouldn’t stop talking about books and stars.”

“And you stole my father’s ceremonial dagger,” Stolas replied, his tone amused but edged with fondness. His feathers fluffed lightly as though the memory delighted him far more than it should have. “Quite the impression you left.”

“I stole much more than that,” Blitzo said with a smirk, his tail flicking with a hint of amusement now. Stolas blinked, his expression flickering between exasperation and something softer— endearment, maybe. “Not much has changed,” Blitzo muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Stolas tilted his head, his smile growing a touch wider. “No, perhaps it hasn’t.”

For a brief moment, their awkwardness softened, melting into something lighter, easier, and more manageable. Flickering firelight cast shadows across their faces, the uneven glow highlighting the contrast between Stolas’s polished, composed demeanor and Blitzo’s rough, chaotic energy. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy or uncomfortable—it was oddly calm, a brief reprieve from the chaos that seemed to follow Blitzo everywhere.

“So,” Stolas finally said, his tone gentle but curious, “are you... alright?”

Blitzo blinked at him, caught off guard. His immediate instinct was to deflect, to snap back with some sarcastic quip, but something in the way Stolas looked at him—genuinely, with no hint of judgment—made him pause. He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve been worse,” he finally muttered, his voice gruff.

Stolas nodded, his feathers shifting lightly with the motion as though Blitzo’s gruff reply was all the answer he needed. “If you ever need anything,” he said, his voice soft but sincere. A faint smile tugged at his beak as he added, “Or if these halls leave you hopelessly lost—which they often do—you can come find me.”

Blitzo snorted, the sound sharp but lacking its usual bite. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” he muttered, already stepping back. “Careful not to trip on your way to the cosmos, Your Majesty.”

Stolas chuckled softly, his feathers fluffing slightly in amusement. “I’ll do my best.”

For a moment, they lingered in the flickering torchlight, the dim corridor unusually quiet. Stolas’s warm and steady gaze remained fixed on Blitzo as if searching for something. This made Blitzo shift uncomfortably, his tail flicking sharply behind him.

Why’s he staring at me like that? Blitzo thought, his chest tightening under the weight of that stupidly kind gaze. He rolled his shoulders, shoving his hands into his pockets as if to shake off the feeling. “Weird bird,” he muttered under his breath, but the words lacked venom, trailing off as he turned to walk away.

His footsteps echoed softly in the still corridor. He didn’t glance back at first, though the sensation of being watched lingered like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. His chest felt... lighter, somehow, like the weight of the day had shifted. Not gone, but no longer pressing quite as hard. Yet the sting of Fizz’s earlier words still hovered at the edges of his mind, refusing to let go completely.

The flickering torches cast jagged shadows that danced along the cold stone, their uneven glow lending the walls an eerie, restless quality. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint smell of aged stone and something metallic, like the remnants of old magic woven into the academy’s bones. Blitzo hunched his shoulders as he walked, his boots clicking softly against the floor. The silence pressed against him, amplifying the sound of his fading footsteps as they echoed faintly down the corridor.

Stolas lingered, his large eyes catching the flicker of firelight as it danced along the corridor walls. The sharp edges of Blitzo’s frustration still hung in the air, heavy and unresolved. Beneath the fire, though, Stolas saw something more fragile—a quiet ache that struck an all-too-familiar chord in his chest. How long has he carried this? The question settled uncomfortably in his mind, stirring a faint unease he couldn’t quite name.

With a soft rustle of his cape, Stolas turned and began walking away, his talons clicking softly against the stone. But his thoughts lingered on Blitzo’s clenched fists and guarded scowl. It’s not just anger, Stolas realized. It’s a fortress— layers of jagged defenses stacked so high that even he seemed lost inside them. For a moment, he slowed, tempted to stay. Yet he pushed the feeling aside, his gaze darkening. Whatever anchored Blitzo to that pain, Stolas doubted he’d welcome anyone attempting to untangle it.

Unaware of Stolas’s lingering thoughts, Blitzo shuffled forward, his steps dragging under the weight of his own bitterness. “Gotta love this place,” he muttered, his voice low and sardonic. “Full of surprises. Mostly bad ones—like finding out you’re still the same screw-up, no matter where you go.” The torches crackled softly in reply, their flickering light casting jagged shadows that twisted like silent, unseen watchers along the walls.

~o0o~

When Blitzo returned to his room, it was well after dark, and most of the crowds had dissipated from the corridors. He sighed heavily as he pushed open the door, freezing and groaning in disbelief when Stolas turned to greet him.

Stolas looked up from his desk, a small smile gracing his beak. “Blitzo,” he greeted warmly, his tone as composed as ever. He closed the book he’d been reading with a deliberate snap. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Blitzo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Of all the people in this dump, I get stuck with the walking thesaurus.” He stomped over to his bed and dropped his bag unceremoniously onto the sagging mattress.

Stolas tilted his head, his feathers ruffling slightly in amusement. “You make it sound like I planned this,” he replied lightly. “I’d call it fate.”

“I’d call it Hell,” Blitzo muttered, crouching to shove his bag under the bed. “What, did the fancy feathers not earn you a private suite?”

“Apparently not,” Stolas said with a soft chuckle, stepping back to lean against his desk. “But I’d like to think of this as an adventure. A chance to... embrace the unfamiliar.” Stolas’s gaze lingered on Blitzo a moment longer, his eyes warm with a flicker of curiosity. Blitzo shifted under the weight of that look, muttering something incoherent as he turned away.  His eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, “Though I suspect you don’t share my enthusiasm.”

Blitzo snorted, flopping onto his bed with a dramatic groan. “Oh yeah, rooming with you is the dream. Real enlightening. Like living with a talking chandelier that smells like a spa and won’t shut up about books.”

Stolas laughed softly, his voice smooth and lilting. “And sharing a room with you, I’m sure, will be a masterclass in restraint and tidiness.”

Blitzo propped himself up on one elbow, narrowing his eyes. “Just keep your royal talons off my stuff, got it? No ‘redecorating’ my side of the room.”

Stolas’s gaze flicked to the pile of clothes spilling out of Blitzo’s half-zipped bag, and his beak twitched with amusement. “Don’t worry,” he said, a note of playful condescension in his tone. “Your... aesthetic is far too distinct for me to tamper with. It practically commands attention.”

Blitzo pointed a claw at him, his tail lashing behind him. “I’m serious. No funny business. This is my space.”

Stolas lifted his hands in mock surrender, his feathers fluffing slightly. “Understood. Your sacred territory is safe with me... roommate.”

“Don’t call me that,” Blitzo grumbled, flopping back onto the bed. “Roommate. Ugh. This is gonna be a disaster.”

The hum of Stolas’s magic filled the room again, faint and almost melodic, as he opened another book. Blitzo tried to ignore it, but the contrast between his roommate’s composed movements and his restless irritation was impossible to miss. Even the faint lavender scent hanging in the air felt like an insult.

“You better not snore,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Stolas glanced over his shoulder, looking faintly affronted. “I assure you, I do not snore.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Blitzo shot back, rolling onto his side and burying his face in the pillow. “You probably hum lullabies in your sleep or something.”

A soft chuckle escaped Stolas as he returned to his book, the corners of his beak curling upward. “Perhaps. Though if I do, I’m sure they’ll be quite soothing.”

Soothing, my ass. Probably sounds like a haunted organ recital. Blitzo huffed, but something about the way Stolas said it—like he actually believed it—needled at the edges of his irritation. Annoying bird. He yanked the pillow over his head with a groan. “Fantastic. Just kill me now.”

Even as the irritation simmered, Blitzo couldn’t help but feel the faintest flicker of relief. If nothing else, at least this weird bird wasn’t as insufferable as he could’ve been. Yet.

The faint sound of Stolas turning a page filled the room, accompanied by a soft, lingering hum of magic. Blitzo tried to ignore it, but his tail twitched restlessly. This was going to be a long night.

~o0o~

Down the hall, Stella stood frozen in the doorway of her new room, her feathers trembling slightly as her eyes roamed over the plain and unremarkable space. The room was drab, with creaky beds, scuffed walls, and a faint, musty smell that clung to the air like an insult. Her claws curled tightly at her sides, her feathers trembling as though even the air offended her sensibilities.

“This is a nightmare,” Stella said flatly, her voice cutting through the quiet. She remained rooted in place, refusing to step further inside.

Behind her, Millie was already unpacking with cheerful efficiency. With a satisfying thud, she set a sturdy bag on the floor and turned to face Stella, her hands firmly planted on her hips.

Stella’s gaze dropped to Millie’s belongings, her lip curling in visible disgust as a scuffed leather bag with frayed stitching spilled its contents across the floor. “What... is that?” she asked, her voice caught between horror and disbelief.

Millie glanced down at the mess of mismatched socks, a hunting knife, and what appeared to be a jar of pickled something-or-other. “Oh, that’s my travel kit!” she chirped, leaning down to scoop it up. “You’d be amazed how handy this stuff is. Never know when you’ll need a jar o’ somethin’ pickled!”

“Pickled,” Stella repeated, her voice flat as her feathers bristled further. “I... I think I’m going to be ill.” Stella’s icy glare snapped to Millie, her feathers bristling like a ruffled hawk. “I want to be with Stolas,” she hissed, enunciating every word as though trying to imprint them onto the universe itself. "Even sleeping in the same room as him would be better than this nightmare."

Millie tilted her head, clearly unimpressed by Stella’s dramatics. “Bless your heart, sugar, but you’ve said ‘nightmare’ so many times, I’m wonderin’ if you’re fixin’ to star in one.”

Stella’s feathers twitched violently as her head jerked back. “‘Fixin’ to star?’ What even is that barbaric phrasing?” she spat. “Are you incapable of proper speech, or do you simply revel in butchering language for sport?”

Millie grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Well, ain’t you just a fancy lil’ linguist,” she said, her accent thickening with every word. “Don’t worry, sugar. I’ll teach you all the good phrases before long!”

Stella’s expression darkened, her claws curling at her sides. “Over my dead body.”

“Suit yourself, roomie.” Millie shrugged, “And here I was gonna offer you the bed near the window as a nice bonus.”

Stella froze, her feathers fluffing with indignation as her gaze darted toward the bedframe. “A... bonus?” she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. How far have I fallen? She thought bitterly, her chest tightening. Reduced to this. The thought stung like a slap, but she squared her shoulders, refusing to let the indignity show. “I am not some commoner to be placated with window privileges, you—you insolent little—”

“Insolent? Fancy word for ‘fun.’ I like it.” Millie cut in cheerfully, completely unfazed.

Stella’s jaw worked wordlessly for a moment, her fingers twitching at her sides as though contemplating throttling her new roommate.

Stella turned her glare toward the chipped wooden bedframe, her lip curling in disdain. “That thing looks like it’s about to collapse under its weight.”

“Nah,” Millie replied, patting the frame with exaggerated confidence. “Solid as a rock. I reckon it could even hold a Goetia temper tantrum if it had to.”

Stella ignored the comment, spinning back to the door with a sharp movement that sent her feathers trembling. “This... this insult to my dignity cannot stand,” she muttered, pacing furiously. “First, Stolas is assigned to some imp, and now this nightmare?”

Millie sat on the edge of her bed, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees. "There's nothin' to be done about it."

Stella froze mid-step, her icy glare burning into Millie. “This is beneath me,” she snapped. “I don’t belong here. None of this is right.”

Millie chuckled softly, standing and brushing her hands together. “Well, sugar, you got two options: you can keep squawkin’ like a hen in a storm, or you can start makin’ this place yours.” She gestured to the room with a broad sweep of her arm. “Ain’t perfect, I’ll give you that. But it’s got four walls, a roof, and a mighty fine roommate—what more could you want?”

Stella’s feathers bristled as she paced the room, her talons clicking sharply against the stone floor. Dignity? she thought bitterly. Did she even understand the weight of that word? The Goetia name commanded respect, demanded deference—and yet here she was, crammed into a drab little cell with a commoner whose every action was an affront to her sensibilities. This wasn’t just a room assignment; it was a symbol of how far she had fallen in their eyes.

Her feathers trembled as the thought sank in, sharp and bitter. They’re testing me, she realized, her jaw tightening. They’re watching to see if I’ll falter. This wasn’t about practicality; it was a calculated humiliation designed to strip away the prestige she carried. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them see her break.

“What more could I want?” Stella snapped, spinning sharply to face Millie. Her silken feathers flicked over her shoulder, catching the faint light like an avian goddess ready to smite. “Dignity!” she cried, her voice rising into an almost operatic crescendo. “Do you even comprehend what that word means?”

Millie tilted her head, clearly enjoying the show, as she bit back a grin. “Oh, I comprehend it just fine,” she said, leaning casually against the chipped bedpost. “But sugar, I’m thinkin’ you got more feathers than sense if you think it’s gonna help you here.”

Stella’s jaw dropped, a strangled gasp escaping her. “Feathers than sense?!” she sputtered, her feathers trembling with anger. “You—You barbarian! Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

“Someone who oughta sit down before she faints,” Millie replied with a wink. “I don’t got time to be pickin’ up faintin’ birds, ya hear?”

Stella let out an incoherent shriek, pacing furiously. “This is outrageous. This—this is a disaster!” She spun sharply, her feathers puffed to twice their usual size. “And you’re enjoying this!” She accused, shoving a finger in Millie’s face.

Millie leaned back, grinning. “Aw, sugar, you’re a quick learner. This’ll be fun.”

Stella let out an exasperated huff, spinning back toward the window. “I refuse to accept this,” she muttered, pacing.

“Well,” Millie said, sliding her pillow into place and giving it a cheerful pat. “Could be worse. I’m just hopin’ you’re not one of those loud sleepers.”

Stella froze mid-pace, her feathers fluffing again. “I am not loud!” she snapped.

“Good,” Millie said brightly, hopping onto her bed and crossing her legs. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

Stella stared at her in disbelief, her feathers puffed to full volume. She opened her mouth to retort but quickly closed it, seemingly unsure what words could fully encompass her outrage.

Millie leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Yep,” she said to herself, staring up at the ceiling. “This’ll be more fun than a pig in mud.”

Stella glared at the ceiling, her feathers twitching in agitation. Somewhere in this chaos, there had to be a way to reclaim control—if she could survive the madness first.

Part Three

[bandomfandombeyond]

if the Great American North is so Progressive, and all the poor, dirty, stupid Southerners should be crawling all over each other trying to escape, why (when the average rent is already 3-4x what it is in the South) do Northern landlords still collect security deposits and first/last month's rent? why aren't they making it easy and appealing for poor Democratic voters to leave the South, if it's such a lost cause?

oh, is it because class and access to capital is a more powerful societal division and motivator than where you live on a map? *gasp* scandalously shocking! totally new information!

[howifeltabouthim]

I could see only heartbreak for her in that connection—the difference of rank and society between them was too great. And surely my sister had already suffered enough heartbreak in her life.

Alison Goodman, from The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin

[xxdreamscapes]

diary 061025 | 11:00 pm

in defense of rich friends (kinda);

I know I rag on rich people a lot, but I don’t think they’re all terrible. I know that you can be wealthy and not an asshole. I’m grateful for the grounded, down-to-earth friendships that have never made anyone question whether or not their privilege makes them shitty human beings.

When someone is consistent with their character and how they treat others, of course, money and class aren’t a problem. Because they’ve demonstrated time and time again their goodness, their empathy, and all their consideration I trust them. When people have a sense of self awareness and compassion, it shows! It’s apparent when someone has a lot of growing to do in that department. We shouldn’t have to teach adults accountability . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Listen to yourself, learn to trust your gut when the little tiny sirens start to go off in your head while you’re with someone. I’ve never regretted listening to that voice that tells me not to get into business with or continue a relationship with someone. It’s when I didn’t listen or spent years trying to get people — who’ve clearly made up their minds about me — to appreciate me or value me, that I lost myself and lost time. No matter the history, no matter how much you care about or want to keep someone in your life, some friendships sadly aren’t sustainable. Once you see someone’s true character, you can’t unsee it. And no amount of delusion, or waiting around, will make them change. And we shouldn't have to change people to get them to care. To be loved and cared for.

If I reduced my relationships to zodiac signs or tax brackets, I’d be a really shallow person. I’d be prematurely closing myself off to what could potentially be my future best friends or life partner or whatever. Wealth and the lifestyles it entails aren’t a dealbreaker for me. Subtle jabs and treating people like they’re subhuman or beneath you is. I stand firm on how I show up my relationships and how I deserve to be treated. And it doesn’t mean I put up walls then call them "boundaries" in order to protect myself from conflict or hard feelings. Trust your instincts. Trust how people treat you and others. Trust.

When people show you who they are believe them. Consistencies, inconsistencies, flaws and all. Focus on the good people, focus on the right and healthy people ♥︎

[thebigpapilio]

I want to get opinions on a thought from some of my favorite Mareach creators here.

@elitadream @akiiame-blog @palskippah

If you don't want me tagging you again, please let me know. I'll be respectful about it.

Make no mistake - Mario is great as Peach's knight/guard/et cetera. But what if he was - or at least started out - in some other "servant's position"?

Chef, waiter, janitor, doctor, mechanic, plumber, I have no idea what at the moment. But it helps him pay his and Luigi's college debt and keeps them afloat.

And then he (accidentally?) interferes with some political attack - perhaps a mercenary attack on a Mushroom Kingdom dignitary, if not Peach herself. Mario, being Mario, saves the day, and Peach insists on rewarding him.

"It really wasn't a big deal. My job is to serve you, principessa."

Peach insists on doing something to pay Mario back, but Mario is even more stubborn. Even after leaving Mario be, though, Peach can't get him his kindness out of her mind.

Mario wakes up at home a few days later and their house is paid off, as are his loans. Peach pretends she has no idea what happened.

[msfbgraves]

Cobra Kai 2.0

Something that struck me about the new Cobra Kai versus the Cobra Kai in the films -

Nearly every Cobra Kai member they focus on in the series is underprivileged. Hawk is disabled. Miguel is a poor boy whose family are immigrants. Tory is a fatherless poor caretaker of a sick mother and younger brother. Kenny is a poor black kid picked on by a bunch of rich white kids. Yes, there's Parker, but did he ever get his own episode? Aisha is a bullied black kid, though she's rich (which got her booted off the show).

The Miyagi Do's are the rich ones, the stable ones (no one we know of among them, other than Robby, has much hardship to overcome). Beautiful dojo and everything.

But that wasn't what the films were selling! The Cobra Kais were a group of mostly white preppy rich kids ganging up on one new poor kid, who, to some people in that Encino club, might still have counted as not-quite-white (if Aly was born around 1966, her parents will have been born around 1930-1940, and to those people, Daniel LaRusso would have been called a swarthy wop, guinea or dago by some people they grew up with, if they're too polite to use such language by 1983). Daniel definitely takes pains not to seem other to his environment even in 2018.

Sorry, but if your message is: "Cobra Kais are people too", why can't you simply try to win sympathy for preppy white kids? Why make Johnny into a blue collar worker? Nothing in his background suggests that. Why not make him a divorced, washed up, bankrupted investment banker? Why have Eli not simply be the vaguely Jewish kid who has trouble making friends? Really, if your whole raison d'être is "shitty rich kids are people too", why are you making it so that your protagonists are always fighting the rich kids? Who... aren't even shitty? Who did Samantha LaRusso ever hurt? And maybe there's Anthony, but he's barely in the show for three seasons.

Teaching poor kids to fight dirty because life can do you dirty is borderline justified. But The Karate Kid was about rich kids being taught to fight dirty and then taking all their advantages out on poor kids, because might makes right. Johnny, with his bike, and his preppy clothes, laughing at Daniel who has to sneak in through the kitchen to see his uptown girl. Chozen, the strong henchman to his insanely rich uncle, ganging up on the poor foreign boy. Terry Silver, making business deals with career fighter Mike Barnes. Humanise that all you like - but we also see what that looks like in the films, and that's Aly. The rich girl who really likes this new sweet kid, and doesn't care his mother is probably too outspoken for her parents' liking, and doesn't care her girlfriends don't much care for him. Aly, who is nothing but polite to Mr. Miyagi (compare that to Terry Silver's openly racist taunts), and only breaks up with Daniel when he jumps to conclusions (once about the class difference, another time when he was openly jealous about her talking to other guys). Show why, as taught by Johny, Cobra Kai 2.0 is good for those kids, or indeed show Johnny figuring out why it isn't and trying to make a change.

Because a poor kid learning "No Mercy" because they're trying to survive in a world that is trying to crush them is a very different setup than teaching a rich kid with all advantages in the world how to go around and pick on people, which is what Kreese was doing. The closest we get to that in the show is Hawk. It indeed isn't pretty and his redemption is entirely rushed, but even Eli, vaguely Jewish kid with a scarred face and trouble understanding social cues, had it much harder than, say, Tommy, who simply liked to win fights with his friends, if that meant nearly beating a young Newark boy to death after a school dance.

[lacewise]

Any understanding of class that derives from mid-20th century Britain, United States, or Canada is probably wrong. And that’s a problem because that’s where most people get their ideas about class.

If you look further back, middle housing (townhomes, condos, apartments, triplexes, quadplexes, etc) are where the middle class historically found themselves living (usually, there are exceptions). Suburbs are mostly new and they are extremely wasteful. The idea that people lived in single family homes or even semi-detached housing with large green outdoor spaces (as opposed to shared courtyards) just strikes me as very, very silly and very, very American.

A better, more honest, more accurate description of the decline of the middle class is not just the disappearance of middle housing—it’s how much middle housing has deteriorated qualitatively. We no longer consider that apartments can be big enough to raise families in. Nor do we consider that they should be well-made enough to hold up to decades of uninterrupted housing.

“Luxury” condos have nothing on early-20th brownstones of the working class. And that’s the problem.

I am having trouble reconciling the same people who rightly said that density over space are now claiming that the birthright of the middle class is the ownership of implied single family homes, presumably with spacious yards. No.

There is no class worth establishing that pines for the trappings of the rich. And there’s no need to establish it anyway, it already exists. That’s the upper middle class.

I cannot believe people are saying that waste is the only sign of being middle class that matters again. But, what’s worse, I can believe people are buying it.

Anyone who says that is no better than the TikTokers who insist that $500 Shein hauls are a necessity and excess clothing (to the point of never wearing the same outfit twice) is a human right.

[poisonedace]

Inferna Academy

9922 words | Mature | Part 5/12 Author's AO3: PoisonedAce Story Link: Inferna Academy Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Summary: Blitzo refuses to fade into the background, even as his father demands he play shadow to his childhood friend Fizzarolli at Hell’s elite university. “Fizzarolli’s our ticket to the big time.” “Don’t screw up.” “You’ll never make it on your own." Everything changes when he reunites with Stolas, a Goetia prince shackled by suffocating expectations. What begins as a quiet connection blossoms into a love neither anticipated, built on stolen glances, whispered conversations, and study sessions full of laughter. But, their happiness is short-lived. Stella’s schemes threaten to tear them apart, straining their love and fracturing Blitzo’s friendship with Fizzarolli. A story of star-crossed lovers, broken trust, and fragile hope. Can Blitzo and Stolas find their way back to each other, or are they destined to remain distant souls, yearning for what could have been?

😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈

Chapter Five: Beneath the Spotlight

😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈

Blitzo plopped his tray onto the table across from Fizzarolli, the sound muffled by the constant hum of activity. He dropped into his seat with a grin, already enthusiastically digging into his meal.

Fizzarolli barely touched his food, absently prodding a lump of charred meat with his fork. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the edge of his tray, causing Blitzo to groan inwardly. His expression was tight, his usual humor replaced with something distant.

Blitzo frowned, watching him for a moment before speaking around a mouthful of food. “Alright, what’s with the mopey face? You look like someone stepped on your tail.”

Fizz glanced up sharply, his fingers halting mid-tap. “Oh, I dunno,” he said, his tone biting. “Maybe I’m just marveling at how someone thinks they’re too good for the rest of us these days.”

Blitzo blinked, caught off guard. “Too good? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Fizz rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “You’re always off with him now. You can’t seem to stop talking about how great he is—Stolas this, Stolas that. It’s like you’re fucking him.” Fizz looked up, eyes narrowing. “You aren’t fucking him, are you?”

Blitzo raised an eyebrow, a grin slowly creeping onto his face. “Ohhh, I get it. You’re jealous,” he teased, his tail flicking behind him.

Fizz stiffened, his jaw tightening as a spark of frustration flared in his eyes. “Jealous? Of what? Your noble groupie?” he fired back, his voice sharper than usual. “Please.”

Blitzo laughed, brushing off the tension with ease. “If you’ve got a crush on him, just say so. I’ll put in a good word. He’s into charity cases.”

Fizzarolli scoffed, his fork clattering against his tray as he set it down with more force than necessary. “Yeah, right. Like I’d waste my time on someone who probably irons his socks.” His voice carried its usual snark, but the edge wasn’t playful—it was pointed. “Get real, Blitzo.”

Blitzo tilted his head, catching the flicker of something uneasy in Fizz’s expression. His tail flicked behind him as he leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting to something more casual. “You know,” he said, “it’s okay for you to have friends, right? I mean, I don’t throw a fit when you’re off tinkering with one of your gearhead buddies. But apparently, I’m supposed to stay lonely?”

Fizz’s fingers twitched as he avoided Blitzo’s gaze. “Stop being ridiculous,” he muttered.

Blitzo frowned, setting his fork down with exaggerated care. “Am I, though? Because it sure feels like every time I talk to Stolas, you get all weird about it.” He leaned back, his arms crossing as he watched Fizz closely. “What’s the deal? You scared I’m gonna trade you in for a new best friend?”

Fizz snorted, but his smirk was fleeting, a shadow of its usual self. “Like anyone could replace me,” he muttered, shoving his tray aside with a dismissive wave. “I’m just saying—don’t let your noble buddy fill your head with crap.”

Blitzo laughed, but the sound was harsh even to his own ears, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Fizz. “Relax, Feathers isn’t brainwashing me or anything. And even if he tried, it wouldn’t stick. My skull’s way too thick for that.”

Fizz didn’t reply immediately, his fingers tapping idly on the table. “Yeah, well...” he muttered, more to himself than to Blitzo, “nobles like him don’t just help people for nothing.”

Blitzo raised an eyebrow at the remark but chose not to press further. Instead, he brushed it off with a shrug, picking his fork back up. “Whatever you say, Fizz.”

The tension between them lingered, unspoken but heavy, like the faint hum of a storm on the horizon.

Lunch ended with an uncomfortable silence lingering between them. As they left the dining hall, the noise faded and was replaced by the quieter hum of distant chatter and footsteps echoing off stone walls. The contrast was stark—just the two of them now, walking side by side through the academy's corridors.

Blitzo glanced at Fizz, who had been unusually quiet since their exchange. “So... you gonna keep sulking, or do I have to start singing to cheer you up?” he teased, his grin light but probing.

Fizz didn’t take the bait; his shoulders tense as his fingers twitched at his sides. Finally, he stopped in his tracks, forcing Blitzo to turn back.

“You’ve been off, Blitzo.”

Blitzo raised an eyebrow, his tail flicking behind him. “Off? What are you talking about?”

Fizz crossed his arms, his fingers gripping his elbows tightly. “Ever since you started buddying up to Stolas, it’s like you’re not even here anymore.”

Blitzo blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness in Fizz’s tone. “You’re acting like I’m ditching you for some noble study, buddy. Chill out.”

Fizz’s voice rose, his usual humor replaced by something rawer. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so busy trying to impress him!”

Blitzo flinched at the accusation, his tail lashing sharply. “Impress him? I’m not trying to impress anyone! He’s helping me with stuff I actually need to learn, okay? Not everything’s about you, Fizz.”

Fizz stepped closer, his frustration bleeding into his voice. “Yeah, well, it sure feels like it! You’re supposed to be here to help me, not flirt with royals.”

Blitzo’s fists tightened, and for a moment, he was too stunned to reply. “Flirt with—are you serious? That’s what you think I’m doing?”

Fizz threw his hands up, his joints clicking. “What else am I supposed to think? You light up every time he talks to you!” He faltered, his smirk fading. “Hell, Blitzo, I don’t even care if you wanna cozy up to him or whatever, but don’t act like it’s not screwing with us.”

Blitzo’s tail lashed again, his claws twitching at his sides. “That’s not fair, Fizz! I’m allowed to have other people in my life.”

Fizz’s expression was twisted, and there was a mix of anger and something more vulnerable. “It’s not about that, Blitzo. It’s about—” He stopped, his fingers curling into fists as he looked away. “Forget it. Just forget I said anything.”

“No, say it!” Blitzo snapped, his voice louder than he intended. “You clearly have something to get off your chest, so go ahead!”

Fizz glared at him, his voice shaking with emotion. “Fine. You wanna know? I don’t like feeling like I’m losing you, alright? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Blitzo stared at Fizz, the rawness in his voice cutting deeper than he’d expected. “Fizz, you’re not—”

“Save it,” Fizz interrupted, his voice quiet now. “Go ahead, Blitzo. Do your thing with Stolas. Just... don’t forget who’s always had your back.”

The weight of his words hung in the air as Fizz turned and walked away, the soft sound of his feet on the stone echoing in the empty corridor.

Blitzo leaned against the wall, his horns lightly tapping the cold stone. The dull thunk echoed faintly, mirroring the turmoil in his mind. The argument replayed in his head, each word cutting deeper than the last.

Fizz had always been there, no matter how much Blitzo messed up. Losing him wasn’t an option. But then there was Stolas—the noble who shouldn’t have given him a second glance but did, who saw him not as a tagalong but as someone worth teaching. How could he balance both without tipping everything over?

Blitzo shook his head, shoving the thought aside. “What the hell am I doing?” he muttered to himself.

He pushed off the wall and started walking, but the weight of Fizz’s words lingered, pressing down on him like a storm cloud he couldn’t outrun.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The library was a haven of calm amidst the academy's chaos. Rows of towering bookshelves stretched to the arched ceiling, and the soft glow of Hellfire lanterns cast warm light over the aged spines of countless tomes. The hum of activity from the dining hall was a distant memory here, replaced by the faint rustle of pages and the occasional creak of a chair.

Blitzo sat hunched over a table near the back, his tail flicking in irritation as he stared down at a dense text filled with diagrams and runes he barely understood. Stolas sat across from him, poised and serene, his glowing eyes scanning the page with ease. Between them lay an assortment of books, parchment, and pens, the cluttered arrangement mirroring Blitzo’s scattered thoughts.

“Blitzo,” Stolas said gently, not looking up from the book he was flipping through. “You’ve been staring at that same page for the past five minutes. Something on your mind?”

Blitzo’s mouth twitched, and he straightened slightly, his tail curling defensively around his chair. “What? No, I’m just... uh... processing. Yeah, that’s it.”

Stolas raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his beak. “Processing? Or avoiding?”

Blitzo sighed, leaning back in his chair with a dramatic groan. “Fine, you caught me. I’m distracted. Happy now, Feathers?”

“I’m content when you are,” Stolas replied smoothly. “Now, do you care to share what’s on your mind? Or shall I continue to guess?”

Blitzo hesitated, tapping his claws against the edge of the table. “It’s nothing. Just... y’know, stuff.” His tail flicked sharply, betraying his discomfort.

Stolas’s gaze softened as he set the book aside, folding his hands neatly on the table. “You don’t strike me as someone who gets distracted by ‘nothing,’ Blitzo.”

Blitzo snorted, deflecting with a crooked grin. “Maybe I’m just bored outta my mind with all this fancy noble jargon. Seriously, who writes this stuff? It’s like they want us to hate it.”

Stolas chuckled, though his eyes remained steady on Blitzo. “A valiant effort at misdirection,” he said lightly, “but I suspect there’s more to it than that.”

Blitzo avoided his gaze, focusing on the book in front of him. “Look, I didn’t sign up for a therapy session, alright? Let’s just stick to the snooze-fest text.”

They lapsed into a brief silence, but Stolas’s curiosity lingered. He tilted his head slightly, studying Blitzo as he tapped a pen against his notebook. For all his brashness and humor, there was a guardedness to the imp that intrigued Stolas. How fascinating, he thought, that someone so openly defiant could still be so careful with the parts of himself he let others see.

“You know,” Stolas said after a pause, his tone quieter now, “the way you simplify things—even in this mess of a text—there’s a kind of honesty to it. You never try to be anyone but yourself. It’s... freeing.”

Blitzo looked up, startled by the sincerity in Stolas’s voice. “Uh... thanks, I guess? Not a lot of people would call me refreshing.”

“That’s their loss,” Stolas replied with a faint smile.

Blitzo chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Man, you’ve got a way of making things sound all fancy. If I tried that, people would just think I hit my head.”

Stolas laughed softly, the sound warm and unguarded. “You don’t need to do anything with it. Simply take it as it is.”

Blitzo shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he returned to the book in front of him. Stolas watched him for a moment longer before picking up his text again, his expression pensive.

As the evening wore on, the library grew quieter, the flickering lanterns casting elongated shadows across the tables. Blitzo yawned, stretching his arms over his head and leaning back in his chair.

“Alright, I’m calling it,” he announced, slamming his book shut. “If I try to cram one more word into my brain, it’s gonna explode.”

Stolas chuckled, marking his page with a slip of parchment. “Very well. Perhaps it’s time for a break.”

Blitzo stood, stretching again. “How do you read this crap for fun? I’d rather stick my head in a hornet’s nest—it’d be faster and less painful.”

“It’s not so bad once you’re used to it,” Stolas replied, gathering the books into a neat stack. His tone softened as he added, “Besides, it’s a distraction from other matters.”

Blitzo tilted his head, catching the shift in Stolas’s demeanor. “Other matters? Like what?”

Stolas hesitated, his gaze dropping to the table. “It’s family,” he admitted, his voice soft. “Not something I usually talk about, but... it’s far from harmonious.”

Blitzo studied him for a moment, his tail flicking. “Yeah, well, guess everyone’s got something, huh?” He shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. “Family drama’s more my speed—at least that crap’s explosive.”

Stolas smiled faintly but tilted his head, his glowing eyes softening with curiosity. “Speaking of family... I’ve noticed you’ve been practicing with Fizzaroli more than usual lately. Is there a particular reason?”

Blitzo paused, his tail flicking sharply before curling loosely around his leg. “Oh. Uh...” He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Stolas’s gaze. “My family’s circus is coming for the Harvest Festival. We’re putting on a show.”

Stolas’s eyes lit up, and he straightened with excitement. “A performance? That’s wonderful! I’ll make sure to attend.”

Blitzo’s tail wrapped around his calf, and he waved his hands quickly. “No, no, you don’t have to do that. It’s just... y’know, some lame circus act. Nothing fancy.”

“Nonsense,” Stolas said with a wide smile, his tone firm. “I wouldn’t miss it. I’m sure you’ll be spectacular.”

Blitzo sighed, muttering under his breath, “Yeah, spectacular. Me and Fizz can’t get our shit together, but sure.” He glanced at Stolas, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “Seriously, you don’t need to come. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is to me,” Stolas replied, his voice earnest. “I want to see what you’ve been working so hard on. Besides, I haven’t been to the circus since we met. I’d love to get a chance to go again.”

Blitzo snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets as they walked out of the library. “Yeah, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you if it’s a mess.” His tone was flippant, but the faint flicker of a blush on his face hadn’t escaped Stolas’s notice.

~o0o~~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The library’s calm had been a reprieve, but as Stolas stepped into his dorm room, the air grew heavy. The dim glow of a solitary lantern cast flickering shadows that twisted along the pristine walls. His side of the room was immaculate—every object meticulously placed—but its order felt hollow, like a script he’d memorized too well—a reflection of duty, not of him.

He set down his books with a quiet sigh, the weight of the day settling over him. His gaze landed on the envelope waiting on his desk, and his chest tightened. It didn’t belong here, in the sanctuary he’d carved within the academy walls. And yet, here it was, waiting like an uninvited guest.

The wax crest of the Goetia family gleamed under the lantern’s light, its intricate design sharp and unyielding.

Stolas approached slowly, his claws brushing over the seal before carefully breaking it. The words inside greeted him with their usual precision—elegant, calculated, and suffocating.

Stolas, It has come to my attention that your focus has been misplaced lately. While I understand the distractions of your studies, it is imperative that you remember your responsibilities as a Goetian heir. Your actions have consequences—not just for yourself, but for our family’s reputation. Your current associations are unseemly and reflect poorly on the legacy we are duty-bound to uphold. Do not forget your place. As always, I expect you to correct this behavior swiftly. With our impending union, I trust you will make the appropriate choices to honor our family’s name and future. After all, protecting the Goetian legacy is not just a responsibility—it is an obligation. Sincerely, Stella

The letter trembled slightly in Stolas’s hands as he read and reread the words. Every line was crafted to remind him of his place, to suffocate any hint of individuality beneath the crushing weight of duty. Accusations of neglect. Thinly veiled threats. Expectations that stretched far beyond his reach. Each word clawed at him until the paper felt heavier than it should have.

His talons scraped against the paper, their faint rasp breaking the suffocating silence. For a moment, he considered tearing it apart, the thought sparking a flicker of rebellion. But then his eyes caught the Goetian crest stamped at the top—a stark reminder of the ever-watchful legacy looming over him—and the idea crumbled, just like his resolve.

With a sharp exhale, he folded the letter slowly, pressing each crease down with precision as though taming his frustration. He placed it on the desk with deliberate care, staring at it for a moment longer before turning away.

His steps were restless as he paced the room, the flickering lantern throwing fractured shadows across the walls. The perfect order surrounding him began to feel distorted, like a prison too pristine to escape. His shoulders tensed, breath shallow and uneven.

“Unseemly associations,” he muttered bitterly, the venom in his voice unfamiliar yet cutting. “For the family name. Of course.”

The words clung to him like chains, dragging him back to every lesson drilled into him since childhood. Duty. Honor. Legacy. Concepts carved into him like grooves in stone, shaping a mold he’d never chosen. He stopped near the window, his palm pressing against the cold glass. The chill bit at his skin, grounding him briefly as he stared into the endless red-black of the night sky. The vastness beyond the glass mocked him, freedom tantalizingly out of reach.

Stolas sank into the chair by the window, resting his forehead against his palm. His glowing eyes dimmed with exhaustion as his reflection stared back at him in the glass. For all her control, Stella couldn’t take everything—not yet, in any case.

His mind drifted to Blitzo—the imp’s raw honesty, unpolished humor, and the way he seemed utterly free of the shackles Stolas felt with every breath. Blitzo didn’t demand perfection or suffocate him with expectations. He just… was. Reckless and defiant, Blitzo challenged everything Stolas had been taught to value. There was something about him, something unrestrained and real, that drew Stolas in like a moth to a flame.

But that freedom felt impossibly far away.

And yet, Stella’s words loomed like a specter. Do not forget your place. The engagement was a chain pulling him back to a life he’d never chosen. The letter was a reminder of the inevitable—a future he couldn’t escape.

“What do you want from me, Stella?” he whispered, his voice low and raw. “Haven’t I given enough?”

Stolas’s talons clenched against his knees as his thoughts swirled—a storm of guilt, anger, and longing. The choice before him felt impossible: to follow the path carved for him or to risk everything for the briefest taste of something else. Of something that felt like his.

For now, all he could do was stare into the darkness and wonder which path would break him first.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The stage creaked faintly beneath their feet as Blitzo and Fizzarolli moved through the motions of their routine. The festival crowd bustled in the distance, their distant laughter and chatter a low hum that barely reached the center of the stage, the area closed down for practice. The lights above cast harsh shadows, but the usual magic of their performance was missing. Each step felt heavier, and each move was less precise than it should have been.

Blitzo stumbled over his footing during one of their flips, and Fizzarolli’s timing was just a fraction off. They landed unevenly, their breathing labored, and their synchronization nowhere near the perfection they usually achieved.

Blitzo sighed, wiping his face with the back of his arm. “This fight’s screwing everything up, Fizz,” he muttered, his voice tight with frustration. “I can’t even focus.”

Fizz avoided his gaze, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “Yeah, well... maybe if you weren’t so busy cozying up to royalty, this wouldn’t have happened,” he shot back, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

Blitzo’s tail lashed behind him, but before he could respond, Cash’s voice boomed from the side of the stage, cutting through the tension like a knife.

“Blitzo! What the hell was that?!” Cash bellowed, his fists clenched as he stormed toward them. “You call that a routine? You’re ruining the act with your half-assed bullshit!”

Blitzo flinched but quickly straightened, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. “I’m not the only one messing up!” he snapped, gesturing toward Fizz. “Maybe yell at him for once instead of always blaming me!”

Fizz stiffened, his gaze darting nervously between Cash and Blitzo.

Cash’s eyes narrowed as he marched closer. “Don’t you dare talk back to me, boy,” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

Blitzo held his ground, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Why not? You’re always on my case! Maybe if you actually paid attention, you’d see I’m not the only one screwing things up!”

The crack of the slap echoed across the stage. Blitzo’s head snapped to the side, his cheek already reddening as he staggered back. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The faint creak of the stage beneath his bare feet was the only sound heard, filling the space where words failed. Blitzo didn’t wait for anyone to say more. He turned sharply and stormed off the stage, his hooves thudding heavily against the wooden planks.

"Blitzo!" Fizz called, his voice laced with panic. He took a step toward his friend, his hand twitching uncertainly as he made to chase him. But Barbie appeared at his side, grabbing his arm and stopping him in his tracks.

 "Stay here," she said firmly, her eyes locked on Blitzo’s retreating form. Her tone left no room for argument. "I’ll handle it."

Fizz hesitated, torn between listening and following, his gaze darting between Barbie and Blitzo. Barbie didn’t wait for further protests. She took off after Blitzo, her pace quick but deliberate as she followed the faint trail of his hooves he’d left behind.

She found him slumped behind a large tree near the edge of the forest surrounding the festival grounds. His breathing was ragged, and his arms were crossed tightly against his chest. His nails dug deeply into the skin of his forearms, blood trailing down his arms and onto the legs of his costume.

Barbie’s heart twisted as she crouched in front of her brother. “Blitzo,” Barbie murmured, crouching in front of him. He didn’t respond, his crimson eyes fixed on the ground. Seeing him like this—so small, so broken—was a punch to the gut. She pried his claws from his arms, her touch gentle but insistent. “You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep this up,” she said softly, struggling to talk over the tightening of her throat.

Blitzo finally looked up at her, his crimson eyes rimmed with tears, makeup smeared into streaks of black and red. His lips trembled as he muttered bitterly, “Who cares.” His voice cracked, and his claws dug into his arms again. “I’m just a fuck-up. What’s the difference if I hurt myself? Doesn’t matter.”

The words hung in the air, raw and cutting, and Barbie’s chest ached at the pain in his voice. She didn’t reply immediately, her hands gently prying his claws away from his arms once more. Then she pulled him into her embrace, wrapping her arms tightly around him. Her hand cradled the back of his head, holding him close to her chest.

“You didn’t ruin anything. It was just practice,” she whispered, her voice steady but soft, her lips brushing against his forehead. “You’re not a fuck-up, Blitzo. You’re just tired. And hurt. And that’s okay. It’s okay to feel like this.”

Blitzo’s breath hitched as the dam broke, and quiet, shuddering sobs spilled out of him. His tears soaked into her costume, his body trembling as months of frustration, guilt, and pain poured out. Barbie didn’t say anything else, didn’t shush him or try to force him to calm down. She just held him, her grip firm and unwavering.

Minutes passed until his cries slowly subsided into hiccups and heavy breathing. Barbie stroked his horns gently, her nails scratching lightly against them in a soothing rhythm. “That’s it,” she murmured. “Let it out.”

When Blitzo finally pulled back, his cheeks were blotchy, streaked with dried tears and smudged makeup. His crimson eyes were bloodshot, glistening under the faint light filtering through the trees.

Barbie reached into her pocket and pulled out a wet wipe, dabbing at his face with surprising care. “You look like hell, kiddo,” she teased lightly, though her voice was still warm and comforting.

Blitzo sniffled, his tail flicking weakly behind him. “Gee, thanks,” he muttered, though a faint, shaky smile tugged at his lips.

Barbie grinned, brushing stray tears off his face. “That’s more like it.” She folded the tissue, tucking it into her pocket before tilting his face up with a gentle hand. Her expression sobered as she saw the dark bruise spreading across his cheek. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes darkened with anger. “That bastard,” she muttered under her breath, her fingers ghosting over the bruise without touching it.

Blitzo winced, trying to pull his face away, but Barbie held him still. “Stay put,” she said firmly, though her tone was laced with concern. She took a deep breath, her voice softening again. “You didn’t deserve that, Blitzo. None of it.”

Blitzo’s gaze dropped, his tail curling around his leg. “Maybe I did,” he mumbled. “I keep screwing everything up. Fizz, the routine, everything.”

Barbie’s grip on his chin tightened, forcing him to look at her. “Don’t you dare,” she said, her tone fierce now. “You’re not the reason for any of this, Blitzo. You’ve got so much on your plate, and you’re still here, still trying. That’s more than most people can say.”

Her words hit something deep within him, and Blitzo blinked, his lips parting slightly as if to argue, but nothing came out.

Barbie smiled faintly, reaching into her bag to pull out her compact mirror and foundation. “Now, let’s fix you up. You can’t go back looking like this, or they’ll think you’ve been wrestling with a bear.”

Blitzo frowned, trying to lean away. “Barb, I’m not going back. I’ll just mess up again.”

Barbie stilled, her hands hovering over her makeup. “The point, dumbass,” she said, though her tone held no bite, “is that you keep going, no matter what. You’re not doing this for Dad or Fizz or anyone else. You’re doing this for you. And maybe that cute noble you keep talking about.”

Blitzo groaned, covering his face with his hands as he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “Barb, come on,” he muttered, his voice muffled.

Barbie laughed softly, patting his hands away so she could dab the foundation over his bruise. “Mama would freak if she saw this,” she said after a moment, her tone softening. “You know she misses her baby, right?”

Blitzo’s expression faltered, his voice quieter. “Yeah, everyone misses Fizz.”

Barbie rolled her eyes and gave him a light shove. “I meant you, idiot.”

She took out an eyeshadow palette, tilting his chin up to fix his makeup. “You’ve always been the pretty one,” she said with a smirk.

Blitzo snorted. “Don’t be stupid. I just got the incubus gene. Makes me look prettier than I actually am.”

Barbie laughed. “I got it too, loser. That’s not it.” She added a touch of shimmer to his cheeks and nose, then leaned back to inspect her work. “There. Almost good as new.”

Blitzo glanced at her, his tail flicking nervously.  “Thanks, Barb. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Barbie smoothed down his costume and fixed the collar, her smile softening. “You’d manage,” she teased, but her voice wavered. “But you don’t have to. I’ll always be here, Blitzo.”

Blitzo nodded shakily, and for a moment, they sat in silence. The distant hum of the festival reminded them of the world waiting beyond the trees. But for now, in this small bubble of safety, Blitzo let himself breathe.

The wooden bleachers creaked as Stolas adjusted his seat, settling closer to the edge of his spot near the front. The air buzzed with energy—children’s laughter mixing with the whir and clatter of the nearby rollercoaster. Its rickety wooden tracks groaned faintly, blending with distant cries of joy and occasional screams of thrill-seekers.

Stolas’s glowing eyes scanned the stage eagerly, his talons tapping lightly against his thighs. The chatter of the crowd rose as the lights dimmed, and he gasped audibly when the stage lights burst to life, illuminating the platform in a golden glow. Clapping enthusiastically, his tall frame stood out even among the cheering crowd, and his gaze darted around, searching for one face.

And then, there he was.

Blitzo stepped into the spotlight, his wiry frame commanding attention as he moved with confidence. The shimmer of stage powder highlighted the sharp lines on his face, and his eyes gleamed brighter under the lights. Each movement radiated charisma, and Stolas felt his breath hitch.

He looks incredible, Stolas thought, his chest tightening. His energy, his focus—it’s magnetic.

Beside him, Fizzarolli moved with equal precision, their chemistry on stage undeniable. They began with a seamless series of flips and synchronized cartwheels, their movements fluid and captivating. The trapeze ropes descended from the ceiling, and Blitzo leaped onto one with daring ease, his tail curling for balance as he twisted mid-air. The crowd erupted into cheers, and Stolas leaned forward, wide-eyed with awe.

Each leap and twist carried an undercurrent of defiance, as though Blitzo was determined to prove someone wrong. The spotlight followed him, and his form was a perfect balance of grace and raw determination. Every twist and turn was sharp and precise—except for the moments when it wasn’t, which only made the performance feel more human and real.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he, Your Highness?” a cheerful voice said suddenly, breaking Stolas’s trance.

He startled, turning sharply to find Millie grinning at him. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I hadn’t realized—well, yes, he’s absolutely breathtaking,” he said, his voice filled with wonder as he turned back to the stage.

“MOVE,” a sharp, imperious voice snapped behind him.

Stolas sighed heavily, his shoulders stiffening as Stella loomed over them. Millie didn’t flinch, leaning closer to Stolas, her hand on his thigh for balance so she could look around Stella.

“No, thank you,” Millie said pleasantly, tilting her head to peer around Stella. “This seat’s perfect. Oh! You see that girl?” She pointed toward the backstage area where Barbie could be seen watching from the wings. “That’s his twin sister.”

“His twin sister?” Stolas’s interest was piqued, but when he tried to follow Millie’s finger, Stella’s imposing figure blocked his view. He reached out a hand and grabbed Millie’s hip to steady her. Her hand had slipped when Stella moved closer, and she’d leaned too far forward. “Stella, do get out of the way,” he said, irritation creeping into his tone. “I’m trying to watch the show, and you’ve nearly made Millie fall.”

“She’s in my seat,” Stella replied coldly.

Stolas waved dismissively behind him. “She was here first, and there are plenty of other seats. Besides, we were having a conversation before you so rudely interrupted.”

“Stolas—” Stella began, her tone sharp.

“Enough, Stella,” he cut her off firmly. “Go find another seat or go away.”

After a tense beat, Stella huffed and turned sharply, climbing a few rows up to sit behind them. Stolas exhaled quietly and turned back to Millie. “They do look alike, don’t they?” he mused. “Both are very beautiful. I wonder—do you think it’s luck, or does their family choose partners for their looks?”

Millie shrugged, her eyes glued to the stage. “I dunno.” She winced as Blitzo reached for the trapeze, only for his grip to falter. He plummeted to the stage with a sickening thud, blood spurting from his nose as gasps rippled through the crowd. “Shit,” Millie winced, her hands gripping the edge of her seat while Stolas’s glowing eyes widened with alarm. The crowd’s reaction was mixed—a murmur of gasps and uneasy applause rippling through the festival grounds as Fizzarolli hesitated mid-act, his movements faltering.

Barbie burst onto the stage in a flash of determination, her feet slapping sharply against the wooden planks. Her posture was commanding, exuding a confidence that cut through the stunned silence. Without missing a beat, she gave Fizzarolli a quick signal—a subtle hand motion that told him to carry on. He hesitated for only a moment before resuming the routine, his arms twirling in exaggerated gestures to recapture the crowd’s attention.

She crouched next to Blitzo, who was struggling to sit up. Blood dripped steadily from his nose, smearing against his pale makeup and staining his costume and the stage. She placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, her voice low but firm as she muttered something only he could hear. Ignoring the audience, she looped an arm around his back and carefully hauled him to his feet.

The crowd’s applause grew louder, more confused than enthusiastic, as Barbie steered Blitzo offstage. Her sharp glare toward Cash, who loomed near the wings, was enough to keep him momentarily silent. Her expression was one of barely contained fury as she disappeared into the shadows with her brother.

Stolas’s heart clenched as he watched, his feet already moving before he realized it. “Excuse me,” he murmured to Millie, stepping past her and making his way toward the backstage area. The applause from the audience felt distant, muffled by the roaring in his ears.

He rounded the corner just as Cash’s booming voice broke through the tense quiet like a thunderclap. “YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE DISGRACE TO THIS FAMILY! CAN YOU DO NOTHING RIGHT? PRINCE STOLAS AND HIS FIANCEE ARE IN THE CROWD, AND YOU MADE A COMPLETE EMBARRASSMENT OF US!”

Blitzo flinched under the weight of the words, his shoulders hunched and his tail curling defensively around his waist. His head hung low, and the ice pack Barbie had shoved into his hands trembled as he gripped it tightly.

Barbie’s face twisted with anger, her fists clenched at her sides. “He wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t swollen half his cheek and messed up his view!” she snapped, stepping in front of her brother, shielding him from their father’s wrath.

Cash snarled. “Get back on stage, Barbie.”

Stolas paused, lingering just out of sight for a moment as he took in the scene. Blitzo looked smaller somehow, his usual bravado stripped away under Cash’s tirade. Barbie stood firm, defiant, and protective, her eyes blazing as she faced down their father.

This wasn’t just an argument—it was a battlefield, and Stolas knew he couldn’t stand by and watch. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped into the room, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the tense standoff.

A large shadow loomed over Barbie, and she turned, her eyes widening slightly before recognition set in. She straightened her posture, her expression hardening as she faced her father once more. “I’m telling Mama when we get home,” Barbie retorted, her voice icy and unwavering. “You’re why he avoids going back.”

Cash’s face reddened, his fists clenching at her defiance, but before he could respond, Barbie turned sharply, pivoting to Stolas. She dipped into a quick, polite bow, her voice softening slightly. “Your Majesty,” she said with restrained respect, then spun on her heel and strode back onto the stage. Her expression transformed into a bright, radiant smile as she waved to the crowd, seamlessly picking up the act where Fizzarolli had left off.

Cash shifted his weight, his jaw tightening as he turned toward Stolas. “Y-your Highness, I apologize for my son’s—”

“Leave us.” Stolas’s voice was cold, cutting through Cash’s attempt at justification. His glowing eyes narrowed, radiating an authority that left no room for argument.

Cash opened his mouth as if to protest, but the fire in Stolas’s gaze froze him in place. With a sharp huff, Cash stormed off, his heavy footsteps echoing backstage as he disappeared.

The tension in the air lingered, thick and suffocating. Stolas exhaled softly and turned his full attention to Blitzo, who sat slumped against a wooden crate, his hands pressed tightly to his bloodied face. Stolas knelt beside him, his movements deliberate and gentle, and reached out to pull Blitzo’s hands away. “Blitzo,” he said softly, his tone warm with concern, “let me see.”

Blitzo flinched at the touch, his crimson eyes darting to the side. “Stolas, you don’t need to—”

“Shh,” Stolas interrupted, dabbing at the blood on Blitzo’s face with a handkerchief retrieved from his pocket. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as though Blitzo might shatter under too much pressure. “You’ve got a black eye, but I don’t think your nose is broken.”

Blitzo gave a weak, bitter laugh. “Great. I can still screw up my next performance without looking too ugly.”

Stolas tilted his head, his glowing eyes scanning Blitzo’s bruised face. “You didn’t screw up,” he said firmly, his voice low but resolute. “The strength and courage it takes to perform—especially in circumstances like these where the entire student body and their families are watching—is more than most could ever hope to achieve. I think you were remarkable.”

Blitzo blinked at the unexpected words, his tail flicking behind him nervously. “Yeah, well, tell my bruised ego that when I’m not flat on my ass in front of royalty,” he quipped, though his voice wavered slightly, the humor not fully masking the emotion beneath.

Stolas’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I’m telling you now, bruises and all,” he said, his tone unwavering. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all to people who can’t see what’s right in front of them.”

Blitzo’s eyes softened, and for a moment, his usual bravado faltered. “It doesn’t matter what you think. It’s never enough for him.”

Stolas’s expression darkened briefly, but he quickly softened his tone. “What matters is what you think of yourself, Blitzo. Don’t let anyone take that from you—not him, not anyone.”

Blitzo looked away, his claws fidgeting with the edges of the ice pack Stolas had gently placed on his cheek. “I don’t know what to think,” he muttered. “Feels like everything I do just... isn’t enough.”

Stolas reached out again, placing a steadying hand on Blitzo’s shoulder. “It’s enough,” he said, his voice low and resolute. “You are enough.”

Blitzo let out a shaky exhale, his head tilting slightly as he processed the words. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice rough but genuine. He looked at Stolas then, his expression a mix of uncertainty and something softer. “I mean it. Thanks.”

Stolas smiled faintly, withdrawing his hand but remaining close. “I’ll stay here for a while,” he said softly, settling beside Blitzo on the floor. “Just until you’re ready.”

Blitzo didn’t respond, but he didn’t push Stolas away either. Instead, he leaned back slightly, letting himself breathe as the distant murmur of the crowd and the faint music from the stage drifted through the air.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

After the performance, Stolas and Blitzo found themselves at the festival that was sprawled across the campus like a patchwork carnival, vibrant and chaotic. Stalls lined the pathways, their makeshift signs painted in gaudy colors and adorned with tattered streamers. The air carried a mix of tantalizing smells—roasted nuts, caramel apples, and sizzling meat skewers—blended with the sharp tang of cheap fireworks. Amid the laughter and chatter, bursts of frustration punctuated the night; voices rose in arguments over rigged games and overpriced prizes. Somewhere near a dart booth, a customer’s shout echoed, “This is a scam!” followed by the clatter of darts hitting the ground.

Blitzo ducked beneath a swaying banner advertising a ring-toss game, his tail flicking as he navigated the uneven cobblestone path. Lanterns strung between trees cast a dim, flickering glow, their light failing to mask the scuffs and cracks in the festival’s cobbled-together attractions. A stuffed bear dangled lopsidedly from one of the prize hooks, its missing eye and frayed fur a stark testament to how long it had been put up as a prize. Above it, a demonic bat-like creature perched on the stall’s awning, letting out a low, unsettling chitter that blended with the murmurs of the crowd.

“Man, this place is a madhouse,” Blitzo muttered, glancing over his shoulder. Stolas followed at a more measured pace, his tall, regal frame out of place amidst the disheveled booths and rickety attractions.

“Festivals like these are meant to be lively,” Stolas remarked, his glowing eyes scanning the scene with a sense of excitement. A burst of laughter from a nearby stall was interrupted by a child’s wail of disappointment as their parent argued with the booth operator. Stolas tilted his head, observing the chaos with mild amusement. “It’s a celebration, after all.”

“Yeah, well, my kind of celebration involves way more booze,” Blitzo quipped, though his gaze lingered on a nearby stall. A faded sign above the booth read Win Big! while a tired attendant handed a cheaply sewn stuffed animal to a disappointed customer. Blitzo scoffed, quickly looking away. “What’s the point of winning? You pay ten bucks for a five-cent prize. That’s capitalism at its finest.”

“Don’t you work at a circus?” Stolas’s smile curved slightly as he noticed the fleeting glance. “Perhaps there’s more to enjoy here than you’re willing to admit.”

Blitzo rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, tugging at the hem of his jacket as they continued walking. Around them, voices rose and fell—a mix of excitement, frustration, and occasional bursts of sarcastic laughter. A juggler near the fountain fumbled his act, the dropped pins met with groans and a smattering of halfhearted applause. Lanterns swayed in the slight breeze, their golden light mingling with the faint glow of sparklers clutched by some of the younger students. Just above the sound of it all was an eerie hum that pulsed faintly from somewhere beyond the crowd, the sound low and resonant, like a massive unseen insect lurking just out of sight.

The festival's din softened as they wandered further from the main square, following a winding path to a small hill overlooking the event. The laughter and arguments grew distant, replaced by a faint, rhythmic chirping—like crickets but with a sharper, more metallic edge. The occasional rustling of leaves carried an unsettling undertone as though something unseen was watching. Lanterns gave way to the reddish sheen of moonlight as they climbed to the hilltop, where the view stretched over the carnival’s scattered glow.

Blitzo flopped onto the grass with a dramatic groan, his arms spread wide as he stared up at the night sky. “Finally, some peace and quiet. Thought I was gonna lose my damn mind back there.”

Stolas lowered himself more gracefully, sitting beside Blitzo with his legs folded. He glanced down at the imp, who was tapping his fingers absently against the grass. “You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys large crowds.”

Blitzo shrugged, his tail flicking in agitation. “Crowds are fine. It’s the festival noise. Sounds like Hell’s karaoke night, and I’m the idiot without earplugs. Reminds me of...” He trailed off, his tone shifting. For a moment, his fingers stilled. Then, with a scoff, he brushed it off with a quick, “Forget it.”

Stolas didn’t press him, though his curiosity was piqued. Instead, he turned his gaze upward as the first fireworks streaked across the sky. It burst into a cascade of blue and green, illuminating their faces with fleeting light. The sound of the explosion echoed across the hilltop, and Blitzo flinched, his tail curling tightly around his ankle. His ears flattened instinctively, and for a split second, his breathing hitched.

Stolas noticed immediately. “Are you alright?”

Blitzo sat up abruptly, waving a dismissive hand. “What? Yeah, I’m fine. Just—fireworks are loud as hell. Who even needs ‘em?” His voice was sharper than intended, the crack in his usual bravado slipping through.

Stolas hesitated before placing a gentle hand on Blitzo’s arm, his tone softening. “They’re just sounds and lights. They can’t hurt you.”

Blitzo glanced at the hand briefly before exhaling, the tension in his tail loosening slightly. “Yeah, I know. It’s just... whatever. They’re loud.”

Blitzo’s breath hitched as he felt Stolas lean in closer, the space between them narrowing until only the faint warmth of the owl demon’s presence remained. His tail flicked sharply against the grass, a telltale sign of his nerves, but he didn’t pull away. It wasn’t like him to freeze—Blitzo always had a quip or a jab ready to deflect when things got too real. But now, for some reason, his words failed him.

Stolas hesitated, his glowing eyes searching Blitzo’s face for the smallest sign of resistance. When none came, he leaned in further, his movements slow and deliberate, as though afraid the moment might shatter under its weight.

Their mouths met softly, a brush of warmth that felt like stepping into the unknown. The fireworks above crackled, their colors washing over the hilltop in fleeting waves of light. For Blitzo, the kiss felt startlingly real—no pretense, no bravado—just a quiet, unspoken connection he wasn’t sure he knew how to handle.

When they finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant, as if both were afraid to break the spell. Stolas’s hand lingered on Blitzo’s arm, his fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his jacket in a grounding gesture. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed impossibly still.

Blitzo cleared his throat, his usual swagger returning in fits and starts. “Well, uh... you’ve got good timing, Feathers. Fireworks and all,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Stolas chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on Blitzo’s profile. “Perhaps they’re not so pointless after all?”

Blitzo leaned back against the grass, his tail loosening its tight coil as he exhaled slowly. “You’re a real sap,” he said finally, his tone teasing but devoid of malice.

Stolas’s lips quirked upward in a faint smile. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Blitzo leaned back, folding his arms behind his head as he let out a slow exhale. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, his tone softer than usual. “I’m a sucker for a good view.” His gaze flicked toward Stolas briefly before returning to the dark sky, where the last of the fireworks painted faint trails against the stars.

The moment lingered between them, fragile yet powerful—entirely theirs.

But like glass under too much pressure, it shattered with a sudden, sharp crack.

“So this is what you’ve been doing?” Stella’s voice pierced the air like a dagger, cold and cutting. She stood a few feet away, her posture rigid, her eyes blazing with fury. “Frolicking with the lower class while tarnishing your family’s name?” Disgraceful!”

Blitzo shot up, his tail flicking sharply as he turned to face her. His crimson eyes narrowed, and his usual bravado flared to life despite the tension. “Hey, maybe you should mind your own business, Lady Snooty. The guy’s just trying to have a life.”

Stella’s attention snapped to him, her lips curling into a sneer. “And you think you’re the one to give it to him? How quaint.” She took a step closer, her disdain palpable. “Do you even understand who you’re speaking to? You’re nothing more than a temporary distraction—a joke.”

“Stella, enough!” Stolas’s voice rose, sharp and commanding, as he stood, his tall frame imposing as he positioned himself between Blitzo and her. His usual composed demeanor cracked, replaced by a rare and deliberate show of authority. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“Oh, but I think it’s exactly the time,” Stella retorted, her tone dripping with mockery. “You’ve humiliated yourself—and me—for the last time, Stolas. Frolicking on a hilltop like some commoner? Do you have any idea what your little escapades could cost us? Cost me?”

Blitzo stepped forward, ignoring Stolas’s held-up hand that was silently urging him to stay quiet, his fists clenched, but this time his voice carried a sharper edge. “Maybe you should lay off. You’re acting like this is some royal scandal when all he’s doing is taking five damn minutes for himself.”

Stella’s eyes widened in mock surprise before narrowing with icy disdain. “And who are you to speak to me like that? A filthy little imp with no place and no purpose? Spare me your self-righteous drivel.”

Blitzo opened his mouth for a retort, but Stolas raised a hand, stopping him. “Blitzo, don’t,” he said softly, his tone heavy with exhaustion. He turned, his height casting a long shadow over the hilltop as he turned to face Stella fully. “I suggest we discuss this in private,” he said evenly, though his voice carried a warning edge.

Stella laughed coldly, her gaze flicking to Blitzo with open disdain. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. I’m sure your friend would love to hear all about how your little rendezvous could ruin everything our families have built. Or perhaps you’ve already shared that little detail?”

Blitzo’s jaw tightened at Stella’s words, a familiar sting rising in his chest. He’d heard it before—variations of “you’re nothing” dressed up in different accents. It didn’t bother him. Not anymore, he told himself, though his tail flicked sharply behind him.

“I won’t do this here,” Stolas said, his voice low but steady. “You can berate me all you like later, Stella, but not tonight.”

“Not tonight?” Stella’s laugh was sharp and bitter, slicing through the tension like a blade. “You think you get to decide when and where I hold you accountable? You’ve embarrassed yourself—and me—for the last time, Stolas.” Her eyes shifted to Blitzo, her lip curling in disdain. “And as for you—”

“Stella, enough!” Stolas’s sharp and commanding voice cut through her venomous tirade. He stepped forward with deliberate force, his tall frame casting a shadow over her. His usual composed demeanor fractured, replaced by a rare and deliberate display of authority. His glowing eyes burned brighter, locking onto Stella with an intensity that made her pause, even if only briefly. “Leave him out of this.”

Stella’s gaze snapped back to Stolas, her expression twisting into a mix of fury and cold calculation. Her tone dropped, low and biting, as she hissed, “You may think you’ve found something real with him, but this world won’t allow it. And when it tears him apart, remember—it was your hand that led him there.”

“Stella,” Stolas said, his voice tight but unwavering, “I understand your concerns.” His glowing eyes softened, just slightly, as his gaze flicked toward Blitzo for the briefest of moments. “But what I do—what I choose—is my decision, not yours.” He straightened, his tone regaining its steel. “And I’ll ask you again—leave. Now.”

Her lips curled into a thin, brittle smile, fury tempered but no less cutting. Straightening, she brushed imaginary dust from her gown, her voice dropping to a low, venomous purr. “Keep testing me, Stolas, and perhaps your imp’s little circus won’t see next year’s festival. It would be a shame if his family paid for your rebellion.”

Blitzo froze for a moment, his tail snapping sharply behind him before coiling tightly around his leg. His crimson eyes narrowed, and he took a deliberate step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. “Oh, I get it now,” he said, his voice low and cold, with a biting edge. “You’re not just a royal pain; you’re a full-blown psycho. What, you gonna send your little goons to torch some tents and step on my family’s dreams? Real classy move for a lady of your station.”

His voice rose, dripping with defiant sarcasm. “Don’t hold back, Princess. Let’s hear the whole villain monologue while you’re at it. Or are you too chicken to say what you really mean?”

“Blitzo, don’t,” Stolas interjected, his voice taut but calm, though a flicker of desperation glimmered in his glowing eyes. He moved deliberately, stepping fully in front of Blitzo and placing a hand on his shoulder to still him. His broad frame cast a protective shadow over the imp, his presence firm yet grounding. “She’s said enough.”

Blitzo’s jaw tightened, his gaze darting to Stolas briefly before locking back on Stella. “Yeah? Well, maybe she hasn’t heard enough from me,” he muttered, though he didn’t step forward again. His fists trembled at his sides before he reluctantly unclenched them, his tail twitching in barely restrained fury. “I’d love to see her try,” he added under his breath, the venom in his tone failing to mask the flicker of unease Stella’s words had stirred.

Stella’s smirk returned, sharp and satisfied, her gaze shifting between the two. “Oh, I’m far from done,” she said smoothly, her words dripping with menace. Then, with a cold, calculated glance, she turned and strode away, her steps echoing ominously into the night.

Blitzo stood in silence for a moment, his fingers flexing at his sides as if trying to release tension. His gaze flicked to Stolas, who remained standing, his shoulders tense and his glowing eyes fixed on the horizon.

What am I even doing here? The thought crept in, uninvited, wrapping around his chest like a vice. He could still feel the weight of Stella’s venomous words, her disdain lingering like smoke. Blitzo had always known he didn’t belong in places like this—he didn’t belong with people like Stolas. He was a sideshow act at best, a temporary distraction, just like she’d said.

And yet...

His tail flicked sharply behind him, betraying the war raging in his mind. A part of him—stupid, reckless, and way too loud—wanted to stay, to fight, to prove Stella and everyone else wrong. But the other part, the part that had always known better, screamed at him to go. It's better to leave now before the cracks spread too far to fix.

He forced a smirk onto his face, though it felt brittle, hollow. “It’s fine,” he said abruptly, his voice tight. “I get it. Nobles and imps don’t mix, right? No harm, no foul.” The words tasted bitter, but they were safe. It's safer than admitting how much this moment hurt.

“Blitzo, that’s not—” Stolas began, but Blitzo waved him off, his movements sharp and dismissive.

Blitzo smirked, the cracks in it barely hidden. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. You’ve got... y’know, all that legacy crap to deal with. And I, uh...” He hesitated, his crimson eyes darting to the festival lights below. “I should go check on Fizz anyway. He’s probably gotten trampled by his adoring crowd by now.” His laugh was weak, forced, and his tail flicked nervously behind him.

Stolas reached out instinctively, his hand lingering uselessly in the air as Blitzo turned away. The imp’s steps were quick, his head held high, but there was a stiffness to his stride—a deflection so practiced it was almost convincing. Almost.

Don’t look back. Don’t even think about it. The thought echoed in Blitzo’s mind as he descended the hill, his tail curling tightly around his leg. The memory of Stolas’s hand, so close yet so far, burned in his mind, warm and disarming in a way that felt dangerously close to breaking him. You let your guard down—again.

By the time he reached the festival’s edge, he’d plastered on his usual smirk, the cracks hidden well enough to fool anyone who wasn’t looking too closely. The noise and lights below swallowed him whole, his crimson eyes vanishing into the throng like a fleeting ember—brief, unnoticed, and lost to the chaos.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

Stolas’s hand lingered in the air, suspended between reaching forward and letting go. He wanted to call out, to stop him, but the words caught in his throat. What could he say? That he was sorry? That it wasn’t what it looked like? That he wished things were different? None of it would change the truth Stella had thrown in his face: You may think you’ve found something real with him, but this world won’t allow it. And when it tears him apart, remember—it was your hand that led him there.

Her words hung over him, dragging him back to the gilded halls of his family estate—a prison he feared would now trap them both. His father’s cold voice echoed in his mind: 'You are a Goetia. Your life isn’t your own.' He resented how his family reduced people to pawns, yet here he stood, his choices threatening to hurt the one person who made him feel like more.

Am I any better? The thought struck him like a dagger, churning his stomach.

And then, there was Blitzo.

Even now, the cracks were beginning to show. How long before the weight of his world crushed Blitzo as well? The thought lingered, sharp and unrelenting. Letting him go could spare him the fallout. It would be the right thing to do. But you won’t, will you?

For a long moment, Stolas stood motionless, staring at the path where Blitzo had vanished. His limp and useless hand dropped to his side as reality reasserted itself. The faint laughter and distant music of the festival felt like an insult now, mocking the ache rooted deep in his chest. He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the faint chirping of hell crickets and the distant echoes of the festival.

He took a few steps forward as if following Blitzo might change something, but his feet stopped short at the edge of the hill. Below, the festival glimmered, its lanterns swaying gently in the breeze. The bursts of fireworks had ended, leaving the world painted in muted tones of red and shadow. The silence felt oppressive now, a stark contrast to the warmth they’d shared just moments ago.

The last burst of fireworks replayed in his mind—not the brilliant colors, but the way their fleeting light had illuminated Blitzo’s face. For a rare moment, the imp’s walls had been down, exposing something raw and unguarded. And then, just as quickly, those walls had rebuilt themselves, higher and thicker than before.

Stolas lowered himself to the ground, his long legs folding beneath him as he sat on the cool grass. He leaned back slightly, letting his gaze drift upward. The distant and indifferent stars shimmered faintly against the vast darkness. They were beautiful, but their beauty felt hollow, unreachable. The hill, once alive with possibility, now felt unbearably empty.

Blitzo’s sharp and irreverent laugh softened in their quiet moments, fading now like the echoes of the festival.

Stolas’s title and status felt hollow against Stella’s venom, but it was the sight of Blitzo walking away that left him rooted in place. He’d wanted to call out, to stop him—but what could he even say? Could he genuinely claim this connection was worth more than his legacy?

The festival’s distant laughter drifted upward, mocking Stolas’s grip on the grass as if the earth could ground him in this moment. He’d reached for something real, something fleeting, and now he was left holding nothing but the empty echo of what could have been.

Blitzo’s defiance, his raw honesty, had shaken something loose in Stolas. But freedom came at a cost, and the chains of duty clinked louder than ever. The stars above offered no answers, only a reflection of the distance between who he was and who he wished to be.

Part Six

[kebyze-mozem]

16/December/2024

i am the villian in your story, because you're the villain in mine,

because all you do is whine, and pretend that everything is fine.

so we have to be the ones that take the blame this time,

otherwise, there's noone there for the ride.

but yourself

and your equals

that make your money lethal,

that let our minds stay feeble,

so we dig our holes deeper.

while we stay at the bottom,

in hell our bodies rotten,

and while we fight over divide,

on our corpses you dine.

but you dont provide,

you won't take a side,

and you let my brothers die.

for that, i am your enemy and you are mine

because while we let our banners fly, you just lie.

and you let us sink, until we provide.

and you let us sink, until we provide.

depose, defend, deny.

[colection-of-chaos]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Hope and Wating

There had always been a thing about waiting that irked Dillon; it was the way the memory of what he was expecting tended to ingrain itself into his mind. Unrelentingly reminding him of what was to come or what he lacked until it happened. 

No matter what he did, it wouldn't leave him alone. 

His destain for waiting had gotten even worse since he had gotten his last promise. 

It had been on a piece of old paper that he was pretty sure belonged to some book somewhere that hadn't been owned by the person that had written it, but rather some poor library book. A person that hadn't been supposed to be anywhere near Dillon's room or even the town he resided in currently.

No, Auden was supposed to be far away learning the art of pouring over books and being a stuck-up asshole. He was supposed to write notes in one of the unbelievably expensive notebooks and mingle with nobles that had questions. 

Auden had also been supposed to have forgotten Dillon pretty fast after leaving.

Even when he had still lived in one of the most expensive houses in the town, Dillon had honestly expected the other boy to get tired of him every minute. But he hadn't instead ha had listened to Dillon's rants about the last trip into the forest to get some herbs his grandmother needed, had told Dillon about the names of the stars and the former they were supposed to form or about some important person that had lived long ago, the latter of which honestly hadn't particularly interested Dillon, but he had enjoyed listening to Auden, sometimes Auden had complaint about his teachers and how boring some of the things he had to learn. 

Auden also had taught Dillon how to read and write, a thing Dillon would have never thought he would be able to learn. 

Not that there was a lot Dillon would ever have to write or read; most of the people in town were illiterate, and every shop was if there was any writing at all on their signs equipped with some kind of symbol informing everyone about what exactly the shop was selling. And ink and paper were expensive.

But he has figured out that he could get the odd job writing one of the sings or reading a letter to the other people in town which was rather helpful when the town hadn't had enough injuries and illnesses or was generally too poor to spend either a bit of food or the odd coin on his grandmothers services.

Which was a blessing considering that it was not all that easy to live of the odd bit of berries and wild wheat he and she were able to find in the woods, and only living of herb porridge was not particularly enough to get an old woman and a growing boy to make ends meet. Even if the boy had a friend with a tendency to try and share his own wealth with him.

And that had been what Auden had always done tried to get them to make ends meet had acted as if he had just taken too much of the snack someone had given him for longer walkers though the forest and had offered the 'rests' to Dillon instead, because he knew Dillon would avoid taking any alms if he could really avoid it.

It hadn't been hard to fall for Auden. Not because he was rich or well-educated, at least in matters that didn't have a lot to do with survival, except maybe fighting, even if he certainly was that, but because he was kind, and he hadn't just lost his fancy for the grandson of the local herbalist. Even if Dillan wore mostly clothes his father had worn when he himself had been nothing but a boy and his greater interest in life was helping out his grandmother or maybe learning her trade to someday take over.

To Dillon's surprise, Auden had fallen for him too; that was what he had told Dillon at least when he had gotten the note he would be sent away for further studies, unable to keep it to himself any longer.

They had had a couple of weeks to sneak around, in which they had kissed a couple of times, before Auden had left. And the happiness Dillon had felt with him, the freedom of the fear and responsibility that had always lifted when he had been around the other boy with him.

And then two nights ago there had been a page in between his window frame and window, certainly of a book, because he had been able to see some of the lettering through the white paint someone had smeared over it, but more importantly there had been a promise. In the handwriting, Dillon knew so well, had he not followed its appearance so often during writing lessons with Auden.

It was a promise of returning, of being there and making sure no one would ever separate them again. It sounded too good to be true. If Dillon was totally honest with himself, then he had believed Auden had already gotten over his fancy, for Dillon had left and either found another brighter boy of the same sanding as Auden, or he had figured out that another man wasn't actually what he wanted and that Dillon was just some challenge.

But no, there it was Auden's handwriting and a promise that seemed too good to be true.

Dillon hated waiting, even more though he feared that this was just some big miss understanding that there was someone else in the town that the letter was meant for. Not that Dillon would ever doubt Auden's loyalty or the fact that he was the kindest and sincere person Dillon knew, but certainly he wasn't really worth Auden's love. 

This time he didn't hate waiting because he hated the expectation clinging to his mind. He hated waiting because he didn't know if he dared to hope. Because the fear that Auden would chance his mind or that the promise was just a miss understanding was making it hard to focus on anything else.

Note

Hi, I’m back. I sadly had a lot on last week and couldn’t really work with the prompt back than wich annoyed me but now I’m back.

I hope you liked this text I’m still not comfortable with writing love stories but this is what felt wire even if I’m not completely happy with the result.

Hope you have a good week and I would be happy about feed back and constructive criticism.

Hopefully see you next week!