Chapter Text
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It’s always bitter. The feeling in his stomach. The burn of acid in no way able to be compared to year old beer, the sting of sweat and the smell of sex. The feeling of that endless pressure that pounds against his brain, screaming.
– Not enough! Not enough! Not enough! –
A fucking matra that only fucking and drinking can clear away, like heavy wind over smog. But the smog always, always, fucking comes back.
He feels it now, the pressure of it in his chest. He curls over it, fist clenched over it, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught.
Because, even now, the matra hasn’t stopped.
It never does. It never has.
Blitzo knows he’s crap, shit, last week's cum splattered on the walls to dry and crack. Something even hellspawn twist their noses at. But he wishes to whatever God, or Fate, that listens to tired, too young to be so old, imps, would cut him some fucking slack. Because he might have to know it. Live with the pounding in his brain, but why does he?
Blitzo sees those four bright eyes burning with shame, the way he hides his face and looks away. A look Blitzo is all too familiar with.
His relationship with Veroskia was his regret, her mistake. To be fair, even though Blitzo doesn’t normally extend himself anything beyond reluctant admissions, she’d been a drunk long before he’d show up. Still was if her Sinstagram was anything to go by. But he’d fed off of her behavior, as surely as she fed off sex, justifying his actions, until those last few months when he knew, more often than not, she was making excuses for him.
And Fizz.
Satan below, if there was anyone in this literal Hellhole who deserved better it was Fizzarolli.
So, of course, it had all blown up in his face.
Literally.
He hadn’t meant to. But what did that matter? What did any of it fucking matter?
Fizz was fucking broken, fucking burnt, and where was Blitzo? Too fucking useless to help Fizzie, to fucking useless to help anyone.
– Not enough! Not enough! –
And then the beer comes back up.
And the reprieve of acid, in his stomach at least, feels better, even though it doesn’t make it past his clenched teeth. He’s hollow, not waiting for it all to come up. And then the waves come, something to drag him down. Clarity. Sobriety. Remembering the one thing that keeps him on his fucking knees, begging it to stay, or go.
Fucking Stolas.
Bird brain. His Highness. The literal personification of shy, slutty and beautiful.
Stolas who loved cuddling as much as he loved being tied up.
Stolas who held Blitzo through nightmares and didn’t talk about them.
Stolas who lo–
But that thought is a lie. It's not real, it's-
– Not enough! Not enough! –
So he drinks some more, and, for a moment, he doesn’t remember anything.
Not even the pounding in his head.
Not even him.
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He comes to in the van, at least, he remembers Loonie hauling his ass into the van. The feeling, the whirl, of tires moving, heading away from the Beelzejuice.
Loonie asks him if he needs to throw up.
He does not. Blitzo’s perfectly fine. He’d say all of this if he could just stop feeling so fucking nauseaus. So he tries for a no and it comes out whiny and pathetic. But so is he.
She laughs, a soft huff of air, “Yeah, you do.”
He wrinkles his nose, determined not to. He doesn’t need to.
Loona lays him gently down, probably worried that he might throw up, even though he doesn’t need to, and he curls into himself, pressing his fist back against his chest, holding it tight over his heart.
Fetal position keeps him warm. Not protected just…safe.
He hears the soft hum of music from their upstairs neighbor, the rustle and horn honking of Hell, and the soft splashes of water from the sink, before she shows back up again.
“I had a really shitty day,” Blitzo said, still whining but desperately soft. Something he doesn’t really want to admit.
“Oh yeah?” Loona asks, holding out a glass of water. “Is that why you drank like five gallons of who knows what?”
He turns over, burying his face in the couch cushion. “Fuck Fizz was right.”
The words hurt but doesn’t the truth always hurt?
“I’m gonna die alone, aren’t I? Just a wrinkly, old, weathered, waste.”
Blitzo wishes he could stop the words, but he can't. He's too nauseous and they fall out of his mouth with slippery ease, one after the other.
“Will you be there?”
"Where?"
“I dunno jus– so fucking – lonely sometimes Loonie, I think I’m gonna – die alone.”
He doesn’t hear her words, already forgetting everything again, even as he mumbles, and whimpers. Doesn’t even feel the weight of the blanket as the nausea grows again.
“Gonna die alone, no Millie….no Moxxie…Want Stolas…I want Stolas…”
The nausea is in his throat, the sick burning his tongue, and then he throws up. It pours out of him – five gallons of who knows what, splashing on the floor. Whatever God, or Fate, that listens to tired, too young to be so old, imps keeps the spillage from hitting any of his stuffed horses but apparently their power doesn’t extend to old crappy rugs he found in a dumpster behind the Hellmart and that fucker is ruined, and the nausea is gone, even as the drunkenness remains.
“Fuck yeah I did need to throw up,” he loudly admits to the now empty room.
The words are the last he hears, and his last thought before he falls asleep is that he should probably clean this mess up.
But, like most of his problems, he puts it off 'til morning.
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