Chapter Text
Fizzarolli only ever realized how big the penthouse really was when Ozzie wasn't in it. It's the ceilings that really do it, so tall he could stretch his arms out and up, up, up, until the metal strained and the engines whirred and gravity took its price, forcing them back down, and still it'd never be close enough to reach the top. Recently, in the more frequent moments of stillness and boredom, he's stared up into that height and debated having a trapeze line rigged to it. He'd dangle them low enough to reach from the floor, high enough that each arching jump across the expansive space would've gotten the crowds back home gasping in fear, in excitement. Exactly the way they always used to when he'd jump without nets. The real, fucked up shit, with their eyes all unblinking on him and a hush so still in the tent that his own heartbeat felt thunderous. When he soared through the air in those moments, he knew that for every set of eyes willing him to catch the next bar, there was another, willing him to fall.
He never did. Fall, that is.
Blitz, though.
Fizz doesn't realize he's thrown his phone clear across the room until he hears it collide with something. A vase rolls off a table, shatters, scattering shards of rose colored glass over the floors, seeping water from the long blackened stems of apology flowers, unacknowledged, gone to rot. But he can't think about that right now, all he can do is clutch at his stomach, doubled over in front of the couch, and hyperventilate, watching flashes of memory behind his eyes, flaring like fireworks, sparks at the edges of his vision from the lack of air, like the sparklers he and Blitzo lit on Blitz's thirteenth birthday, after Barbie had gone to sleep, just the two of them in a dark back corner with a cupcake on a single paper plate, a shitty old candle that Fizz had snatched from his own birthday cake a few months before, and kept secret just for this, because he knew Cash wouldn't bother with an actual cake, or candles, or anything, not for his son. Blitzo's big eyes meeting his wide and wet and his smile, and the arms that wrapped around him and the sudden, happy kiss he'd laid on his lips, like he couldn't help himself, like he'd been holding back all of his life.
The way he'd pulled back, spluttering and apologetic, and Fizz, heart pounding harder than it ever had on the trapeze, pulling him back in, and their first kiss becoming a second, and a third, going on so long that the sparklers in their hands burned down to the very ends, close enough to their fingers that they'd burned, jumping back from each other with a yelp. Blitzo frantically shaking his hand, blowing on his own fingers, Fizz, sucking the sting away, hoping they wouldn't blister before the next night's show. Both of their gazes catching, both of them flushed, the stupid, brace faced grin Blitz gave him that made him laugh, until they were both laughing, real and soft and right, everything feeling bubbly and warm, the candle and cupcake forgotten as Blitz came back in, and they were kissing again, and laughing, and smiling, and kissing, and kissing--
When his breathing is finally back under control, his vision back into focus, Fizz recalls the other thing he's started to realize. Just how fucking quiet his life is, now that he and Ozzie aren't speaking.
He closes his eyes, runs his claws over his face, and tries not let himself just fall the rest of the way to the floor, let it eat him up. It's harder still not to curl up in the memory, wrap his arms and tail around himself and squeeze too tight, like an embrace in a too big bed, or a stolen breakdown, behind a tent, ten minutes before showtime. Its harder still, not to give into the urge that fills him each and every night, that will surely fill him tonight, whenever the fuck Ozzie gets back from whatever stupid goetia bullshit that he's at now, to slip back into their old room, slip right back into his place in his arms, and sob, and beg forgiveness. Satan knows Ozzie's done it more than once.
But the thought sobers him, has him sniffling hard and pulling himself up, slow and steady, roughly wiping at his eyes. He isn't gonna apologize. He's got nothing to apologize for, and he won't give into it, it'd be so easy, to be comforted. But, it doesn't feel right. Nothing, he thinks as he wearily starts ambling towards where he threw his phone, nothing has felt right, not in a long time. Not since the trial.
The worst thing about it, though, he can't help but think as he looks out at the mess of broken glass and water and withered apology flowers, as his gaze catches across the too big, too empty, too quiet penthouse, all boredom and loneliness and memory, stretching out into infinity, the worst thing about it is that Blitzo wouldn't get it. He wouldn't fucking understand why Fizz isn't sharing a room with Ozzie anymore, why he can't even muster the will to speak to him, how every time he tries, all that leaves him is anger, and hurt, and silent air.
If Blitzo knew, he'd say something fucking ridiculous, something that would've made Fizz want to punch him right in his stupid mouth, or shake him so hard he'd turn purple like had whenever Fizz would dare him to ride that janky ass tilt a whirl, he'd say something like, 'it's not a big deal, Fizz's' or, fuck, even worse. 'So what?'
And Fizz would have to shout it back at him, so what? So what? Maybe dramatically beat against his chest and sob about how he wasn't speaking to Ozzie anymore, because he doesn't know how to speak to him anymore, how to even look at him without thinking that he just sat there, he just sat there and watched Blitzo die.
And Blitz would still fucking say, 'So what?'
"Idiot." Fizz mutters to himself without heat, roughly wiping away the welling tears in his eyes while he bends to pick up his phone, somehow unscathed by the throw.
That's when he hears it.
The sound of something clattering, a muffled curse behind a door. Without even thinking about it, his claws are swiping across he phone screen, pulling up Ozzie's contact. It's pure instinct. No matter how upset Fizz is at Ozzie, or how upset Ozzie might be at him for three weeks of silent treatment, he knows that Ozzie would drop everything to keep him safe, to protect him, to-
Glad to know you're still a whimpy circus puss.
His claw hovers over the call button, lips going tight.
...Fuuuuck that.
Shoving the phone in his pocket, Fizz stretches his arm for the baseball bat in the umbrella stand, when his hand comes back to him, it's not holding the bat, but a broken piece of a fuck machine they'd gotten from voxtech a few months ago. It was half a joke, half to test out the competition. It hadn't lasted the hour. But still, its a long metal stick with a big fuckoff dildo on the end, and one swing hard enough would knock a bitch out if he put his back into it.
There's another -thump- sound, and Fizz knows exactly where the intruder is, and its gotta be an intruder, because nobody goes in there, staff are forbidden from it, and even Oz rarely darkens the doorway. Still, feeling like a moron in a horror movie, Fizz creeps further into the penthouse towards the giant double doors, and tries to channel Blitzo's screaming confidence. When he kicks the doors wide the fuck open, he shouts at the top of his lungs. "THE FUCK YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING HERE, GET OUT BITCH BEFORE I-oh."
Standing in Asmodeous's library so startled his feathers are standing on end, is Prince Stolas.
Fizz nearly drops his makeshift bat, the pole sliding all the way through the circle of his palm, until the dildo's nutsack pushes squishy against the gaps of his metal claws. He's quick to scramble, trying to hold it properly while picking his jaw up off the floor.
"Uh, Oz isn't here." It's all he can think to say.
Stolas straightens, then, his feathers still standing on end, and the first thing Fizz really notices about him is how he looks like absolute shit. With his black rimmed eyes, the feathers beneath them crusted with dry, old mascara, his cape wrinkled and torn at one end, beak down turned. He looks exactly like he hasn't slept in three weeks, like he hasn't eaten, either.
"I am aware."
They stare at each other.
Props to him, Fizz wasn't expecting the owl to just admit to breaking and entering. It doesn't take a genius to put together that Stolas probably planned for this, waiting until he could be sure that Oz wasn't here. There's a book in the Prince's hands that Fizz doesn't recognize, but that isn't saying much. The only time he's ever really come in here was when they did that sexy librarian roleplay a few years back, and he wasn't looking at the shelves so much as Ozzie bent over a cart of books, the back seam of his black tights trailing a long, gorgeous line up his thighs, disappearing under a skin tight pencil skirt.
But Fizz forces the memory away, doesn't even want to think about that. If he does, it'll be too easy to miss Ozzie. To want to call him back, to answer his texts, to accept the endless 'i'm sorry's, and if he did that, if he let himself, it'd be the same as letting go. It'd be the same as saying, so what, and he can't do that, he can't, he can't-
"Are you going to hinder me?" Stolas's voice, as he pulls his shoulders back and stands to his full height, reminds Fizz that they're in a stalemate, that he shouldn't lose focus. He looks at the book in the owl's hands, at his mascara stained cheeks, his fiercely silent determination, and he knows all at once why Stolas is here.
"You're trying to find a way to bring Blitz back."
Their eyes meet, and suddenly the torn up cape and mascara cheeks don't mean a thing, suddenly a powerful Prince of Hell is standing before him, the fires of that very hell, the deepest pits of them, burning in his red eyes. "Yes."
There's a challenge in those eyes, too. Like he's all but daring Fizzaroli to try and stop him, and it would be hilarious that he's giving that look to an imp of all things, if Fizz wasn't sure to the very beating core of him that Stolas would be aiming that same challenge at Ozzie, or fucking Lucifer himself, if either them tried to stand in his way.
Fizz stares right into all of that unblinking red, red, all the way down, an ocean of it deep enough to drown in, and he says, "How can I help?"
--
Stolas is pacing.
Fizz slumps atop Ozzie's desk, his arms limp at his sides, beeping pitifully as they release steam in short, three second intervals, desperate to vent heat. He taxed them too much, grabbing books, turning pages, first with the right hand, then the left, the fine motor movements of getting through each page without tearing the paper taking its toll. Stolas had done the same, his magic glowing purple and blue, opening four books at once, his eyes scanning across the pages, before discarding them as useless, letting them drop to the floor. The shelves go all the way up to the ceiling, and they'd gone up there together, him sitting atop one of Stolas's arms, both of them cradled by magic, thinking the books farthest from the ground might be rarer, carry more secrets, but they'd found nothing. Then, they'd gone to the middle, and finally they were back on the ground with the few dozen shelves within arms reach. They've been at it for hours, and still nothing. At least, nothing like Stolas described to him.
"It's maddening," Stolas is saying, and Fizz would give him an agreeing thumbs up, but he thinks his arm might actually scream an alarm at him if he tried, so instead he just nods.
But Stolas isn't looking at him, too busy wearing a hole into the rug with his talons. "If it were a simple resurrection, if he were felled by any other means, I could accomplish such a thing in my sleep. Knives, bullets, horse related injuries," he starts counting his fingers. "All could be reversed. But this was a wound from a reaper's axe, a hellblade."
Fizz flinches, and looks away, ticking his jaw and trying to do his breathing, in and out and stomach expansion, so practiced it's become tedious, gone over and over in his head so many times that it just feels commonplace. He doesn't get how Stolas can just--say it. Just say it like it isn't, like it wasn't--
But when Fizz looks back at him, sees his unpreened feathers haphazard on his head, his rumpled regalia, the way he's twisting his talons behind his back, he gets it. Stolas must've thought about this nonstop, so many times now that its become practiced. Breathe in and out, expand your stomach, hold for five beats, remember to exhale through the nose, remember that Blitz Buckzo was killed by a hellblade wielded by a reaper, his head lobbed off in one, terrible swing.
How many times has Stolas watched the footage?
"Even if it was a--a reattachment," His voice breaks, just a touch, but he doesn't slow his pacing, and he doesn't look at Fizz. "It would be a challenge, yes, but not impossible. There are spells, there are sacrifices one could make, means that even Lucifer himself would hesitate to use, but," he pauses, and his pupils appear, little pinpricks of light, and he goes somewhere far away for a minute. Fizz swallows, but he doesn't say anything as the room goes quiet, he just lets it hang there in the way he never would have before, that his performers instincts would've balked at, and waits.
It isn't as hard as it once was. In these last few weeks, he's gotten used to silence.
Stolas's voice, when he finally talks again, is quiet, and terrible, and it's the reason why, no matter how badly he's wanted to, Fizz hasn't been able to blame him for what happened. "But there was nothing left."
After the axe had fallen, Satan himself had stood from his throne, and he'd said something in that resonant voice, repeating some refrain about their power, and an example, and Fizz hadn't heard it over the way his ears had been ringing, his gaze caught on the black stained altar, the slow spread of obsidian wet, a pooling circle around the torso and legs gone limp on the ground on the other side. And he remembers thinking that it'd all been a joke, that it had to be, because he couldn't see behind the stone, and he couldn't see Blitz's neck, so of course his head was attached to it. It had to be.
All he saw was that damn coat that looked better on him than Fizz would ever admit to the imps face, and his boots, and his knees on the ground, and he'd expected Blitz to pop up from behind the chopping block, shout 'tadaaa!' and start laughing right in the camera's face, another one of his bad jokes, hilarious to him but too bloody for the crowd, as usual, and they were in hell, for fucks sake.
But Blitz's body didn't move, and he didn't stand up, and he didn't shout, and Fizz hadn't realized he'd nearly been snout to the screen, desperately tense and waiting for it, when Satan snapped his fingers. He'd finally screamed, then, when the body went up in flames.
Stolas arrived scarcely a moment later, just as what was left of Blitz was less than ash, and the sound he'd made--
"--Which limits my options considerably, and so I had hoped the library of a sin might have a hint of what I am searching for, but so far all I have found are more references to a specific text that seems to not exist! But I keep finding it cited, reference after reference, book after book, a circular narrative, a fucking ouroborous, leading back onto itself, and I am no closer than when I started!" He huffs, his hands clutching his cape to throw it back dramatically. He would've been amazing on a stage, and he probably doesn't even realize it. "BUT! Something is different, I know it, I can feel it, there is something here," he paces right back up to the practically empty bookshelf, reaching for more books, flipping them open. "something here has the answer." His voice goes low, and quiet, a strained determination. "It must."
The sound Stolas had made, when he arrived in time to watch the ashes blowing away...
...So much of the accident was a vivid blur, the sort of memories that, if he ever tries to focus on them, bring back the phantom feel of his limbs, of his skin, melting off his bones, making his nonexistent arms itch for days. The hospital after is less clear, but there was one night he remembers, right at the very beginning, when he woke in the dark, alone and terrified, thinking something was trapped in the room with him. Some wounded animal, it had to have been, there was such a terrible sound of loss and pain, a moaning sort of cry that sounded like it was dredged up from the depths of dying thing, echoing all around him until it threatened to drive him mad. It had taken far too long to realize the sound was coming from him.
It took longer to make himself stop.
The sound Stolas made was like that, but worse. Deeper. Like getting blown to bits would've hurt less.
And so Fizz has never been able to blame him, or be mad at him, no matter how badly he's wanted to.
There's a woohing sound of magic far behind, the familiar sound of a stretching groan, a heavy coat being shucked off. "Fizzy, I'm home," he calls out, musical and tired and, hesitant. And Fizz knows why its hesitant, because Oz isn't sure he'll even get a response. Heart in his throat, of course he doesn't say anything, and he hears a quiet sigh, the sound of broken glass clinking together, the mess from the shattered vase of apology flowers probably being magicked clean. "Fizz," is the sighing call, "please, talk to me. You can't just break stuff because you're mad at me, you know?" His heart twists in his chest, the sort of vice that makes it hard to breathe. That isn't what happened! He wants to shout, wants to cry a little, even, that Oz could think he'd do something like that, no matter how upset he was.
More sounds of movement, and then that beloved voice is closer. "Fizz?"
His eyes widen, a sudden jolt of panic as he and Stolas look at each other for one, terrible beat.
"Did you lock the door?" Stolas asks in a breath, and despite his protesting limbs Fizz is flinging himself towards the door.
His claws only barely touch he surface before it opens wide, landing him ina sprawl he just barely rolls into, managing to land on his feet as Ozzie's confused "Fizz, what're you doing in here of all places...." Falls away the moment he sees the mess of books on the floor, and the Prince standing among them, looking like he's been caught doing exactly what knows he shouldn't.
Ozzie's fluff flares with fire, and his voice goes low, resonant. "What the FUCK, Stolas."
"Oz," Fizz finds himself laughing nervously, "you're back early!" He's not, is the thing. He's back right on time, he just lost track. "How was the party?!" He asks loudly, like everything is completely normal, everything fine, this isn't the first time he's said more than five words to his boyfriend in three weeks, nooo. It's fine.
But Oz isn't looking at him, he only has eyes for Stolas, arms ready at his sides and body glowing bright, preparing for a fight.
Stolas, to his credit, doesn't even bristle. He looks utterly, unshakably calm as he closes the book in his hand, and says, "I need the sacred tome, Asmodeus. You know the one of which I speak, and if you do not have it, you know where it is."
The brightness of Oz's body is so illuminating it hurts to look at, it casts the library in shades of purples and pink, makes Fizz's eyes burn wet, until he has to look away.
"You know that shits illegal, Stolas."
"I do not care."
"You might not!" He shouts, and his voice is doing that thing where it becomes layered and terrible, a booming echo that vibrates through every last bit of him. Blows Stolas's cape back until it's flapping in the wind he's generated. When Oz is like this, its the only time he's ever felt small. "But I do!"
"Ozzie," He tries to say, but Oz won't even look at him.
"And you brought FIZZ into it! If you had found it, if he had gotten CAUGHT-?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU COULD HAVE DONE-"
"OZ!" Fizz screams it, a tearing sound, stretching to stand tall in front of Stolas, arms out to protect him. That finally gets his attention, and their eyes meet. Fizz stares back at them, defiant. "I asked him if I could help! I want to help!"
"Fizzie," He chokes, his voice finally going softer, the fires dying down. "you don't understand, there are some rules too big to break, and messing with stuff like this, there's consequences that-"
"I DON'T CARE!" His voice breaks as he shouts it, but he's so angry, he's so angry suddenly, so fucking hurt, and miserable, and he just wants, he just wants to cry in Ozzies arms, beg him to help. Beg him to stop, to just care that Blitz is dead, to at least pretend to give a single fuck, so that he doesn't feel so alone with all of this, with all this feeling.
"Froggy-" Ozzie reaches for him, and Fizz feels himself flinching back, and the sudden pain that arcs across all of Asmodeus's faces hurts so bad but-
"If it was Fizzarolli?"
They'd almost forgotten he was here.
They look away from each other, and Ozzie's voice goes low, spine-chilling and dark. "What did you just say?"
But Stolas doesn't even flinch, instead he lifts his chin high, his shoulders firm, his eyes, that endless red, glowing steady. "If it had been Fizzarolli, to what lengths would you go, Asmodeus?"
As if he was compelled, Ozzie looks right back at him, meets his eyes and looks at him. All of him. Every last inch of his soul. And, as if unwilling, Fizz can see him imagining it, imagining himself in Blitz's place. And Fizz finds himself picturing it, too, Ozzie on the block, the drop of an axe, the ending of everything. The tears that well in his eyes are matched by the pure devestation in Ozzie's own, and the vice that's squeezing around his heart whispers to him that Oz understands, now. He finally understands.
Swallowing, Ozzie slowly comes down to his normal size and, with one final glance into his eyes, turns towards the shelf, towards a book they hadn't reached yet. He opens it, mutters something under his breath and his hand ignites in blue flame, pressing to a page, dragging down and leaving a glittering trail of hellfire. A seal glows, on the book, and on the back of the shelves, white hot. Everything rumbles as it parts as though split down the middle. It doesn't move like anything else from Ozzie's factory, it doesn't even move like the not so secret secret entrance to their sex dungeon in their bedroom, no smooth machinery or titliating sounds. It's all old stone, cobwebs and dust and pure, unfiltered magic glowing. It's a circular room, small but for a dias in the middle, veins of pulsing pink light racing from the walls, climbing up towards the center, filling into a basin of what looks like liquid silver, bubbling endlessly. Above it, a book hovers encased in a ball of magic.
Fizz stares, jaw practically unhinged. He's never seen this place, never seen anything like this place, but before he can ask any questions, Ozzie is walking into it, as casual as you please, and reachig out with both hands. Fizz almost shouts at him to be careful, idiot! But he doesn't need to, it's his magic, and just like that, the bubble pops, and he takes the book in his hands. All at once, the basin of liquid goes deadly still, and the glowing in the walls and the floors goes out like a candle blown rough.
When he returns, he hands the book over with two hands, with a gravitas that makes Fizz realize he's been holding his breath, but he can't force in air. Stolas reaches for it, but before he can touch, Ozzie's voice sounds out low, layered, quiet and serious.
"If anyone asks you."
"I stole it. You had nothing to do with this."
"Good."
He hands it over.
And just when he thinks its safe to breathe again, Ozzie says, "to answer your question,"
Stolas looks up from the book, blinking at him, his eyes wide.
"If it was Fizz? I'd break the world to get him back."
Fizz chokes on the breath he tries to take, the world going blurry and wet, and underwater, he watches as Stolas's beak twitches. It couldn't be called a smile to anyone sane, but the corner of his mouth lifts, just for a second, and he says, "Then you are beginning to understand the lengths to which I will go."
The hand Ozzie sets on his shoulder looks huge in comparison to Stolas, especially with the weight he's lost. Still, he doesn't even flinch when Ozzie squeezes. "Good luck, Birdie."
Stepping back, Stolas nods. "I thank you, Asmodeous." He looks at Fizz, then, and meets his eyes, "and you as well, Fizzarolli. Thank you." The way he says it, with such depth it tightens Fizz's throat all over again. It sounds like a goodbye, and when Stolas bows to him, low and graceful, a Great Prince of Hell, despite his disheveled appearance, Fizz knows that's exactly what it is.
By the time he finds his voice again, its too late to call him back.
The last he sees of Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia is his firmly set shoulders, stepping into a portal that leads to the infinite stars.
He doesn't look back. Not once.
When it closes, when the room is pitched into silence once more, nothing but the torn up library around them, Fizz looks at Ozzie and, for the first time in weeks, speaks to him. "Will it work?"
Ozzie's breath catches, and his massive shoulders start to tremble, and all three of his faces make a valiant effort to stay unaffected. "If anyone can do it, it's him."
They can't look at each other, they can't look at anything but each other.
"Fizz I-
"DID YOU MEAN IT." He blurts out, words stumbling over each other, because he has to know, he has to, "what you said? You'd break the world for me?"
Ozzie stares at him, all of him wide eyed, the mouths of the faces on his left and right, open. Then, slowly, he softens, and kneels before him, until they're face to face. "Nah Fizzie, I wouldn't break the world," he comes in close then, and with the barest hesitation, he reaches out, and cradles Fizz's cheek in a huge, warm hand, wiping away the tears tracking down his face with a softly glowing thumb. "I'd break the whole fucking universe for you."
It's all he can take. All of it wells up in him, has been welling up in him for weeks, Blitz's death and the chopping block and the blood, and Ozzie's slumped shoulders on his return and the weeks and the weeks and the weeks of silence, waking up alone in the night, gasping for breath, the axe falling and no comfort, and no warmth, not Ozzie's arms around him, not Blitz in his memory, all gangly limbs and braces and a warm smile. He breaks, crying out Ozzie's name in a sob that shakes his entire form, and suddenly he's in those strong arms again, being cradled, and he's wrapping his own arms around Ozzie back, winding them around and around until they're tangled, and sobbing so hard he thinks his lungs will cough out of him, smoke singed and scarred black and shriveled.
"That's it Fizzifrog, let it out, let it out. Cry as long as you need to. I'm here. I'm here."
That just makes it worse, it just makes him go further, makes his arms and legs whirr, the metal straining with how tight he's clinging.
"I-I-I miss him, Ozzie. I miss him, I miss him so much."
Blitz smiling at him on stage when they were little and Blitz's hand in his when they were teenagers and the cut of his braces against his lip when they used to make out so sloppy and inexperienced that half the time it just felt wet and slimy more than it felt good, but they'd always laugh after, and Blitz as an adult, scarred and so fucking careful with him, the few times they'd hung out after finally talking again, his tongue sharp as ever but his hands so hesitant, like just touching his arm or his shoulder, or hugging him, was monumental.
"I-" he sniffles hard, wet and snot but its worthless because it all just leaks out of him anyway, another heaving sob shaking through him. "I loved him."
A hand strokes his back, "I know baby, I know. I'm sorry. I should've done more. I'm sorry. Let it out. Let it all out."
He does. All of it. All of the years apart and the precious few together, and the knowledge, the sheer absolute certainty that Blitz never knew just how much he meant to Fizz, and now he never would. Not unless Stolas succeeds in whatever the fuck he's planning to do, and Fizz hopes, he fucking prays to whoever the fuck would care, that the owl somehow manages to bring that idiot back. Just so that Fizz can tell him how much he loves him.
It's imagining it, shaking Blitz and holding him and maybe giving him a pity make out like he'd joked about, but less pity and more sobbing against his big stupid mouth, that gets him to finally calm down, at least enough that his breaths hiccup out of him instead of wheeze. His limbs finally run out of juice, sliding lifeless from around Ozzie's body, and slumping to the ground. Oz only holds him tighter, nuzzling his cheek against the top of his head, the bells on his hat jingling softly.
"Tell me what you need, Fizzifrog."
"Can we," he sniffles, his throat feels shredded raw, "can we go to bed? W-W-Will you hold me, in our bed? Please?"
Big fat tears well in Ozzie's eyes, but they don't fall. Instead he smiles, shaky and sweet, and lays a gentle kiss at the crown of his head. "Yeah, of course Fizzie." He starts carrying him out of the room, and Fizz looks over his massive shoulder, at the messy library, at the space where the portal had been. The scar of the flare of magic is still behind his eyes, the portal that led to the universe. His throat goes tight all over again, his heart swooping with a feeling he won't dare trust, or name. But Fizz mouths the words, 'good luck', into the quiet dark, as Asmodeus closes the doors behind them.