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Blitz is burning.
He shouldn't be surprised at this point. Green flames haunt his dreams, licking at his skin like old friends. He's an old hand at burning, really.
That doesn't stop the panic. The fear.
There's a scream in his head, one he's been hearing for fifteen years. There's a body on the ground, begging for help. There's the acrid scent of burning plastic, the roar of fire, and Blitz is burning.
The scream is getting louder. Blitz is running, chasing it or maybe running from it, thinking no no no no no. He sees the tent. He knows he's too late. He runs in anyway--
The scream tears Blitz out of his own nightmare. He jolts up, breathing hard, staring at a spot on the wall where the wallpaper is peeling. He wraps his arms around himself. His gaze shifts. Four red eyes watch him from the couch, creased with concern.
You'll burn him, too.
"Blitz?"
Blitz tries to stop gasping for air, tries to soothe himself. His tail curls around his body, joining his arms in a self-embrace he learned to give himself when nobody else offered one. "Sorry," he manages. "Didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep." He doesn't miss how desperate he sounds. Neither does Stolas.
Stolas sits up, brow furrowed. "Would you like to talk about it?" His voice is low, gentle, like careful fingers brushing against Blitz's cheek. Like feathers against his skin. Blitz wants to give in to it, wants to free-fall--
How long until he's the one screaming?
Blitz tenses, digs his claws into his legs. He sees Fizzarolli looking up at him. He hears the screaming, loud, splitting, over the ringing in his busted ear--
Hands wrap around his shoulders.
Blitz flinches back like he's been punched, and the touch falls away, but it's enough for Blitz to refocus. Stolas is crouched in front of him, his mouth downturned. His hand is hovering in the air between them like he wants to comfort, but is scared to cause more hurt.
Blitz knows the feeling.
"I'm fine," Blitz lies.
Loona's door creaks open. She looks out, grimacing. "Dad?"
"I'm--I'm okay, sweetie." Blitz has to take two deep breaths to get enough oxygen to keep talking. "Just a nightmare."
She frowns at him sleepily, rubbing her face, and retreats into her room.
Stolas is still crouched. "What can I do?" he asks. Let me help. He looks a little desperate.
Blitz knows that feeling, too.
Maybe that's why he takes a slow, shaky breath and grabs Stolas's hand out of the air. He squeezes it. "You're already doin' it," Blitz says, because he still feels too raw, too bare to voice the things he wants. He's still too panicked to show his belly. Even to Stolas.
Stolas sits on the floor beside the beanbag to keep their hands connected. He leans against the television stand.
They sit in silence. Blitz doesn't lie back down.
Look what you've done, Blitzo. Look how you ruined him.
Blitz tries to anchor himself to the hand in his every time the voices get louder than his own, until he realizes Stolas is snoring softly. The surge of affection that rushes through Blitz is enough to soothe some of the unease there. He slowly makes his way to his feet, then scoops Stolas up in a bridal carry to return him to the couch. Stolas has always been a heavy sleeper; Blitz is not surprised by the snores that continue when Blitz lays him back down. Stolas's softness, his warmth; they chase out the shadows. If only for a moment.
Blitz pulls Stolas's blanket back up over him. He wanders to the kitchen table. He won't sleep anymore tonight.
It doesn't get better.
When the morning rolls around, Blitz forces himself to go about his usual routine. He ignores the look he gets from Stolas when he wakes up and Blitz is already fully dressed; he ignores the way his tail is wrapped around his own leg, too. He focuses on getting food out. Eggs and toast for him and Loona, rat skewers and toast for Stolas.
Blitz freezes when he reaches for the dial to turn the stove on.
He's staring at the unlit burner. His hand trembles. He sees candles on a birthday cake, little flames flickering.
What, scared of fire? And you call yourself an assassin? Please.
Loona's door creaks open behind him, and it knocks him into motion, pushing and twisting the dial before he can panic again. He flinches away from the flames, pushes past the trembling in his hands, and starts on Stolas's breakfast. Blitz dumps the rats onto a plate and shoves two pieces of squashed bread into the toaster to cook while he makes eggs.
Then the toast starts to burn.
At first, all he can smell is gunpowder, fireworks, burning flesh. The smell is all over him; it's coming from him. He's the one burning--
The toaster pops. Blitz jumps, his tail lashing out behind him. He takes a ragged breath, staring at the burnt pieces of toast, and barely makes it to them. He dumps one on Stolas's plate and the other on Loona's. He'll skip the toast today.
You think you deserve to eat, boy? You're lazy, useless. You can eat when your work is done.
Stolas is already sitting at the table when Blitz turns with his plate in hand, watching him. Blitz wonders how much he saw. He avoids his gaze anyway, sliding the plate onto the table, and Loona's into the other spot.
Stolas washes the breakfast dishes in silence while Blitz shovels eggs into his mouth, leaning against the counter. His tail is back around his ankle, squeezing hard enough that it stings. He doesn't realize he's staring down at an empty plate until Stolas tugs it out of his hands. Blitz can't find the energy to look up at him, or at Loona where she's sitting at the table. He puts away the carton of eggs, stuffs his keys into his pocket. He pulls on his gauntlets.
"Ready to go?" he asks.
He doesn't get a response. Blitz looks up to see Loona and Stolas both staring at him, their lips pulled into frowns.
Blitz spins around and shoulders through the front door. Guess he'd better hope they're ready, since they won't fucking talk.
How long until you burn your kid, Blitzo? That's all you ever do. Burn.
In the van, Stolas and Loona start up a conversation about a client who came in yesterday. It's low, timid, but it turns heated when Blitz pulls over to pick up Millie and Moxxie. Moxxie has some big opinions, and his voice is loud, brash.
He'll get tired of you soon enough.
Blitz tunes them out. He doesn't bother cussing out other drivers; he just focuses on getting his broken little family to work for the day.
A family? You think you get to have a family, after what you've done?
By the time they get to the office, conversation in the van has dropped to a low rumble, and Blitz pulls into his parking spot. He hops out; shoves his hands in his pockets. The office building looms above him. He blinks, and smoke is pouring out the windows, enveloping the building. He can hear the reapers in his head, taste the smoke as he inhales it, the ragged burning in his lungs--
"You okay?" Millie is at his side, staring. He can feel her gaze. He blinks again, sees the building is fine. He doesn't look at her.
"Fine," he says, and starts walking again.
When they get up to the office, Blitz goes to make himself coffee while Stolas tells them about the hits they have planned for the day. Blitz stares at the coffee maker as it brews. He doesn't hear a word Stolas says, which is unusual, because usually he loves hearing Stolas talk. All he hears is the high-pitched whine of the coffee maker as it gets louder.
You blew up his life just like you blew up Fizzarolli, you piece of shit.
Blitz spills over the sides of his cup when he pours the coffee pot. A little puddle forms on the counter, but Blitz can't find the energy to clean it up, instead scooping ice out of the office's freezer and letting the cold bite his fingers. Cold is good. It shocks some of the numbness out of him, lets him tune into what the others are talking about. They have a hit on a more important target than usual, one with a security detail. Blitz curses himself for not checking the schedule for today himself. He's known today was coming. He always knows.
Blitz walks into the conference room, sipping his coffee, and stares dully at the whiteboard. He's supposed to come up with a plan, a strategy. Moxxie and Loona are arguing about whether it's better to be sneaky or to be fast, and then he hears his name, and the conversation tapers out. He blinks the room back into focus. Everyone is looking at him.
He clears his throat. "What?"
"Which one's better? Moxxie's plan or mine?" But Loona is frowning at him as she asks.
"Yours, Loonie," he says on principle. He forces a grin and gulps down the rest of his coffee. He manages to inject some of his usual swagger as he slams it down onto the table. "Let's kill this motherfucker."
Just like you killed your mother.
Blitz's body runs through the mission without his input. He's done this so many times that his muscles know when to drag him into a hiding spot, when to pull the trigger, when to drag Moxxie down so he doesn't get shot. It occurs to him, a little belatedly, when a bunch of pissed off humans have the three of them cornered in a warehouse, that Moxxie's plan was probably the better one. Not that he'll say it out loud.
By the time they make it back to the office, Blitz is covered in red and black blood. He got a gash across his shoulder that he doesn't notice until Loona's eyes lock onto it. "Dad, you're hurt."
Blitz steps into the office and looks down at his shoulder. Huh. "'s not that bad." Blitz goes to walk to his office, but someone grabs his wrist.
It's all your fucking fault, Blitzo, Cash screams. Blitz lifts his other arm, shielding the burnt side of his face on instinct. A heartbeat later, he realizes where he is. He's not in a shitty hospital, and it's not Cash who's holding his wrist. It's Millie, eyes wide. The office is silent, and Blitz takes a slow breath, willing himself not to lash out, snap at them all. They deserve better. He can be better. I can always do better.
You belong in the fucking mud, you worm.
"Blitz," Millie says gently, rubbing her thumb over his wrist. "What is goin' on with you today?"
Can't even do your fucking job right.
Blitz breaks her gaze. "Didn't sleep well. Just jumpy."
He doesn't look at the calendar on the wall. He can't. He won't.
Millie guides Blitz over to the couch and helps him take off his coat, then his shirt, and pushes him to sit. Moxxie walks over with the first aid kit, lips pursed, and starts scolding Blitz for letting himself get hurt. Blitz doesn't hear him, just lets Moxxie clean and stitch the wound. He remembers the first time he had to give himself stitches. After--
The ring tone startles Blitz so badly that he jumps, his tail snapping out and smacking Moxxie in the side. Moxxie yelps, leaping back, the stitches half-done.
All you do is hurt people.
Moxxie stares at him, shocked.
All you do is burn people.
Blitz is supposed to be apologizing, but he can't get his mouth to work. Hands shaking, he grabs his shirt and coat and darts into his office, leaning against the door when it's shut. He takes a breath, then goes to his own first aid kit and finishes what Moxxie started. Usually, he's better at hiding his injuries until he can take care of them himself. He stitches up his shirt, next, then his coat. He's pulling on his coat when his phone starts to ring again.
Blitz stiffens. He pulls out the phone.
Fizz calling.
A high-pitched whine escapes Blitz's throat, just for a moment. Without meaning to, he launches his phone across the office, then leaps back at the thud it makes as it hits the wall. Blitz backs up, tail curling around himself like it's some kind of protection.
All you do is destroy.
Blitz's back hits the wall, and he slides down it, gripping his legs.
Useless.
Flames lick at his consciousness, burning his edges.
Blitz blinks back to consciousness and sees that the light has moved in his office. He doesn't want to check the time. He doesn't want to walk over to his phone, either, which he can see lighting up with text messages. He catches a glimpse of the date on his lock screen and flinches, burying his face into his knees.
Then he processes why he's synced back into reality. There are two voices he never hears at work on the other side of his door.
A surge of panic jolts Blitz to his feet. He's sprinting through a portal, his tail disappearing as it closes, when his office door starts to open.
Blitz pants in the air of Greed, hating the familiarity of it. The green assaults him from all sides. The smell of ash overwhelms his senses. Smoke joins it, filling his lungs, as he stumbles through the ruins. This is maybe the only truly abandoned thing in all of Greed. Even here, no one wants to build on a graveyard.
Baby's first kills.
Blitz's boots sink into the ash, the dirt. It's eerily quiet, though he can make out the sound of sirens and gunshots in the distance. The collapsed remains of tents and stalls and old, charred rides watch him go past like sentinels. Blitz can see them upright, lit up with color and laughter, for a moment. But only a moment.
He stops when he sees her tent.
His ears are ringing. Flames roar around him. He's choking on smoke, on the burning, and he can hear her screaming. He's already too late.
Blitz drops to his knees in the ash, sinking back onto his heels.
Her blood is on your hands, boy.
His tail wraps up and around him, trapping his arms where they're wrapped around his stomach. His voice is screaming in his head, Mom, please, no, I'm sorry. One of the few apologies he's ever really meant. The only one that can never be forgiven.
A breeze brushes through the old tent, letting its charred, dull edges flap in the wind. The echo of raging hellhorses stampede through his head, pounding against his skull.
"Blitz?"
Of course he doesn't want to see you, Blitzo, you fucking blew him up.
Blitz squeezes his eyes shut, presses his arms against himself. He's a terrible friend. He's a terrible boss. He's an even worse lover. The two people he's ever truly loved romantically, and he destroyed them.
Don't show your face around here ever again, you he--
"--ar me, Blitz?" The voice is closer, softer. Blitz remembers a time before it was croaky and hoarse. He bows his head.
There's a little whir as Fizzarolli walks around in front of him and crouches. Blitz refuses to open his eyes.
"Blitz," he says, quietly, sadly.
Why would he ever want to see your ugly mug, huh?
"Blitz. It was an accident."
The words rip themselves out of his chest. "It was my fault."
A metal hand rests on his shoulder.
He's lost all four limbs, you piece of shit.
"You didn't mean to."
"That won't bring her back," Blitz gasps, wrenching his eyes open. Fizzarolli's face is blurry. "I killed her."
He processes his hands around the skull he carries. Clutching.
Fizz's big eyes crease with sadness, and he leans forward, wrapping Blitz in a hug he doesn't deserve.
You don't deserve anything.
The sob escapes Blitz before he can take it back, and he curls into Fizz, hating the way he hates himself for it. He's a horrible friend for making Fizz follow him here. However bad Blitz's memories of this place are, Fizz's have got to be worse.
"I'm--I'm so fucking so--sorry," Blitz cries between sobs.
Fizz squeezes him. He smells different than he used to, like something sweet and floral instead of hay and popcorn, but there's still the same undercurrent that's just Fizz.
"I forgive you," Fizz says, and it only makes Blitz wail into a sob that makes his chest feel like it's tearing apart.
He'll never forgive you.
"Oh, bud." Fizz's voice shakes. He rubs Blitz's back. "I forgive you. It's okay."
Blitz is crying too hard to manage words. It's not okay. It hasn't been okay in years.
You're a disgrace. You're no son of mine.
Fizz just holds him, mumbles little reassurances, rubs his back. Blitz wants to stop crying, to shake it off so Fizz can go home and try and enjoy the rest of his day. He wants to go back to work and pretend everything's fine. He wants, if he lets himself admit it, to crawl into Stolas's arms and drown himself in feathers.
All you do is hurt the people you love, Blitzo. Why did you ever hope he could be different?
Eventually, when the sobs ease and Blitz is wheezing for air, his lungs clogged with ash and the memory of smoke, Fizz lifts his head from where it's been on Blitz's shoulder. Blitz doesn't move, and Fizz doesn't say anything, but he can hear footsteps in the ash behind him. Ozzie, probably.
"You coulda just answered my phone calls," Fizz says weakly, patting Blitz's back.
"I'm--I'm sorry," Blitz manages between gasps for air. He's completely soaked the fabric on the shoulder of Fizz's shirt. "I'm such a--"
Fizz squeezes him hard. "Shut up," he growls. He doesn't say anything else, and Fizz holds him until Blitz's wheezes have calmed into small, shaky breaths. Then he holds him a while longer.
Blitz is exhausted. He stares numbly at Fizz's chest, only half-seeing his suspenders and the tear stains where Blitz has been crying. His eyes feel swollen, his throat aches, his chest throbs.
You want comfort? After what you did? Get the fuck out of here and don't come back.
Fizz shifts a little. "You get it all out?"
Not even close. Blitz nods anyway, forehead against Fizz's shoulder.
Fizz pats his back and withdraws without fully releasing Blitz. Then he stands, slowly, and offers a hand to Blitz. Blitz looks up at him. Fizz's face is streaked with tears, but he's got a little smile on his face.
For a moment, Blitz sees Fizz on the ground, burning, screaming, reaching for him. Blitz takes Fizz's hand, and the memory fades. Fizz pulls him up to his feet and steadies him when he wobbles. "I was gonna ask you if you wanted to hang out today," Fizz says lightly, finally releasing Blitz. "I forgot how shitty it is for you, too."
Blitz sniffles, wipes his face with his sleeve. He's staring at his feet. He has a feeling more than just Ozzie is watching them, but he can't face them. Not right now. "Sorry."
Fizz pats his shoulder. "It's okay, Blitz. I told you. You didn't ruin my life." He bumps their shoulders together. "I probably wouldn't have met Oz if you hadn't blown me up."
Blitz's entire body flinches away at the words.
"Ah, fuck." Fizz sighs. "Look, I... I want to spend time with you. But I think you might need to go home and sleep the rest of the day."
Blitz's eyes burn.
"Hey, it's not--Blitz, c'mon." Fizz grabs his shoulders, and Blitz glances up at him. "You're miserable, bud. Let's take you home, okay?"
"But--"
"We'll hang out tomorrow." Fizz smiles. "That's just as good as today."
Something uncoils in Blitz's chest.
Fizz looks up at someone. A portal opens, and Fizz leads him through. Helps him take off his coat and boots. And then Blitz is sitting on his couch, staring into space, as a tall, warm, familiar body sits beside him. Blitz leans into it. An arm wraps around his shoulders.
Fizz circles into view and stoops into Blitz's line of sight. He puts Blitz's phone on the coffee table. "Call me tomorrow, okay?"
Blitz nods. Fizz stands up, starts to leave. The arm around Blitz's body squeezes, fingers rub gentle circles into his arm. The touch gives him just enough confidence to use his voice.
"Fizz?"
Fizzarolli stops and looks at him, brow quirked. Blitz manages a wobbly smile.
"Happy birthday."