Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first day was bad.

It was dawn. The stringy darkness was slowly sucked into the window as the hellsun rose, clinging and sticking only to the lone gangly figure on the couch. Feathers lay in exhausted disarray. One hand trailed to the floor, fingers frozen caressing a bottle of absinthe.

It had been a nightmare, surely, the figure thought. Light filtered through his eyelids at last. The memories of the previous day were beginning to come back to him, carving their way through his insides as nausea rose in his throat.

‘Stolas’, he heard faintly.

Stolas. It was a name, he thought dimly. His name - supposedly. A collection of sounds, meant to refer to him.

"Mother," he remembered asking, in what felt like another lifetime. "Why did you choose to name me Stolas? Does it have some significance?"

  Soft laughter had sounded, and a tired hand had stroked his downy feathers. "I didn't choose it, sweetheart. It was written in the stars, long before your birth, or indeed mine. That a son would be born, under a sun in Cancer and a moon in Pisces, as Libra rose above the Earth’s horizon and Venus circled Saturn - and that he shall be named Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia, as is his destiny."

"So - is my future there, as well?" He'd asked in wonder. He could barely remember now, having a sense of wonder. "Written in the stars?"

"I don't know," the voice had said softly. "Prophecy is not a gift I possess. But it may well be the gift given to you."

  "Be careful. It is not always wise to know what one's own future may hold, Stolas."

Soft feathers rubbed against his own with a gentle hoot. The young prince had cooed in response. "Do not be afraid. Your future will be bright, my little starfire. I look forward to seeing the man you become."

"Stolas," a voice - very different from his mother’s, male and rough - repeated more insistently. The bird groaned.

If he was an optimist, he may have found some solace in the fact that once upon a time he had been deemed important enough for a name. But he was not. Nor had the name ever really been his.

There were other names he'd been given. Ones he'd earned and ones he had tarnished.

Lover.

Husband.

... Dad.

Each and every one of them felt like a scrape against his skin; each a name gifted to him that he had then thrown away.

An alarm clock blared. Stolas squeezed his pillow until his muscles ached and whimpered.

A calloused hand softly touched his feathers as he curled into the couch. The voice became softer.

"Stols?"

There was no answer. The owl felt a weight shift, and heard the creak of the springs.

"Stols, can we... talk?"

Blitzø squirmed, trying to find a space to sit between Stolas and the edge of the pillow.

"Look. I - yesterday was hard. I get that. I mean - well, no, of course I don't - " He sighed.

"We don't have to talk about it all yet, I just... I just need to know why you didn't tell me you needed these." A soft shaking sound followed, reminding him of Octavia's rattle. The voice was soft, softer than Stolas deserved. "I could've gotten some for you. You didn't have to -"

"No, you couldn't have," the bird laughed dryly. His throat felt parched, and his claws dug into the fabric.

"Why not?"

Finally, Stolas looked up, squinting his eyes at the sun. "Because they cost a fortune." He smiled in a way that made Blitzø's heart drop. "Only meant for noble-grade depression, you see, for self-absorbed, exorbitantly wealthy, egotistical narcissists unhappy with their privileged lot."

"Stolas -"

"I don't need them anymore," Stolas snapped. "I've got everything I ever wanted, haven't I?"

A silence hung between them like a curtain of vines. Blitzø opened the bottle, shook two pills onto his palm, and held it out towards Stolas. “It’s not a choice, Stolas. You’re taking them.”

Blitzø expected many things. Silent refusal, crying, yelling. What he didn't expect was laughter, and it made his blood curdle.

"Oh, Blitzy,” drawled Stolas, his fingers curling in a yawn. “My dear darling Blitzy. You really think two is enough?"

The imp took a deep breath. This was not the time. “Then what’s your fucking dosage?” His voice trembled like a tightly-pinched guitar string. Stolas didn't need a mess to deal with. Not another.

The bird shrugged and rotated his head back towards the back of the couch.

"If I take the rest of that bottle - that might be enough."

Blitzø's fingers closed over the pills in his palm, his breath hitching. "That's not funny, Stolas."

The bird buried his head in the pillow once more. The message was clear: leave me alone.

After a minute, there was a quiet, gentle sound. A soft whisper as the pills were poured from Blitzø’ trembling fingers back into the bottle. It reminded Stolas of the sound of sand in an hourglass.

He slept for the rest of the day.

The second day was worse.

Stolas woke to a clatter - the banging of dishes and pots as the smell of cooking oil wafted towards him. It was nauseating and loud. With a groan he drew the blanket - had someone draped one over him? - over his head.

"Morning, Stols!" Came an enthusiastic shout, accompanied by the bang of a kitchen cabinet. "Got something special for ya today, birdie!" 

Two minutes later, a plate was set on the coffee table before him. He lifted his head just a little, observing what Blitz had prepared - pancakes, with rats' tails poking out from the sides, the entire thing soggy and drenched in something called Beelzebub’s Breakfast Banger.

"Thought it would be up your alley," Blitzø grinned. "Ya know, because the rats were caught right up mine."

Blitzø winked. Stolas didn’t.

"There's chocolate chips?" Blitzø added hopefully. "And we've got whipped cream and everything."

"Thank you, Blitzø," the owl forced out softly. "I'm not hungry."

He heard a sigh that squeezed his insides. "It's not about that,” said the imp. “Ya gotta eat something, feathers. Doesn't have to be all of it. Just - half a pancake, glass of water and your meds." Blitzø smiled weakly, punishing the plate and glass towards him along with two pills on a napkin, the bottle now in his pocket.

Like he didn't trust Stolas to hold it.

"And then we can watch hellanovela on the couch if that's what you want. Nothing else, I promise. Loonie's out for a few days. How does that sound, Stols? We got a deal?"

"I don't do deals anymore,," Stolas said quietly.

"...Okay. Do me a favor then. Favor for a.... for me."

Stolas screwed up his eyes, digging into the merciful darkness of the couch cushions.

"Stolas -"

"You're trying," the bird mumbled. "I know you are, Blitzø. I appreciate it, truly. But right now, I want to be left alone, please."

"Too bad, feathers."

"Why?" Suddenly Stolas sat up, his eyes blazing. "Why, Blitzø? Why after everything can't you leave me alone for one single moment to wallow in my own misery to my heart's fucking desire?"

The imp's hands clenched. "You wanna know why? Because you were doing better," he said tensely. "You were. And you - we - we were getting somewhere. So what's all this, Stols? Ya gonna starve yourself to death?"

Maybe, said a voice in Stolas’ head.

Blitzø sharply inhaled air, and his voice softened. "Stolas," he said softly. "Octavia wouldn't want -"

The owl rose sharply, the horse blanket dropping to the floor in a heap. A moment later, the door to the bathroom banged, nearly dropping off its hinges. Blitzø heard the faucet running, failing to mask guttural, desperate sobbing.

The imp knew not to say her name after that.

“Stolas.”

It had been a month. A month, since Sinsmas, since the owl had been left sobbing in the snow by his own daughter.

Red fingers curled underneath his chin, bringing his face upwards. The white of his face had turned a pale ashen grey, framed by unkempt molting feathers. His beak was cracked and thin from dehydration, no matter how many glasses of water Blitzø pushed into his hands. His eyes were empty, unseeing red orbs, white pupils immobile as if suspended by a thread.

Slowly, they moved to meet the imp’s gaze. The owl said nothing. He knew this tone - and hated it. The I just want to help tone, the could you please take your medication today tone, the you’re scaring me, Stolas, and I don’t know how to help you tone.

Stolas hated it, because it was one more way in which Blitz pretended like he was worth caring about.

“Yes, Blitzø?” The owl asked, tired and quiet.

A weak smile was his reply - but Blitzø’ eyes were not happy. Sad, perhaps? Something else? He looked - determined, and stubborn.

“Get dressed. We’re going for a drive.”

The avian raised an eyebrow. “How very informative. Where are we going?”

“Just - put on something you like, birdie. Loony’s sweater, the one that’s fluffy as fuck.”

The imp seemed set on a course of action, and yet also agitated. Stolas felt guilt churning deep in his stomach. He didn’t deserve to have someone worry about him. He didn’t deserve any care from the man he abandoned his daughter for.

Slowly, he rose. The red sweater draped over him, hiding the edges of his bones that had gotten sharper. He inhaled. His old clothing had smelled of preening oils - this sweater, despite having been his for months, still smelled like a mix of Demonique and Blasphemy 666 from the Stylish Occult discount rack. The owl’s talon caught on a stray sequin, picking at it like a scab.

He missed his Via. Was that a crime? He tried - he really did. Some days he almost felt like the demon he’d been in early December - not healthy, far from it, but functioning and learning to thrive, little by little. He’d learned to do laundry, to answer the phone, even to sort out recyclables after one passionate speech from Moxxie.

And now - everything reminded him of Octavia. Every guitar chord in a stranger’s ringtone, every beanie drawn too low over the eyes, every ping of Loona’s phone.

He wondered what she was doing, at this very moment. Was she out with friends? Studying magic? Strumming a song, perhaps, or even doing something as mundane as getting a glass of water?

He’d never know. For a hundred years, he’d never know what his daughter was doing, or thinking, or dreaming. He could only hope that - no matter where she was - she’d never feel the way he did now. The thought nearly brought the little he’d been able to swallow of breakfast back up his throat.

His hands moved mechanically. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering to entertain whatever Blitzø’ new idea to cheer him up would turn out to be. Any fleeting moment of happiness did nothing but make it hurt more when he remembered what he had done. He walked outside behind Blitzø, waiting as the imp fought the ignition to go who-knows-where. Sometimes Blitzø tried to surprise him - a visit to the library, or tickets to a show. It had been nice, once in a while. But now, he feared even that, because he knew he’d pay for it after.

How can you smile? The voice would snarl. How dare you feel anything besides the guilt for what you’ve done to her?

It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Maybe it had always been there.

You worthless, pathetic excuse for a -

“FUCK!” Stolas squawked, eyes watering at a sudden sharp pain to his forehead.

“Car’s not getting any smaller, feathers. Door’s right where it’s always been.”

“You’re one to talk,” Stolas groaned, rubbing his head as he leaned further down, squeezing his head and limbs into the cramped, imp-sized vehicle. “You do not have to compress yourself into a conical singularity simply to enter a vehicle or dwelling.”

“Nope,” Blitzø said, jamming his keys in the ignition until a few stray sparks finally woke up the engine. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

He glanced over at the bird. “Would love to hear about conical what’s-it’s, though. Sounds rad.”

Stolas leaned his head against the window as much as the space would allow, and sighed as the van began making its way down the road.

“Where are we going, Blitzø?” He asked after a long silence. Blitzø’s hands tightened on the wheel.

“Look - I’m sorry, okay?”

Stolas blinked with a soft hoot, turning to look at him. An apology was not what he’d expected. “You’re - sorry?”

“Yeah,” said the imp. Stolas could feel the tension rising, and it made him curl a little inward despite himself. “I’m also not, because I can’t fucking watch you like this anymore. But I guess I’m sorry I’m not giving you a choice.”

Ah.

Well, it had only been a matter of time, he supposed. Stolas’ heart sank.

“Oh,” the bird said, softly. “I - I understand.” He thought to ask to return - to gather his things - and then remembered that he no longer owned anything that wasn’t a gift he didn’t deserve.

“You’re not mad?” Blitzø almost looked - relieved. “I didn’t mean to… spring it in you, like this. I guess. Could’ve had a whole talk about feelings and shit, but I just - I want to help. It helped me, yeah? And you’re - this is scaring the shit out of me. So just - I just need ya to try.”

“It helped?” Stolas asked, now frowning. He knew Blitzø’ family, too, had thrown him out - but had never heard the imp talk about it with anything but pain in his voice. Certainly not with appreciation.

“Yeah - yeah, it did. I mean, you’ve seen it. We talk now.” Blitzø gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Or - well, I talk at you mostly - but it helped us too, that time you came with, remember? With the flowers? I decoded all your floral bullshit and then we - I thought it helped us not be so… far apart anymore.”

Now Stolas was thoroughly confused. “The flowers?”

The car skidded to a halt, and then everything clicked into place.

“Blitzø,” Stolas said tensely, a hint of his former upbringing making itself known. “I am not  -“

He straightened up too fast, banging his head hard against the roof of the car with an undignified squawk. Blitzø rubbed his arm in sympathy.

“Sorry, birdie. You are going to therapy.”

Chapter Text

Stolas had met Dr. Smith before - had joined sessions before, in fact, several times. But it had been different. Therapy was something Stolas supported, wholeheartedly, as long as it focused on Blitz and not on him. The supportive partner, willing to improve his communication for the sake of their relationship, was a role that he knew how to play - even if he had to be taught that flowers should not be a primary method of communication.

He knew what the person before him could do. He knew that although his mind would not be explored without permission, his emotions would be as plain to the doctor as the color of the sky, and something about that terrified the ex-prince.

He sat in his usual chair, poised and smiling in that tight, practiced way he’d perfected for Goetia parties, his heart thumping in his chest. He knew it would do absolutely nothing to hide his feelings - not in this room, not to this being - and yet he couldn’t stop himself from trying it regardless.

Composure was something Stolas was proud of, even as his fingers trembled, wishing they were grasping a cigarette.

“Good morning, Dr. Smith,” he said, calmly and with a polite nod of his head. “I do apologize for my - unkempt attire. I’m afraid I left the house today unaware of my destination.” The last words were forced out through a smile so tight his beak appeared a solid line.

The therapist raised an eyebrow, taking in Stolas’ rumpled pajama pants, disarrayed primaries, and the smudged remains of week-old makeup. At no time would the Stolas they knew - the one from Blitz’s stories, and the one that accompanied him to sessions - leave the house without a feather out of place, let alone as he currently was. They noted the red-rimmed eyes; the tobacco-stained fingers; the effort it seemed to take Stolas to sit upright.

“What do you mean by that, Stolas?” They asked softly. Working with Stolas, on his own, was bound to be a different experience than seeing him together with Blitz. It nearly always was, in such cases.

The bird let out a small little laugh. “Ah, well. I suppose I’ve been - slightly sullen as of late, and Blitz, meaning well, I’m sure, has brought me here to talk to you. I’m very touched he cares, of course, but I must apologize for this waste of your precious time. I am sure you have clients that need attending.”

It unsettled him, the way Dr Smith’s eyes reflected the red of his own. His hands clasped and unclasped of their own volition.

“I see,” said the doctor. “And you don’t believe this to be the right course of action?”

“Of course not.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I am not depressed,” said Stolas with a casual wave of his hand.

The clock ticked, the sound feeling like it was filling the room. The owl blinked irritably, squinting. His talons scratched at the arm of his sweater, piercing in places through the weave of the wool and the gaps in his plumage, scratching the skin underneath.

“I see,” said Dr Smith simply.

“You see, the DSM-5 – “

As Stolas began to go on about the diagnostic criteria for depression, Dr Smith watched him curiously.  His sunken gaze, the lack of energy to his usual gestures. Blitz may have redirected fear into anger, but Stolas - Stolas would simply prefer an intellectual challenge to an emotional one.

Stolas said that liked words. The truth was that Stolas liked to hide in them.  

As the owl’s monologues finally ebbed, an uneasy silence filled the room.

“I see,” said Dr Smith. “In that case I have two questions for you, Stolas.” The bird simply nodded.

“Do you believe only those who are clinically depressed are worthy of help?” 

Stolas’ heartbeat quickened. “I - no,” he said, quieter. “Of course not. I simply meant - “

“Are you struggling, Stolas?”

“Is that the second question?” The bird snapped.

“It is a follow-up to the first.”

“I am fine.”

“Blitzø does not seem to think so.”

“Blitzø is well-meaning and mistaken.”

“So he does not know you well, then?” The doctor asked, leaning forward. “Or do you believe him generally to be a bad judge of character? Is he prone to overreaction, to being overly cautious in regard to the safety and well-being of others?”

Stolas thought about Blitzø - knowing the brand of his favorite preening oils, adopting the most perfect daughter on sight at the pound, and shrugging off scrapes and sometimes bullets embedded in flesh like it was a bee sting and nothing more. “No,” He sighed.

“So why then do you believe Blitzø believes you to be struggling?”

Tick. Tock. Tick.

One of his talons broke the skin on his arm - a tiny pinprick of pain grounding him in the moment.

“I do not know,” Stolas said. His accent became stronger, and his back a little stiffer. “I cannot - unlike you - read people’s minds. I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“Alright,” the therapist said, letting it go – for now. If he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready. “Then I have a second question, Stolas. Why did you bring up depression, specifically?”

Stolas blinked. “Well, I would have thought that would be rather obvious.”

“Why would that be?”

“It’s what Blitzø said, isn’t it?” Stolas sighed. “He’s been talking in sessions about me, hasn’t he?”

“I cannot discuss that,” they said, softer. “You know that.”

“No, that’s not what I – it’s fine – it’s fine if he does,” Stolas said in a voice that betrayed how painful that idea was. “That’s – you know. I don’t want to get in the way of – of him getting better.” Stolas smiled, weakly. “You know, Blitzø has really – we’re communicating a lot better now. It’s very rewarding. The other day -”

“Stolas Goetia,” came a gentle but firm reply. The dark eyes met his. “You’re avoiding the question.”

The bird’s knees drew together, arms folded over his chest. Despite being over nine feet tall, it was as if the demon was subconsciously making himself as small as possible. There were no words now – only their absence – and it made his insides squirm.

“During an earlier session,” Dr Smith continued calmly, “With Blitzø, you said you were prescribed medication after a previous diagnosis, for major depression and generalized anxiety. Is that the case?”

A nod.

“And do you have access to those medications now?”

A hesitation, and then a smaller nod.

There was silence. The doctor’s eyebrows raised in silent question, though they knew the answer. The waves of anxiety rolling off of Stolas were palpable even to the non-psychically gifted.

Stolas inhaled a breath, sharper than he intended. Be gracious, my little owlet, his mother’s voice reminded him. No matter what, always be gracious.

He stood brusquely and offered a curt bow. “Thank you. I understand you are fulfilling your professional duties, and I thank you for that,” said Stolas, with all the refinement of Goetia training – even as his beak quivered.

“But this is not what I need,” he said quietly. “I need my daughter back.”

The door closed. At least it was softer than when Blitzø slammed it.

Stolas sighed in relief, feeling the nicotine coating his tongue. The bottle of absinthe – or was it two? – standing next to him as he leaned over the railing helped, too.

Blitzø had tried to talk to him. On the ride home, and after. But Stolas had ridden in silence, avoiding the imp’s gaze, stopping only to grab another pack of cigarettes and the green bottle his fingers have been itching for before walking out onto the fire escape, closing the door firmly behind him.

He knew. He knew, deep down, that Blitzø cared, and that Stolas wasn’t being fair. That he was simply doing what any good partner would. But what Blitzø failed to see, to recognize, was that Stolas wasn’t worth that - wasn’t even worthy of the comfort of a couch underneath him as he slept – not after what he’d done to the one person he’d sworn undying loyalty to.

Have a good fucking life with him, dad.

He looked out onto Imp city. It was still noisy, below, as the sky began to dim and the streetlights began to flicker to life. His fingers wrapped around the railing, feeling the breeze ruffle his feathers. The sweat trapped within them made it feel a little cooler. He watched a group of young imps, stumbling out of a bar – Mixxie’s Tricksies – below, laughing with their arms around one another. Despite him, his eyes began to water.

Where was Octavia? Was she out there somewhere in the growing dark, arms around friends he’s never met? Was she laughing – was she happy? Or was she curled up in her closet, the way she did when she was little, drowning her pain – the pain he’d caused – in a bottle of her own? Is that what he had taught her?

The owl demon’s gaze drifted as a broken sob yanked at his beak. Down; down; further down still. He leaned his cheek against the cold railing.

Numbers had always come naturally to him – had filled his mind when words could not. He found them calming, reassuring. Numbers would always, one way or another, add up – there were no surprise variables. As long as one could solve what was on the page, it would all be okay.

Thirty meters, he estimated idly. Perhaps thirty-one if one included the height of the railing. A terminal velocity is 9.8 meters per second, which would amount to about three seconds of free-fall, but of course, he would not reach that speed. There was air resistance to consider, and the acceleration –

“Hey,” Came a voice behind him, interrupting his train of thought. In his absinthe-induced haze, his head whipped round, expecting that voice to be Octavia’s – but finding Loona instead.

“Scooch your feathered ass,” she said simply.

Stolas obeyed before his brain had processed the request. She plopped down next to him, threading her legs through the railing. Loona dug a cigarette out of her pack and reached it out towards him, and after a moment’s hesitation, Stolas lit it from his own.

The hellhound smiled. “Y’know, back in LA, your daughter lit it from just her finger.”

Stolas nearly choked, coughing out feathers and ash. “Via smokes?” He asked in a sudden panic.

“Nah. Just me, being a bad influence. She’s a good kid.”

“No,” Stolas sighed. “I’m sure you are an excellent influence on Octavia. She could dearly use a friend, I’m sure.” He glanced at Loona’s phone, wondering if there were texts from his daughter there, but did not pry. She had his number. She could… if she wanted… text him herself.

“And you?” Loona asked, blowing smoke into the breeze. “You need a friend?”

The bird gave her a sad smile. “Blitzø – “

“Not a lover, birdbrain, a friend.”

“That’s – very kind of you, my dear,” The bird sighed, looking back towards the city. “Please forgive me. I don’t think I’m very good company tonight.”

For a while they sat, in silence. But unlike the silence in the van, it wasn’t tense, somehow. It was – companionable,Stolas thought. Yes. Companionable silence.

“I know what it’s like, you know,” Loona said, after a long while. “To feel like you’re not worth anyone giving a shit about you.”

Stolas looked over to her. His eyes had begun to water again, of his own accord.

“It’s just miserable. Day in, day out. People pretending to care then throwing you away when they get to know you. Even the people who are meant to love you – even when you try your best – it’s not enough. And after years and years, you begin to believe it’s you, you know? That you’re the problem.”

“I’m – I’m sorry you feel that way, Loona,” Stolas said, earnestly. But the hellhound smiled.

“I don’t. Not anymore. I used to, and it was real shitty.”

“And… and then what happened?” The bird asked, quietly. Loona lay down on the concrete, staring up into the night sky.

“Blitzø happened,” the girl said with a soft smile. Then she sat up and glanced over to him. “And therapy. Therapy also fucking happened. And it sucked ass, but you know what? Gave it a shot. And I wanna live my life now.”

Stolas swallowed the bile that rose up in his throat. “You’re a – very insightful young woman, Loona,” he said quietly. “You remind me of someone I love very dearly, you know.”

“I know,” Loona smiled. “You know what else we have in common?”

Stolas shook his head.

“We’re strong as shit,” The hellhound told him, looking him straight in the eyes. “No matter what. And no matter how much everything sucks – eventually – eventually we get there.” She put her cigarette out on the railing. “And we learn to trust again.”  

“She shouldn’t have to be strong,” Stolas muttered. He put his cigarette out on his knee, barely flinching at the scorching embers.

“Maybe I remind you of her,” Loona said, softly plucking the cigarette from his fingers. She tossed it over the railing, and it fell to the street below as the Goetia’s red eyes traced the arc of the fall.

One, counted Stolas in the back of his mind. Two, three, four -   

“But she reminds me of you, Stolas. You’re stronger than you think, too. You’re just – taking a while, that’s it.”

The hellhound stood back up to her feet. “Come on. I’m not leaving you out here.”

It took a minute, but slowly, the Goetia raised his arm, allowing Loona to pull him to his feet. He stumbled into the apartment, vision hazy with alcohol, and with a sigh nearly collapsed into the couch.

He was surprised to feel a tail, curling around his knee, and a bundle of warm imp climbing up to his chest.

I’m sorry, he wanted to say. But, unusually for Stolas, the words wouldn’t come.

Blitzø rested his head in the fluffy feathers on the bird’s chest. Against hard horn, Stolas could feel his own heartbeat. “I know,” Blitzø whispered. He’d sounded like he’d been crying. “It’s okay, Stols. Me too.” Stolas sighed, and wrapped his arm around the imp’s midsection, managing a little squeeze.

It had not been a good day.

But maybe he was willing to try.

***

The van pulled to a slow, hesitant stop.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Blitzø asked, his hand reaching out to brush Stolas’.

“No,” The bird sighed, feeling more nauseous than he usually did from Blitzø’s driving. “I think I have to do this alone.”

One drunken conversation on a fire escape could not fix what a lifetime had broken, but something had sparked within Stolas – even if it was very little. He could tell himself it was Loona’s encouragement, but he knew the truth deeper inside himself.

He wanted to sit and talk like that, with Octavia. And a goal, no matter how vague, was better than a death wish.

The next morning, he’d forced down two spoonful’s of something Blitzø had dubbed oatmeal, not missing the way the imp’s eyes lit up when he picked up the spoon. His body had positively refused a third, but Blitzø reassured him it was alright.

“It’s progress,” The imp had said, covering his bowl with a plate for later and jamming it into the fridge behind a half-open jar of sardines and last year’s mayonnaise. “It’s fucking progress, feathers.”

A cup of water had been held out to Stolas next, Blitzø’s tail twitching with nervous hope. Stolas took a few sips before pushing it away. After a moment’s hesitation, Blitzø had set the pill bottle next to it, looking up hopefully at Stolas.

“One more sip, birdie?”

Stolas had looked up at Blitz’ wide, hopeful eyes. He hadn’t seen the imp look like this in a while. With his face tight he nodded, shaking one of the Happy Pills into his palm before tipping it into his mouth, following it with a sip of water. He was rewarded as he felt the imp wrap his arms around him tightly.

And if he spat it out into his hand the moment Blitzø looked away, no one had to know.

“Stolas,” A gentle voice said, pulling him into the present. Stolas straightened up with an audible crack of his spine, flushing as if he were a down nestling caught slacking off by his tutors.

“What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Stolas said, shaking out his feathers. “Just – this morning. The conversation I had, with Blitzø, about – about this.” He rearranged his features into those of an attentive but restrained student. Stolas had always been the best in his class – though not least because his class had consisted of only himself. “Please continue.”

“As I was saying,” His therapist continued, “I am very glad you have back to seek out help. This will be different from the sessions in which I’ve seen you and Blitzø together. In those, we have focused on your relationship and communication with one another. Here, we will focus solely on you.”

The doctor’s voice softened. “Stolas – I think I can help you, quite a bit, based on what you’ve told me. But some of this work will be difficult, and painful, emotionally speaking. We must confront our feelings to work through them – do you understand?”

Shakily, Stolas nodded.

“And that means, we don’t leave when those emotions get bigger and harder to handle,” Dr Smith continued. “We sit with it, in this space, and we process it. Sometimes, we will talk about it. Sometimes, I will teach you techniques to manage your emotions. And other times, we’re going to learn to sit with things that are uncomfortable or painful, so that your body learns, over time, that there is nothing to fear.” The dark eyes glanced up at him. Despite towering over the practitioner, Stolas always felt like he was much younger in this room. “But I cannot help you, if you walk out. Whatever your feelings towards our discussions, this is the place to discuss them. Alright?”

Another nod – a little curter this time.

“Alright,” said the doctor. “In that case, we’re going to start with some charts.”

Stolas lit up in a way that, despite the situation, seemed almost comical. “Charts?”

The windowpanes turned suddenly an opaque white, creating a whiteboard where there previously were none. Stolas gave a delighted little hoot. As they uncapped a black marker, the doctor couldn’t help but imagine what Blitzø’s response would have been to this approach. Likely some remark witty enough to add to the quote book, followed by filling said whiteboard with horse doodles. They really are incredibly different.

“Now. This is called the CBT model, and it is a – crude and inaccurate, but psychologically useful, representation of how the brain works.”

The marker squeaked against the board. “We can start off with thoughts. Thoughts then cause us to feel certain feelings,” they said, drawing a line and writing feelings at the end of the arrow in block letters. “Feelings, in turn, usually cause us to act a certain way.” Another arrow connected feelings to behavior. “And – this one is often less intuitive – our behaviors can affect our thoughts.” The triangle connected, the therapist looked back at Stolas.

“This is the case for everyone. But sometimes, we enter a maladaptive spiral. We think negative thoughts, which cause negative feelings, and unhelpful behaviors, that in turn fuel more negative thoughts. Have you ever felt like you were in a spiral like that?”

Stolas nodded. Really, he didn’t remember the last time he didn’t.

“So, the trick is this. The loop can be affected at any of these three points,” Dr Smith indicated with their marker. “Feelings are very hard to change by force of will – you cannot simply will yourself to be happier, after all – Stolas? “ 

Stolas was listening, and just for a second, his eyes glistened. He quickly nodded. “Yes. Please continue.”  

He hadn’t actually known that.

Dr Smith could feel the depth of Stolas’ emotions in response to their words and filed the knowledge away for later. Stolas, emotionally speaking, was a chick beginning to learn how to flap its wings. It wouldn’t do to throw him out of the nest too quickly.

“As I said – it’s hard to control your feelings. But you can affect your feelings by changing your thoughts and your behaviors. As the latter may require more energy, I think we should start with thoughts.”

Stolas nodded, slowly. “I think I understand – this.” He gestured at the board. “What I don’t understand is how one changes their thoughts.”

“Many thoughts can be misleading,” the doctor explained. “We will discuss in what ways in our next session, and work on changing some of the thoughts causing these spirals for you. For now, however, I think we should start by just introducing some good thoughts into the mix.”

Stolas automatically took the paper held out to him. Dr Smith hadn’t even tried printouts with   Blitzø, but Stolas immediately clung onto the paper like a lifeline.

“I’d like you to read those, out loud,” Dr Smith said softly. “Slowly, and without rushing. Give those words the weight and the time they deserve.”

Stolas glanced at the page, his talons tensing slightly on the paper. His cheeks flushed pink. “Um – does it have to be out loud?”

The doctor smiled. “Oh, I’m afraid so.”

“And won’t – “

“The door is closed and soundproofed, Stolas.”

He squirmed a bit, his insides moving uneasily. He lay the paper down on his knees, smoothing it out. Picked it up again. Adjusted his hands. Glanced out the window, forgetting the view was obscured by the diagrams, and then at the door, before his eyes finally, nervously, landed back on the page, and he took a deep breath.

“I… am a good…. person.” It was choked-out and quiet, like he was being forced to consume the expired Sunshine Mint-flavored poptarts from Blitzø’s freezer.

“Good,” Came the soft praise. Stolas’ feathers fluffed up, just a little. “Let’s try that once again, a little louder.”

“I am – a g-good – person.”

“Very good. Next line.”

Stolas took a deep breath. “I am… worthy of people’s time.”

“Good. Again.”

“I – “But he could not. The bird fell silent, hands squeezing the paper so hard it was a miracle it wasn’t tearing.

His heart was pounding against his ribcage. Why? Why was reading a few silly words off a page so difficult?

“Talk to me, Stolas,” came a gentle reminder, and he let out a shaky breath, staring at the floor.

“It’s hard.”

“I can see that. Why is it hard for you to read that sentence?”

“It’s not true.”

“Is there such a thing as objective truth?” The therapist asked, distracting Stolas out of his downward spiral. “It seems that statement is more so a matter of opinion.”

“I don’t believe it,” He amended, grinding his beak. “I don’t believe it to be true.”

“Look at me.”

Slowly, the red eyes met the black.

“It’s okay,” Dr Smith said, their voice somehow softer. “It’s okay not to believe it at first. I am not asking you to believe it. I am asking you simply to read it, and to think it. We are learning how to affect your thoughts, and that in turn, over time, will affect your feelings.”

“Copy me – deep breaths. Just like that. Once more.”

Stolas exhaled, his fingers relaxing ever so slightly.

“Do you think you can try again?”

The bird looked down at the sheet in front of him.

“I am worthy of people’s time.” It was a little rushed, but he’d gotten through it.

“One more. You’re doing so well.”

“I am a good partner.”

“Very good, Stolas. One more. Deep breaths.”

“I am u-useful.” His breath hitched a little on that.

“Last one,” Came the gentle encouragement. “You can do it.”

Stolas took a deep breath. “I d– “

The silence hung as Stolas’ shoulders trembled. “I can’t,” He mumbled, weakly. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He could feel his eyes welling up, and the hot shame of embarrassment at crying in front of someone else – especially over something so stupid.

“That’s alright,” said the doctor, gently. “That’s alright. You did very well, and you were brave.”

“It’s not brave to read sentences off a piece of paper,” sniffled Stolas. He rapidly tried to wipe the tears with his fingers, until he was handed a tissue.

“It is,” Dr Smith said simply, “Because you were scared. Because being kind to yourself frightens you. And we can – and will – discuss why. But for this week, I’d like you to practice those sentences – to the mirror, or to Blitzø – once a day. And to be proud of yourself, whether or not you succeed, as long as you make an effort.”

“Blitzø never got homework,” Stolas managed between what had become small hiccupping sobs.

“You think he would have done it?” Dr Smith chuckled. 

“No,” Stolas smiled despite himself, his eyes glancing up. “Not a damn chance.”

Blitzø didn’t really keep much in the medicine cabinet – it was Loona’s, and Stolas’, various creams and shampoos and oils taking up the entirety of the small space. The only thing he kept in these himself was a small box of Q-Tip’s, which he used exclusively for the purpose of shoving as far up his ears as the things would go. As he reached for the box, however, he noticed a piece of paper, taped up to the inside – perhaps forgotten – in Stolas’ neat, flowing script.

I am a good person.

I am worthy of people’s time.

I am a good partner.

I am useful.

Blitzø looked over at the sleeping bird on the couch and smiled for what felt like the first time in weeks.

I deserve to be loved.

Chapter Text

Blitzø had taken enthusiastically to helping Stolas with his therapy homework.

Perhaps too enthusiastically.

“Blitzø,” Stolas called into the living room the next morning, eyes hazy somewhere between awake and asleep. “Where did you put my slippers?”

“What slippers,” Blitzø said, not even trying to hide the pink fluffy slipper socks behind his back.

Stolas crossed his arms. “Give them back.”

“I will,” Blitzø grinned. “But you’ve got to pay the toll, birdie.”

“The toll?”

Blitzø handed him the sticky note Stolas had left forgotten in the bathroom, and the owl groaned. “I’m sorry. I did not mean for you to see that.”

“Well, what’s done is done,” Blitzø said, with the air of a general having sent a troop to war. “So pay up if you want your slippers, feathers.”

Stolas blinked, looking at the note in his hand. “I – do not understand.”

“Read one,” Blitzø explained simply with his impish little smile, “And get a slipper back.”

The owl stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m not. I’m Blitzø.”  The avian demon audibly groaned. “Read.”

Stolas rolled his eyes. “I am a good person,” He recited faintly, without truly meaning it. But Blitzø beamed at him nonetheless and handed him single fluffy shoe.

It started out that way – mildly embarrassing, but wholesome. It had brought a little warmth to Stolas’ chest, knowing someone cared enough to make sure his homework got done. And over time, it became a little tradition – paying, even if struggling, with self-compliments for a fork, a cup of tea, or a hug, and every time it made Blitzø smile.

The problem with Blitzø was … sometimes he didn’t know when to stop.

“Really?” Groaned Stolas in irritation. He’d finally let Millie drag him out to an outing and had returned late, mildly intoxicated and wrapped in a pink feathery boa, only to find the living room boarded up nearly completely by cardboard boxes and couch cushions. A few were decorated to look like turrets, or castle windows. The makeshift artillery was staffed by some of Blitzø’s most prized horse plushies, and the front of the cardboard box was a narrow gate that looked like it lowered on a small pulley system. The main problem for Stolas was that the structure surrounded the couch, where he had been looking forward to collapsing.

“Password,” came a muffled voice from somewhere within the structure.

Stolas leaned his mouth to a window. “Blitzø Buckzo,” he sighed in exhaustion, slurring his words, “I am a kind, useful, fucking beautiful being, fully deserving of your love and affection, and if you do not let me in immediately you will fucking regret it.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the door was indeed opened, lowering down upon a makeshift bridge just wide enough for Stolas to crawl though. Blitzø beamed, gesturing eagerly for him to climb in. With a roll of his eyes and a mental chiding that Goetia should find better ways to occupy their time, the owl got on his knees, crawling after Blitzø into the structure.

The imp sat at the foot of the couch, blankets draped over their heads, supported by a mess of cushions, cardboard and chairs.

“What is this,” Stolas sighed.

“A blanket fort,” Blitzø responded with a grin.

“Why would we need a fort built out of blankets? That does not seem very secure.”

“No – Stols – “ The imp paused. “You’ve built a blanket fort before, right?”

“I… never thought to,” he said, sounding confused. “It does not seem like a very practical material for fort-building. But I have of course had lessons on military strategy and defense of the Goetia parliament.”

“Parli – oh, never mind,” Blitzø muttered. “No – it’s – it’s something you do for fun. As kids. It’s cozy.” He slid a bag of popcorn – Eggsorcist Explosion flavor - over to Stolas, balancing his phone on a cushion. “Then you watch movies and shit,” He explained, already booting up Black Beauty.

“Impractical fort-building for fun,” Repeated Stolas, trying to wrap himself around the concept. But after a moment’s hesitation, he curled up on the floor next to Blitzø. At least the floor supported his back better than the sunken-in couch cushions. He popped a kernel of popcorn into his mouth and coughed through the inexplicable taste of yolk, blueberry glaze, and bacon.

He felt the imp’s fingers comb softly through his head-feathers. The soft haze in his head was starting to fade, and as it did, he felt his sober thoughts returning, sharp and insistent, and a growing pain behind his eyes.

“You had a fun night out, Stols?”

“I did. Millie was very kind to invite me.”

Stolas shifted unconsciously, his head sliding into Blitzø’s lap. It was fun - in an abstract way. It was a night he knew Millie had enjoyed, that most people would have enjoyed. Nothing went wrong. It just –

He didn’t know how to tell Blitzø that it had been a month since he’d really enjoyed anything at all. 

Blitzø tugged on the boa slightly. “Sure looks like you had fun. Feathers on feathers, that’s a new look.”

“Feathers squared,” mumbled Stolas sleepily.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” The bird closed his eyes against a pounding headache. “Do we have any rat skewers?” He mumbled into Blitzø’s pajamas.

“We might,” the imp said playfully. “Want me to go and check?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright,” Blitzø grinned, leaning down to place a small kiss on Stolas’ temple. “Pay up first, birdie.”

Stolas just groaned. The evening had been long. Millie had meant well, he knew that, and it felt nice to be included, even if he knew it was a pity invite. Even if the act of celebrating Millie’s ex-roommate’s cousin’s birthday reminded him of his own mortality, and the candles had almost set the bar on fire, and some drunken bride-to-be had been there singing Fuck You Dad’s entire album into the karaoke mic, and Millie had stopped him after his fifth shot, not letting him have even that.

“Come on, pretty bird,” He heard gently above him. The fingers ran through his feathers once more. “What are you?”

“Hungry,” Stolas muttered.

Blitzø made a sound like the buzzer from The Spice is Right, Hell’s new premiere talk show involving guessing the body count of particularly prolific sinners. “Nope, try again.”

“I am tired.”

“Not that either,” The imp said with enthusiasm.

“Stop it, Blitzø.”

“Come on. I deserve love. Can you say – “

“I said stop,” Stolas snapped. He sat up, his head beginning to spin from a night of attempting to drown his sorrows in alcohol while playing the polite party guest. “I do understand you mean well, Blitzø. But this – this is infantilizing.”

“They’re just words, birdie,” Blitzø said, softer. “You love words.”

“Not right now.”

Anxiety pooled in Blitzø’s stomach. “For me,” He tried one last time, quietly. “Please – “

“I am not a fucking circus monkey to perform on command!”

The imp stared at him. Stolas regretted the words almost as soon as they’d left his mouth.

“No,” Stolas sighed, digging his talons into the carpet. “No, Blitzø, I didn’t mean – “

Blitzø took a deep breath, struggling against the anger in his chest as his fists closed and reopened.

“Let’s talk in the morning,” he said instead, his words shaky and tense. “Go to sleep, Stolas.”

Stolas felt himself being picked up, and a soft blanket being tucked around his gangly limbs. He glanced up. Above him was a cardboard sky, with stars drawn in Sharpie – above his feet, the moons of UR-A-PA and above his head, the constellation of Pieseas.

His fingers traced the outline of the stars, wishing they were real. Wishing they would, like they did before, tell him what to do, as he fell into an uneasy, drunken sleep.

When the morning came there was no time to talk. Blitzø had gotten carried away enough with the blanket fort that he’d neglected to set his alarm, leading to Stolas being woken with a startled squawk as the crash of spoons against pots came from the kitchen. The hellsun shone so brightly as to nearly blind him. He looked around, disorientated, and pulled the blanket over his head as he felt his heart rate spike. If he pretended to be asleep –  

“BUCKZOOOOOO HOUSEHOOOOLD!” Blitzø shouted, slamming the coffee maker on the counter and ringing a bell kept specifically for this situation like a medieval harold. “TIME TO GO MURDEEEEER SOME LITTLE GANGLY SHITS FOR MONEEEEEEY!”

“Is the fort under attack?” Came the weak reply from the Avian prince.

The blanket was pulled away from him and a pair of pants were thrown at his head. Stolas instinctively ducked, but Blitzø, currently tipping what seemed like the entire coffee maker into his mouth, didn’t notice. The toaster dinged and Stolas jumped, tripping over the blanket tangled around his feet and face-planting into the remains of their defensive structure.

 A slice of toast was thrust into the ex-prince’s beak by a passing Loona. He gulped as he swallowed it whole, struggling to free himself from the mess of cushions and knotted skipping-rope while also zipping up the front of his jeans over galaxy-themed briefs. “Where are we going?”

“Dad’s going to the office before the clients riot and M&M think he’s caused another traffic accident,” Loona responded without looking up from her phone. “I’m driving you to your appointment.”

Stolas looked around him as he buttoned his shirt, and his face sank as he remembered the previous day’s conversation. But there was no time to talk, to apologize, to sort things out with Blitzø. Only a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach he’d have to carry around with him that day.

He had to do better, if he wanted Blitzø to forgive him for saying something like that. He had to, if he wanted Blitzø to stay. The imp threw the van keys to Loona and stepped into the glimmering portal, and Stolas meekly followed the hellhound downstairs, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the doorframe again.  

He glanced back at the spot on the living room floor where Blitzø had just been standing.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

“Today’s session is going to be all about words,” Dr Smith said encouragingly. “You love words.”

Stolas winced slightly, hearing Blitzø’s voice from last night instead. “I suppose so.”

“How did last week’s practice go?”

“Fine,” The owl sighed, leaning back in the chair as his nails dug into the worn fabric. As Dr Smith’s only patient to fit this chair, it had more or less become his anyway. His head hurt and his eyes felt heavy. “It was fucking fine.”

“It sounds like it was not fine.”

Stolas groaned, rubbing at his temples. “I’ve listed more positive attributes about my person than ever in my entire fucking life at my boyfriend’s incessant insistence. So that’s fine, isn’t it? What else do you want?”

The doctor frowned and then stood suddenly.

“I have an idea that may make you more comfortable,” they said, gently. “May I?”

Surprised a bit, Stolas nodded. The doctor stepped to the window, pulling down thick, dark shades. The flick of a switch sounded, and suddenly the room was bathed in a deep darkness. The bird blinked, and with a start realized that the pain was nearly gone.

“Better?” Dr Smith asked, returning to their chair. Stolas nodded, suddenly at a loss for words.

“You look down when you feel overwhelmed – away from the light,” they explained. “As a strigine demon, I expect you can see perfectly well in the dark, perhaps feel more comfortable at nighttime – would that be correct in your case?”

Stolas sat, frozen.

“Stolas?” The doctor called softly.

“Yes,” Stolas murmured. “Yes, sorry. I…” He could feel his upper eyes adjusting to the darkness, the pounding headache receding to a faint hum as his shoulders relaxed. It was like putting his feathers under a cool shower after a sweltering day. “I never… never considered that.”

“You haven’t?”

“No.”

They sat for a moment. Stolas felt his thoughts begin to race, one after the other. All this time – people who were meant to care for him, to protect him, everyone from his father to his servants to Stella - never thinking to consider that the owl did not do well with bright lights. Neither had he – he hadn’t even considered it with his daughter. He’d simply… assumed… that frequent headaches were an unavoidable part of being a Goetia, the exact reason unimportant.

“But – then you cannot see,” Stolas said suddenly. “That cannot be comfortable.”

“I can assure you I can. It really is no issue. I can see in the darkness about as well as you. If it is more comfortable for you this way, there is no reason we cannot hold our sessions in the dark."

Meekly, Stolas nodded. It would take… some time to process. So would the idea of something being changed from how it normally was to accommodate him.

“Now let me ask you again, now that you feel better. How did last week’s practice go?”

Stolas sighed. “It was… alright. It felt – silly, if I’m honest. Embarrassed. Blitzø asked me to practice it often, and it became – a source of frustration, more than anything else.”

“I see. And what about it felt embarrassing?”

Stolas looked down. “Well – I do apologize for phrasing it this way – but it is the sort of exercise one might give to a child.”

“How so?”

“It’s what I did with my daughter, Octavia. When she was small.” He shrugged. “Sometimes she would doubt herself, as all children do. She’d think she was unintelligent if she failed in her lessons that day, or cowardly if she was scared of a bad dream, or ugly if her mother had scolded her.” His voice betrayed a hint of anger. “And so, I would remind her, in a somewhat similar way, that she was brilliant, and brave, and beautiful.”

“But you find it embarrassing to say such things about yourself?”

“I find it embarrassing to – to appear as if I need help regulating something so simple as my own feelings,” Stolas muttered. “I’m a grown adult. I shouldn’t need to be parented like that, like I am incapable and broken.”

“That’s not what I see at all, Stolas.”

“What do you see?”

“A man teaching his daughter to love herself the way no one taught him,” Doctor Smith said simply. “Because you don’t want her to feel the way you do.”

There was a pause. “I want you to imagine something, Stolas, when you speak those words. Imagine yourself, at the age your daughter was when you began teaching her to value herself above the words of others. And perhaps it is difficult to say those words to yourself – it may always be. But I’d like you to say them to him, to the owlet you were, like your parents should have.”

One of them did, Stolas thought faintly. But he didn’t want to think about her, or what she may say to him now. He shoved that thought back down, far away where it belonged.

“Can you do that?”

“I can try,” he said simply. He did not have the energy to promise much of anything today.  But he was rewarded with a smile.

“That’s all I can ask for. Now, you ready for today’s lesson plan?”

Stolas nodded. He did want to get better – especially today, of all days. It was what Blitzø wanted, and after last night – Stolas wanted to make it up to him.

Dr Smith reached behind them and pulled out a black notebook – though even in the darkness, Stolas could make out that it had a slight purple sheen – and handed it to Stolas.

Recognizing Cognitive Distortions: A CBT Workbook.

Stolas ran his hand down the smooth, unbent spine, breathing in the smell of freshly inked pages. His fingers felt the ridges of the thick, soft corners. A book made it feel more real – the weight in his hand, the embossed lettering. Books had always felt like a guide to Stolas in whatever task or skill he was trying to hone – like a warm hand holding his, telling him where to step.

“So last week, we talked about thoughts. How negative thoughts can contribute to negative feelings and maladaptive behaviors, and positive thoughts can do the opposite. Now, this is the key to today’s lesson.” Stolas perked up like an eager student, simply by reflex. “Thoughts are not truth. They are subjective. And because they are subjective, they can be wrong. In fact, thoughts can lie.”

Stolas frowned. “How so? A thought does not have – its own agency. It’s simply – a linguistic expression of my mind.”

“It is a metaphor, somewhat,” Dr Smith admitted. “Of course, a thought cannot literally lie. But the brain is not a whole, Stolas. Different parts are responsible for different tasks – have different primary functions to prioritize. Sometimes at the cost of the whole.” They considered how best to explain this.

“Like a plant,” supplied Stolas, unbidden.

Dr Smith looked at him curiously. “Could you explain?”

Stolas was looking into the darkness at something that wasn’t there. “The roots,” He said, tracing a line upwards with his fingers in the air. “The stem. The leaves.” Hands traced outlines of buds, veins, branches. “Flowers. The roots are responsible for feeding the plant, keeping it nourished; the leaves for absorbing light in the form of photons from the sun, to convert it into energy; and the flowers for reproduction, namely attracting pollinators that carry pollen in-between stamen and stigma. But one part can overestimate its role. In a drought, the plant’s roots can grow so long it stops to produce leaves or flowers and dies from a lack of sunlight instead. Or, if a plant is dying, it may choose to make larger and richer flowers as a last-bid attempt to pass on its genes, killing itself in the process.”

“Precisely. Yes.” Stolas smiled, however faintly, at the praise. “The brain – your brain – has different functions.” The doctor brought the lights up just a touch, and then drew a simple illustration of an avian brain on the board.

“This part – your cerebellum – is responsible for tasks like balance, and movement. This here – in the human world called Broca’s area, and Wernicke’s area, are responsible for the synthesis and comprehension of speech. There are many others, but we will focus on two today.”

“In the front here is your frontal lobe. This is what you use when you are actively thinking, or problem-solving – in other words, it performs higher-level reasoning tasks. When you solve a math problem, or think about what to cook for dinner, or how to approach a conversation, for instance, you are using your frontal lobe.”

“By contrast, there is this area here. Emotions are processed by a whole network of neurons, but we can focus on the limbic system – the amygdala. Here.” Stolas was unconsciously touching his hand to his own head, as if hoping to trace the outlines of the diagram along his own skull.

“Just like the parts of a plant – they have different goals. The frontal lobe wants to solve problems in a logical, clear, and correct manner. But that’s not what the limbic system wants. The only purpose of the limbic system is to keep you alive.”

Stolas looked up with alarm. “Forgive me – but that seems rather important.”

“Well, yes. And no.”

The owl demon looked understandably confused. Dr Smith continued.

“The ancestors of the Ars Goetia – like many hellborn demons - were angels, Stolas. Angels that fell from Heaven and adapted, through generations and generations, to live in hell. But Heaven is not as kind of a place as here,” They explained. “They fought in wars, for many millennia, until they were cast out. And that’s when that part of the brain was formed. Its purpose is to sense danger, to protect you at all costs, in an environment where death lies around every corner.”

“You are right – this is, ultimately, a good thing. These emotions – anxiety, panic, fear - protect you in times of real danger. But when your life is not being threatened, the limbic system doesn’t quite know what to focus on. And so, it begins to treat situations as life-threatening, even when they are not. For some people, to an unhelpful degree.”

The doctor looked up at the Goetia. “Your mind treats discomfort – someone being upset with you, an unpleasant memory, a quarrel – with the same panic as if it was a threat to your life. Those are the automatic thoughts that pop up in your brain. The frontal lobe is what we can use to counter that. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” said Stolas, after a moment’s consideration. “It’s only…”

“Yes?”

“It feels like an excuse,” the Goetia explained. “That if I want to avoid pain, I can tell myself that painful thoughts are irrational and shouldn’t be listened to, because it’s simpler. When really, I’m simply – avoiding responsibility.” The bird’s knees drew closer together. “Avoiding something I should be ashamed of, something I should fix. Isn’t that the purposeof shame? To improve ourselves?”

“And does that work for you, Stolas?” Dr Smith asked simply. The prince blinked in confusion. “Has shame,” the therapist clarified, “Led you to make positive changes in your life? Does it stop once you have? Could you give an example?”

Stolas opened his mouth to respond almost immediately and then paused. “… I’ve made changes in response to it,” he said softly, “But … that didn’t make it stop.”

“You are afraid of being non-objective,” Doctor Smith summarized, “But you don’t see that you already are – in the other direction. I’m not telling you to ignore any and all negative thoughts, Stolas. I’m asking you to evaluate, lucidly, if they have any merit. Are you familiar with the concept of a literature review?”

“Of course,” Stolas said, his feathers fluffing slightly at the implication he may not be.

“Suppose you hear something about a topic you know little about and want to decide for yourself if it’s true. How would you review literature to form an opinion?”

“Well – examine the books related to that subject,” he said, cocking his head. He was growing curious as to where this conversation was going. “Compile evidence for and against, then evaluate the merit of that evidence.”

“Lovely. So that’s what we’re going to do with your thoughts. Let’s work through an example.” Stolas felt faint-headed, just for a moment, as the dark eyes met his. It was an odd sensation – one of being seen, as though he was made of transparent glass.

“When you came in,” They said softly, “You said you were frustrated about a conversation you had with Blitzø.” Stolas hesitated, before nodding. He felt guilt rise in his chest at the memory. Blitzø was providing him with everything – support, love, a place to stay – and he was ungratefully focusing on his faults, instead.

“Just now – when I mentioned Blitzø, and your conversation,” Dr Smith said, as if reading his mind – which somewhat, Stolas knew, they were. “What were you thinking?”

“I… said something to him,” Stolas mumbled. “I said something while upset that I didn’t mean.”

“And why does that upset you?”

“Because – because it upset him. I keep upsetting him.”

“And what will happen, if you keep upsetting Blitzø?”

The bird shrugged.

“Words, Stolas,” came a soft encouragement.  

“He’s going to leave me.” His voice broke, just a little, on the word leave, like the hiccupping sound that might come from a small owlet. “He hates me.”

“Okay,” said Dr Smith with a shrug, picking up the whiteboard marker. “Then let’s decide if Blitzø hates you.”

Stolas’ eyes went wide. “Wait,” He stammered. “Aren’t you meant to tell me – I don’t know. That he doesn’t, that it’s not true?”

“No,” the being before him said calmly. “You’re intelligent, Stolas, both intellectually and emotionally. You also know Blitzø, yourself, and your relationship, better than I ever could. Dismissing your thoughts or doubts as invalid would be an insult to your knowledge of your partner.”

“I am not going to tell you if it’s true. You are going to decide, but with a part of your brain more capable of logic and rationality.”

They stepped away from the board. Across the top they had written Blitzø hates me. And underneath it, two columns: For and Against.

“Now,” they said calmly, as Stolas seemed to no longer know what to do with his hands. “On what evidence are you basing this thought?”

“I…” Stolas seemed slowly to regain his bearings. “Before… before we got together, properly… he internalized things I said, ways in which I unknowingly belittled him.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It led him to internalize that, the idea that I see him as lesser. And for a while, it… his anger about it… his disbelief I could care for him… ended our relationship.”

“And did he hate you then? Did he tell you so?”

“He didn’t explicitly – say that, no. But he called me a – “ he winced – “Pompous rich asshole.”

Dr Smith turned back to the board, and wrote similar comments caused a rift in the past under the For column. “Is that an accurate summary?”

“I suppose so.”

“Alright. What else?”

“He didn’t accept my apology after I’d said it.”

After a back-and-forth, they settled on needed some time to process. “What else?”

“This morning,” Stolas said quietly, “He didn’t talk to me, not even to say goodbye as he left for work.”

“And you think this is because you upset him last night?”

“I don’t know. I…. I suppose he was in a rush, as well.”

May have ignored me in anger joined the list. “Anything else?”

“… no,” Stolas was forced to admit, after a few minutes of thought. “I suppose that’s it.”

“Alright, now we move over here. What evidence is there to suggest Blitzø may not hate you, despite what you said?”

“He… he didn’t yell at me,” Stolas admitted. “He told me to sleep, and that we’d talk in the morning.”
Was willing to discuss incident, Dr Smith wrote underneath the against column. “You mentioned before how Blitzø reacted to things in the past,” they said gently. “What about the more recent past? Have there been any similar situations?”

“He… he tells me if I’ve said something hurtful,” Stolas said softly. “But he doesn’t insult me.”

“Does he break off your relationship, when that happens?”

“No.” Stolas’ fingers played with a stray string escaping from the arm of the chair, to avoid eye contact. “He… he asks me to do things differently.”

“And do you try your best to change your behavior, when he asks?”

Stolas nodded.  

Normally addresses hurtful comments in a constructive way, the marker squeaked out on the board.

“What else?”

“… he made me breakfast,” Stolas admitted. “He made three pieces of toast, even though he was running late.”

Cares about my needs was added to the column.

“He tucked me into bed, even after I’d insulted him.” Showed love and affection.

“Asked his daughter to drive me here, remembering even while running late.” Made me a priority.

“Okay,” Dr Smith said, capping the marker as Stolas fell silent. They gestured to the board as a whole. “Ignore what your anxiety tells you – it thinks it’s fighting a Holy war,” they said simply. “What can you logically conclude from this list?”

Stolas looked at it for a moment, then sighed. “That there is… more evidence to suggest he doesn’t hate me than to suggest he does.”

“Yes.” The therapist beamed at him. There was a joy, a palpable joy, when a client got something for the first time – even if they themselves didn’t quite realize yet what they had done.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” Stolas muttered.

“You made this list, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes – “

“And what have you been taught about manipulating the evidence to suit your conclusions?”

And finally – finally – Stolas smiled.

The moment the portal opened into the living room, Stolas rose to his feet. He’d been rehearsing, in his mind, for the past hour, his feathers in disarray from repeated fluffing and smoothing.

“Blitzø – “

“Stols,” The imp said gently, even as he wiped the blood off his hands onto the knees of his pants. For a moment they both looked at eachother.

The two men then spoke at the exact same time, producing an incomprehensible linguistic salad.

“I’m sorry – I shouldn’t – to say that to you – too far – “

Both voices dropped. Blitzø nodded, letting the bird speak first.

“I’m sorry,” Stolas repeated, softly. “I didn’t – mean to say that last night, and I did not mean it as an insult towards your background. Regardless of my intentions, however, it hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Blitzø sighed. “I’m sorry too,” He said, stepping closer to Stolas. The red, dirty hands took Stolas’ neat fingers in his own. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. You said no. I wish you’d used – different words. But I get it. You needed space.”

Stolas released a breath, squeezing Blitzø’s fingers. He was real; he was there; he wasn’t leaving him. Not yet.

“I’m trying, Blitzø,” Stolas mumbled. “I am. But it takes effort, and it felt… frustrating. I just wanted to be with you, not – “

“Not have to work for it,” Blitzø winced. “Or have to earn it. Yeah.”

He came closer, and put his arms around Stolas’ middle, burying his face in the soft feathers. “You never have to earn shit, birdie. Not with me. It’s just that – I’ve been scared, Stols. You were scaring me. And I know it’s getting better, a little, and you’re accepting help, and you’re taking your meds, and I’m proud of you, and it’s… it’s not your fault... but I just… I wanted to help.”

“You do help,” Stolas sighed. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on Blitzø’s head. “You help more than you can imagine, my dear.”

And they stayed like that, for a while. Blitzø knew he would stand there hugging Stolas for as long as he needed.

Chapter Text

Healing didn’t take place overnight, the way it did in Stolas’ romance novels. Instead, it was painful, and frustrating. Stolas felt like he was trying to drag himself up a vertical wall, and simply keeping himself from falling took all of his energy, most days – pulling himself upwards was a gargantuan task, one that left him drained and shaking.

But he did it when he could, nonetheless.

It took twenty-four hours and a few ruined pages in Stolas’ workbook for him to work up the courage to ask Blitzø if perhaps, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, to him or to Loona, it may be possible to occasionally close the blinds in the living room, but of course that would be ridiculously inconvenient and Blitzø should forget he asked.

Three hours, two traumatized cashiers at the hardware store, and one bandaged thumb later, Blitzø had finished installing dimmers on every switch in the house, leaving the living room a comfortable twilight that neither impeded his or Loona’s ability to use their home nor gave Stolas a splitting headache. Blackout curtains were hung over the living room window, to be drawn when needed, and a new coat rack stood in the entryway, holding the occupants’ coats, scarves, and shoes. The newly emptied closet was filled with comfortable, star-patterned blankets and soft down pillows, the cracks in the door sealed to give Stolas complete darkness whenever he needed it.

Stolas had promptly closed the door, burrowing into the soft blankets so no one would hear him cry. And for the first time in a long time, they were not tears of pain.

“How’s my favorite avian patient,” Joked Dr Smith as Stolas dropped himself into his usual chair. The Goetia raised an eyebrow.

“I imagine I am your only avian patient.”

“That may be true.”

A faint smile tugged at Stolas’ beak. He noticed that the lights were already off, and the windows curtained. It was like … like he was truly welcomed here.

“Is that new?” Stolas asked, looking at the corner of the room.

“Yes,” Dr Smith confirmed. “I was inspired slightly by our sessions, and so I decided to acquire a plant that glows in the dark.”

“Well, it’s not quite a plant,” Stolas corrected politely. “It’s a mushroom – a fungus. However, it’s a rather curious specimen. Its scientific name, omphalotus nidiformis –“

The next few minutes were spent with Stolas describing in great detail the mushroom’s habitat, medical uses, and toxicity. It had become tradition, after the first few weeks. It would take the first few minutes of the session for the bird to set aside the restrained mask of the Ars Goetia, deflect with the comfort of a favourite subject, and only then at last relax into himself, and Dr Smith had simply come to accept it. But they were getting to the five-minute mark, and it was time to push him.

“Stolas,” they said gently. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” Stolas lied easily.

“Let’s try that again, a little more honestly.”

The bird sighed, knowing that meant the courtesies were over and there was real emotional work he now needed to do.  

“I am…” Stolas struggled with his words for a moment. “… a little better.” He looked up hesitantly, like he needed external validation to confirm he was being truthful.

“Good. I am glad to hear it. Anything good in particular?”

“Blitzø and I made up,” he said softly. “And he’s been really… supportive, but less… overwhelming. He listens to me, to what I need.”

“And if he has something to listen to,” Said Dr Smith gently, “That means you’re asking for what you need, Stolas. That’s a big step. That’s wonderful.”

Stolas felt his feathers fluff up with praise. 

“And what hasn’t been as good?” Came the gentle prod, Dr Smith having allowed the moment for Stolas to feel joy.

The bird sighed. “I don’t know,” He admitted. “Things are improving, but it doesn’t feel that way. It doesn’t feel like any day… is any easier, or I’m getting any better.”

“What does that mean, for you?” The Sinner asked. “To feel better?”

Stolas thought about it for a moment. “If I was better,” he said simply, “I could be useful. I could – repay Blitzø for all his kindness. Be the fun partner he signed up for, instead of this mess,” He mumbled. “Have the energy to go places… to do things… “ He sighed. “Stop frightening him.”

“…Stolas,” Doctor Smith said, after a moment. They waited until the avian demon made eye contact.

“Everything you’ve just told me,” They said softly, “Has to do with making Blitzø happy, and not yourself.”

“Yes,” Stolas said simply, like this was the most obvious thing.

The therapist took a deep breath.

“Your own happiness does not matter to you?”

Stolas then understood and squirmed uneasily. “Of course it does.”

“Stolas Goetia,” the Sinner said quietly. “I can tell when you lie.”

The room cloaked in a shaky silence. Stolas’ arms wrapped around his torso.

“I’ll be happy,” the owl answered, staring at the carpet, “When I’m not a burden to everyone anymore.”

The clock ticked.

“And what do we do with thoughts like that?”

Stolas sighed after a long moment, with a slight groan. “We put them on the board.”

Dr Smith handed him a marker.

He took a moment, but he stood up, grasping the marker in his left hand. He drew a neat line across the middle of the board, dividing the columns into for and against, and writing I am a burden to everyone across the top. His practiced Goetian penmanship demanded a flourish on the capital I and the lowercase y.

The owl sat down, capping the marker with his beak, and met Dr Smith’s eyes. “It’s okay,” Dr Smith reassured, “To have thoughts like that. Thoughts are not right or wrong. They are simply thoughts, and you’re allowed to express anything you feel here. Do you remember the point of this exercise?”

“To decide which part of my brain it originates from,” The bird recited softly, “And whether it’s rational and worth consideration.”

“Exactly right. Now. Why do you think you’re a burden?”

“I don’t contribute, around the house. I don’t know how to clean or cook. I have no job and can’t contribute financially.”

“Why else?”

“I take up Blitzø’s time. He has to take care of me.”

“There is a difference between someone choosing to take care of you and you being a burden, Stolas. Do you think Blitzø views you that way?”

He wanted to say yes, because it satisfied something dark in his chest. But he couldn’t. Not the way that Blitzø treated him, every single day, like he was worth the world – going far beyond Stolas’ basic needs and making him part of their home.

“No,” He admitted. Dr Smith handed the marker back to him, and he reluctantly added it to the board.

“What else?”

“It’s hard to have a – relationship with me when I don’t have the energy,” Stolas sighed. “He doesn’t get anything in return.”

“So, love,” Dr Smith said softly, “To you, is a transaction?”

The bird suddenly froze. He felt tears in the corner of his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, putting his hand with the marker down. “No,” He murmured. “No. Never. Never again.”

“If Blitzø were ill, or upset,” The Sinner led him gently, “Would you view it as burdensome to take care of him?”  

“No,” Stolas admitted. “But I’m not ill. I’m just – “

He waved his arm around, trying to explain without explaining.

“Words, Stolas.”

His beak trembled. “Pathetic,” He whispered at last.

Dr Smith smiled weakly as they passed Stolas a tissue.

“You are not pathetic, Stolas.”

The bird snorted, blowing his nose into the tissue as tears welled up in his eyes. “Aren’t we supposed to do another chart about that?”

“No. That is a simple fact. Do you want to know why?”

Stolas nodded.

“Because no one is pathetic,” Dr Smith told him quietly. “Only struggling. And I believe that, whole-heartedly.”

Stolas had never been allowed to cry, not even as a little nestling. And when he did – past the age of thirteen, at the very least – it was in private, in the dark, in the quiet. Where no one would see – no one would know. But here, there was nowhere to go. And Stolas instead simply buried his face in his lap, arms wrapping around his knees tightly to shield it from view, and sobbed.

“Sorry,” He gasped out, as soon as he exhausted himself out and managed to speak. “Sorry – “

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Came the soft response. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Stolas sniffled. He picked up a few tissues, trying rapidly to clean up his face, to return himself to some semblance of respectability. He turned his face upwards as if willing the tears to pour back into him like a vessel, delicate fingers dabbing at his under-eye to remove the smudged makeup. It took a few deep, gasping breaths for the Goetia to compose himself.

“Are you able to continue?” The demon nodded.

“First of all, tears are natural, Stolas. Especially in therapy. You are working through things that are hard, and painful. Emotion is an inevitable part of that. I would encourage you to be proud of the work you are doing.”

“Second… I would like you to start taking your medication again.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Stolas sniffled, wiping his tears away with the underside of his right sleeve. For the first time, he felt a hand on his, and when he looked up, he saw the doctor touching his arm.

“I understand you are yourself not sure why you’re not taking it,” they said gently. “But I can tell you why.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason that you’ve been writing with your left hand, despite being right-handed.”

That hadn’t been what Stolas expected, pulling his hands back with a start, his eyes wide. “How did you – “

“You used your right when you relaxed. Am I wrong?”

Stolas had always been complimented for his penmanship, it was true. But he remembered well his tutor bending his wrist until it hurt, forcing him to properly hold a pen in a way unnatural to him. He remembered pulling back his sleeve to receive slaps from a ruler. He remembered being told the left hand was that of the Devil, and thus the only one proper for a Goetia.

And it had been so long, he had stopped noticing.

“I would like to address a pattern I’ve noticed in your thoughts,” said the Sinner. “When thoughts lie in a predictable way, we call those cognitive distortions. I will teach you about those next session. Now, given your background, it is not particularly surprising – but one I notice consistently in your thoughts is a deep sense of obligation.”

Stolas nodded, as there was no other real response. “But I don’t see why that’s wrong,” the bird simply.

“You have an obligation or duty to contribute to the home, and pay back Blitzø for his kindness?”

“Yes.”

“To not take up anyone’s time?”

“Yes.”

“To not cry in front of others?”

“Yes.”

“A duty to whom?”

And suddenly, Stolas faltered.

“Well…” He tried to shape the idea into a word and came up empty. His family, whose opinion he did not value? To Blitzø, who has told him many times, and very earnestly, that Stolas owed him nothing? To Satan, who took away his powers and his daughter?

“It’s just – “ Stolas stammered.

“You have, in the past, been told such things, I know,” they said softly. “Your parents?”

No. 

Stolas seemed to retreat inside himself. “I’m sorry,” He said, faintly. “I can’t.”

The therapist sighed. Some things… took a while.

“That’s alright. Thank you for your work today and your honesty, Stolas. Let’s leave it for next session, then.”

“How was therapy?” Blitzø asked, lying his head in Stolas’ lap. They were curled up in the closet – a room Blitzø had already affectionately nicknamed the owl nest – watching reruns of Hellanovela on Stolas’ phone. Loona out for the afternoon, the pair were curled up with snacks – Blitzø with American Ranch-flavored Doritos and Stolas with two bags of Hoot Loops: The Snack that Screeches Back (Midnight Mouse and Roadkill Raspberry flavor, now with more sugar).

Fine, Stolas was about to say. But he paused instead. At the very least, he owed Blitzø not to outright lie to him.

“Today was hard,” he said softly.

The imp looked up, reaching up his hand, and stroking it gently through the feathers. “I’m proud of you, then,” he murmured. “I’m so proud of you, birdie.”

“Oh?” Stolas smiled playfully, popping a crunchy mouse ear into his mouth. “Have I perhaps… earned a reward?”

Blitzø’s eyes lit up. Not because he had been desperate for intimacy – although, that too – but because after months, it finally sounded like Stolas.

"You sure that's what you want?" 

Stolas blushed, and then nodded. "Yes, Blitzy," He whispered, the corner of his beak turning upwards.

“Mmm,” Blitzø grinned, trailing a claw down Stolas’ chest. “Then I think that can be arranged. I can make it up to you for last week… if you wait here a moment.”

A minute later, Blitz returned, hiding his hand in his pocket. “Ooh,” Stolas smiled. “A mystery.” Blitzø leaned in, his hot breath on Stolas’ neck bringing a blush to the bird’s cheeks.

"I made you talk too much last week, birdie," whispered Blitzø into Stolas' ear. "And you’ve done a lot of talking today. Quite enough. So now you're gonna be quiet and listen."

Stolas shivered, his eyes dark and hungry. "Yes, Blitzø," he gasped. "Please."

The imp growled, but his eyes were mischievous. "What did I say about talking, Stolas?  Seems like if you can't restrain yourself, I’ll have to do it for you."

Blitzø then revealed the contents of his pocket, and Stolas moaned as the familiar gag slid in place, immobilizing his beak.

Blitzø picked up Stolas' hand, placing it on his thigh. "Two taps yes, one tap no, squeeze and everything stops," he reminded gently. "Got it?"

Stolas tapped his fingers gently twice. Blitzø smiled. "Good bird," he purred, bringing a pink sheen to Stolas' cheeks.

"Now all I want from you, feathers, is to not make a damn sound," Blitz whispered before smirking. "And I’m gonna make that real hard for you, you gorgeous thing."

Blitzø' hand then slid between Stolas' legs, into the waistband of his heart-patterned pyjamas. Fingers danced, teasing, around the entrance, sliding in just enough to give Stolas sensation without purchase. The bird responded by grinding his hips down onto Blitzø's hands, trying for friction. Blitzø grinned and pulled his hand back, trailing a single moist finger over Stolas' most sensitive nerve bundles. The bird let out a little whine.

"Quiet, Stolas," Blitzø murmured. "Or else I’ll have to keep you in line, and you don’t want that, do you?"

Oh, Stolas very much wanted that. But he looked up innocently at Blitzø, like he was going to be the best-behaved bird in Hell from now on. The imp knew better than to believe those eyes.

Blitzø pulled the soft pants to Stolas' ankles and then pushed Stolas' legs apart with his knees. Stolas could feel a cool breeze across his nether regions, sensitive and long left untouched. Blitzø placed his hands on Stolas' inner thighs, dragging his sharp nails through the feathers as Stolas squirmed.

"Keep still for me," Blitzø whispered. "There's a pretty bird. My pretty bird..."

His hand moved closer.

"Hey beautiful... you ready?"

Two taps on his thigh, a little too eager. Blitzø grinned.  "Impatient pretty bird..."

A finger slipped into Stolas as he sucked in a breath.

"You're wonderful... you're brilliant..."

Blitzø added a second finger and curved them inwards the way he knew Stolas liked, beginning to move in and out.

"Sexy as shit," The imp murmured, with a sly smile.

And Stolas...

Stolas felt the same sensations as always. Blitzø' fingers did what they always did. The muscles of his cloaca reacted like they always did, clamping down on the imp's fingers in a rhythmic pattern as Blitzø went faster and faster. His hips ground themselves into the mattress the way they always had.

But this time, it felt different. There was no warmth, rising in his chest... suddenly no more desire to be playful, or naughty. His hand reached idly down before remembering they were in the closet, and the box was under the couch. The box of toys Stolas pulled out, sometimes, when he was at home alone and wanted something intense enough that he'd feel something... anything...

Blitz' hand smacked his ass, digging in his nails as his other hand thrust into Stolas and the bird gasped. This wasn't fair. The imp was doing everything he could to make him happy. It was Stolas, once again, who was the problem. And Blitzø deserved to feel wanted... his Blitzy...

And Stolas...

Stolas was good at pretending.

And so, Stolas moaned against the gag. He squirmed, squeezing fistfuls of cushion in his talons as Blitzø' hand moved faster and faster. He threw his head back, pushing a strangled little noise out of his throat. He pushed his hips up to the base of Blitz' fingers, arching his back, even as the resulting sudden stretch burned -

For him, Stolas repeated in his head. His toes curled from pain as he kept thrusting, drier by the second, against Blitz' hand, breathing shallow as he squeezed his eyes closed. He let out a rising cry, simulating a building crescendo. 

And then abruptly, it stopped. Blitzø' hand pulled out of him, like he'd been electrocuted. Stolas felt fingers quickly undoing the gag in his mouth, dropping it to the floor. The weight on top of him shifted away. Stolas opened his eyes and saw Blitzø with his hands up against his chest and away from the bird.

"Stolas," he choked, looking at him with horrified eyes. "What the fuck?"

The bird felt guilt pool in his core. "Wait, no - I'm sorry, Blitzy -" he gave a weak little laugh. "I can do better. I promise. Maybe from behind -"

"Stolas - fuck  - I’m not going to fuck you - you're crying -"

Only then did Stolas notice the tears coating his cheeks. There was silence as the bird processed this and the imp looked on with a mix of guilt and horror.

"T-that’s okay," Stolas said weakly. "I've cried during our full moons before -"

Blitzø shook his head. "That - that was different. I was spanking you, we were checking in, it was consensual. You were crying but you liked it and wanted that and made it clear to me. This is not that, Stolas. You're - shit, feathers, I’m so sorry, I should've noticed - why didn’t you signal -"

"I did like it, Blitzy," Stolas lied easily. "We can keep -"

"Bullshit."

The smile fell, and Stolas felt his heart speed up.

Blitzø looked on the verge of tears himself. "Fuck - Stols - you don’t owe - you think I want to do that so bad I don’t care if you want to?"

Stolas simply shrugged, and Blitz felt his heart shatter.

"It’s not fair," the bird said softly, "to you, if I -"

"Who taught you that?" Blitzø asked, his voice suddenly soft and yet trembling with anger. His hands were shaking. "Who the fuck taught you that, Stolas? Tell me, because I’m going to fucking murder them."

Stolas stared at the couch in silence.

"Was it Stella?" Blitzø whispered. His voice could cut glass.

Stolas felt suddenly like he was about to throw up.

"Stolas, did Stella -"

"I'm going for a walk," Stolas said, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat. He stood up abruptly, grabbing a pile of clothes from the beanbag chair in the living room, stepped into the bathroom to change, and slammed the door.

Chapter Text

Someone was knocking on the bathroom door. Stolas curled into a ball, wedged between the tub and the wall.

“Stolas?” He heard a voice, faintly. It felt fuzzy, as if through a receiver. “Stolas, please open the door – “

“OPEN THE DOOR, STOLAS!”

The bird hugged the little girl in his arms closer to his chest.

“Why is mummy mad?” Came a small, scared voice. Stolas forced a smile. “She’s just a little – upset, darling. It’s not your fault, I promise. How about we play a little game, hmm?”

“A game?”

“STOLAS, OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR OR I WILL – “

Blitzø began to bang against the door in a panic. “Stols – it’s been ten minutes – I’m worried Stolas, please – “

‘HOW DARE YOU TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY DAUGHER – “

Octavia raised her head. “Hide and seek?”

“Yes,” Stolas said, holding her close to his chest. “Sometimes your mummy and I… we play hide and seek. You like that game, don’t you?”

“STOLS – listen, please – I need to know you’re okay. Alright? Just open the door, birdie, come on, please – “

The voices blended, crashing into one another like waves in the sand, one after the other, quickening, distorting. Shadows loomed from impossible corners; Via clung to his chest as the room grew l̶̗̓á̸̡ṛ̶̐ḡ̶̺e̶̱̎r̵̬̈, then smaller, then l̵̟͂a̶͙̎r̴̩̀g̵̘̓e̴̗̽r̴͖͆ ̶̬̐a̷͓̽ḡ̵͔ả̵̧i̸̞̓n̵͔͆ ̶̗̏

Voices, lifting from beneath the earth, between the years, from present and future, from the darkness that birthed him and was back to claim its due.

S̶̥̦̯̰̹̠̙̼̺͖̖̎̋͠ḥ̴͓̱̞̞͉̀͒̉̎̏̈́̽͑̿̇̄͜ͅę̵̢͙̝͚̞̲̮̆̑̒͋͋̃̔̑͝’̴̪̟͋͂̌̈́̏́̕͘͝ͅs̶̰̟͉̥̼͍̻͆̆̍̽̽́̄͋ ̸̧͚̩̹̇̋̆͒̈̈́̂͜͝a̴̠̰̜͛̆ ̶̡͕͚̻̬̤͚̰͖̈́G̴̢̧̻̖͔̼̻͗͛̈́̇̄̚͠͝ȏ̵̢͈͇̗̔̃̉̀͘̕͘̚͜e̷̼̖̳̬̔̇̄̽̾͒ţ̷̞͐͒̂͘i̵̮͎̠͚͈̞̖̳̘̜̾̋̑̊̾̇̉͆̎̑ą̷͙͖̮̋̉̒͋̒͌̕̕, a screech sounded in his ear. S̸̮͎̟̗̉̔̏̏̇h̵̼͉̺̰̼̒̓͛͛͘͘ȅ̴̩̲̣͍̺̖́̊̐̚ ̷̯͕̏͑̍͑̚w̸̢͓͎͎̔̈́̒ǐ̸̬̭̉͛̍̔l̸͚̝͛́̋̇̚͝ļ̵̧͈̼̩͕̇̈̾̂ ̶̨̭̘͔̤̚m̸̯̯̹̟̉͋̚ä̷̩̠̳͉͉̞́͌̍͑͝r̶̘̙̜͖͊r̷̨͇̬̬̼̬̒̆̀̚ÿ̷̪̥̪́̀̆̀̎͜ ̷̫̖̣̈́̚ẅ̵̡̛̫̦̤̬̮́̇̀͝h̶̰̅͗̽̾͝͝ȩ̷͈̉̿͋̚t̴̺̄̏̄̓͘h̴̤͕̥̹́͊̐̂̚͜͜͝e̷͎̪̟͊̑̕r̵̨̹͖̺̆̈́͜ ̴̧̭̓̍̍́ș̶͈͕̺̻̗̑̊̀͂̉h̶̡̰͉̮̺̺̀̓͘e̸̖̍͗̌͌̍̄ͅ ̸̬̪͆̄w̸̳̣͙̿̄à̴̺̐̌̽ṉ̶̮͔̒͗̚͜t̸̢̗̳͛̏s̷̛̪͕̞͔̘̒͛ͅ ̵̮̤͙̤̂t̶̼̾̽̓̀ó̸͈̪̬̭̿̉̿͛̕ ̵͔͓͑̽̓̐̊̾o̷͕̲͎͔͌̚r̴̦͒͠

Stolas!  

Y̴͙͌ò̵͕ú̶͖ ̶͇̒w̸̟͝ă̸̧n̷͇̈́t̷͕̽ ̷̣͋ḣ̶͎e̴͉̾r̸̦͐ ̵̬͌t̵̘͂ō̸̻ ̸̩̚ḡ̵̥r̷̥̿o̶̩͘w̷̳̉ ̴̧́u̵̧͠p̷̳̌ ̴̜͆l̴̳͊i̴̧͒k̷͖͒ȅ̴̤ ̶̹̈́ỵ̷̓o̸̼̒ù̴͖,̵̘̓ ̸̫̂. S̷̡̢̢̨̛͇̖̤͍̻͓̱̦̹̀̇̀́̂͛̀̍́͑̉͌̈́͛̏̚̚͜͝͝ͅͅt̵̰͙̩̖͚͖̣̮̽́̈́̈̅̅̽̔͊̓͂̓̚͝o̷̻͚̞̬̥̣̗̲̲͇̤͍̣͈̹̩͚͎͎͒̄͒̌l̷̛̛̛͓̙̰͖̬͙͍̥͉͎̜̣͍̀͐́͛͑̅̓̔̀̐̈͐̓͛̀̆͒͗̀̉̓̃̏̀̊̈̕̕͜͝͝͝͝a̶͍̣̱̠̎̍͛͗͆͋̌̌̂s̶̡̨̛̼͙͔̘͙̱͔̥̞͚̫̟͔̯̟̭͗? Alone and p̷̺̺̫̭̤̦̳̋̋̃̿̌̂͊̓͋̅̚͝ạ̴̧̢̪̞͈̪̥̩͙̣̹̞͎̟̟̖͓͎͎̝̩͕͍͇̗̱̭͈̻́̏̔̂͜ṭ̴̈́̈͊͗̓͛̓͂̀̕͘͝h̶̨̢̛͖̦̺́̓̊͋̋̑̅̿̈̍̀̈̎̉̉̅͐͗͒̿͆̃̕̕̕͘͜ͅę̵̡̰͍͔̦͉͍͔̬̫̯̩̤̘̙͎͕͖̗̘̻̋͂̄̑̈́̀͛̓̋̍̓̈́̓͆̈́̔͌͊͆̕͘͜͝͠ͅţ̵̨̡̤̤̞̪̫̹͓͓͇͖̫̮̩͍̱̱̞͙̰͈̳̮̮͖͖̥̲͐͗̽͊̽͋̀̅̿̀͛̄̾̀̐̀̊̆̑͘i̷̢̡̦̭̘̞̮̤̝̣̱͈̦͓̼͓̠̩̻͎̱͖̫̘͉̫͇̩͍͐̿̒̇̌͛͋̾̑̄̀̄̈́̑̄͗̀͊͑̊͗̂̇̏̐̏̅̆̉̍̀͘͜͝͝č̵͓͊̆̈́͒̑̈́̔̈́̋̉̈́̎́͌

         c̷̟̠͓͔͕̘̟̤̰̪̀̒͒̿͘a̸̘̟̼͕͚̙̦̪͚͒̃͐͜͜ͅn̵̢̨͚̣̗̮͌́̀̉̈́̋͘͜’̴̳͂̄t̴͓͆̈́̿̆͐̈́̅ ̵̧̻͎͋̇̈́͗̂͆̽͘b̸̨̢͉̭̼̤͈̝͍͉̜̟͖̀̓́́̅͜͝é̷̡̨̩̼͉̖̞̲̖̣̦͈̦̉͗̒̓̎̂́͂̚͘͘͠ḻ̵̨̡̘͓͙̩̞̩͕͔͔̒̓͐̔̈́̑̆̂̕i̸͚̬̣̗̥̺̥̝̗̝̲̣̫̳̓͑̄̈̆́͒̇̍͑͛̈́̉̕e̶̪̳̟̪̳͑v̴̨̖̰͝ȩ̴̖͈͔̬̓͐̽̔͑̒͛̂͒̿ ̷̛̝̯͒͛̇́́̏̎́̏͆͠I̴̛̛̗̟̅̅͛̇͛͐͐̉̾̊̚ ̷̺͈͎͌̓̍̀̾̈́̇̓̈̓̕͘͝͝s̷̭̬̥͈͚̪̼̗̅u̸̡̢̢̗͍̤͔̘͕̗͑̄͋͆̍͂̈́̚͝f̸̛̛̩̱̟͍͒̀̃́͌̒̋̇͒́̚f̸̧̥͛͆͒̈̕e̶͉̻͉̹̠̰͊̐̀͋͆͋ͅr̴̛̠̪̫͍͎͕̩͚̺̜͂͜ͅe̶͎͔̮̹͚̮̤̮̤̩͇̱͆̓̉̅̅̊̓̃̐͘͘͝͠ḑ̷̞̖͕̘͙͓̜̯̠̱͐̏̊̑͂͋͆̆̅͆̒͜ ̷͖̻̬̓̐͊́̈́̐̈́͝ţ̶̬͓̬̫̫̰͙̈̅̉̉̊̾͌́͊̿́̊̒ͅh̸̰̠͗́̈̈́͊̌̉̚̚͠ṟ̸̢̯̦̘̰̑̄͆̈́ǫ̷̢̡̟̗̩͓̭̱̹͖̲͈͒̈̐́̌̆͌̕͘͜u̸̙͈͇̩̣̘̙͍̭̫͗͛̅̽̑͊̿̊̚ͅg̵̡͕̞̹̰̫̞̝̘͔̣͕͚͂̒̆̒ḧ̵̳̬̖̖̼͙̰̱͒͘ ̵̛̦̣ș̵̢̲̠̙̺̞͖̭̹̗̹͇̀̐̅̍̉̈́̚ͅe̴̫̼̩̞̳͓͚̱̟̭͚̦̖͕̿̽̈̑̑̌̂̽͝x̴̗͍̲̮̱͉̻̮͖̝͕̼͎̉̕ ̴͙̑̀͂̂́͊͒̓̇́̕̚w̸̟͈̦̖͈̥̓̀̽͆̅̍̈̚͠i̷̼̮̻͎̜̞̐͊̐͐̋ͅt̷̞̜͔͇͐ḥ̶̡̌ ̶̤̪̬̍͝ý̵̟͖̠̗̎̀̿̀̔̽͒̕͝͠͠o̴̧̫̪̟͎̣͙̤͔͓͑͐̃̈́́́͌̒̐̆̍̌̽͝ư̷̡̹̰͈̳̜̞̋̔̇ ̴̢̛͉͎͍̮̥̮̩͗͑͐̿̏j̶̨̣̙̖̥͒ů̴̡̙̟̭̑̓̈́̀͛̔́̅́̅̉̀͘ș̵̳̃̐̏̅̿̕̚͝ͅt̴̩̳̻̽͜ ̵̢̡̰͖̦̑͐͐͋͑̐͂̕f̶͎̯͖͉͖̤̣̦̋̎̉͊̐́͝o̵̖̼̦̳̪̽r̴͉̫̬͝ ̶̢̲͙̳̪̤̗̮̓̋̑͝ẗ̶̨͖̥́͊̑̂̈͆̽͂͛̄͜ẖ̸͉̠̰̥̯̺͉̆̇̌a̵̧̺̲̫͈̅t̸̻̩̹̮͙̝͉̝̀͜͜

̴̰̭̆̽͌͆a̵͙̣̞̜̟̞͚̓̐͋͋̿̋͘͘ń̴̨̢̬̖̤̖̞̘̗̊̈́̾̌̈́̈́͠͠y̴̬̤̳͈̹͋̌͐̃͒́̉̀͂̐̇̾̈́͝ ̸̛̼̠̑͌̓̀̓̃̎͊̾́̑̕͜ö̷̝̦͖̋̔̏̋̉́̌̿̏́͆̈́̐ṯ̸̢̹̟̼̹̭̑̋͆̌̈̑͐̆̔̃̔̆̉ḩ̵̼̙̮̮̤̮̣̤̩̘̀́̅̇̆̎̂̉̒̉̿̒͘ȩ̵̘̤̣͉̠͙̪̓͆̽̉͛̐̈́̒̽͛̋̓̚͝r̸̢̨͉̻̙̦̞͕̠̟̭̖͈͓̈́ ̸̤̟̼̭͓̭̫̣͍͈̳͇̂̎̔̎̾͋̍̈́̈́͂̅̈́͘̚͜m̴̡̧̗̦̫̖̦̘̝͕̳̈́̀̏̓̈́̾̀̆̏̈̎͘a̷̤͎̤͚̜͉̗̘̪̟̱̒́̐̊̓̽͘͠ͅñ̴̬̰̠̺̤͙̃̅̏̎̊͐̈̚

Stols, please ą̸̦̪̺̭͎̰͙͚͎̹̅̂̽͑̃̂̌̿͑͂̽͛͋͘͜͜n̷̡͓͙̖͉͚̣̘̗̗̙̪̫̖̘̥̟̲͚̯̊̏̌̎̑͌̑̀̎̀̾̏͑̈́́̊͌͗̆́́̏̈́̚͜͝͠ͅy̵̭̟̺̞̳͕͈͊͋͌̽̈́̅͒̑̋̿̂̿͗̏̍͂̑͛̊͐̐̅̐̄̕͘͝ ̸̳̍̇̇̍̓̉̊̕̕̚͠o̵̢̨͚͇̤̝͇̭̦̦͕͈͈̹̥̽͆͗͊̅̾͗̂̀͑͘͝t̷͔͚̣̹̫̙̖̤̱̼̯̬͓͙͖̞̰͙͕͙̱͈͈͔̠̫̝̉̍̑̑̀̒̚̕͜͠͝h̴̺͇̳̗̼̗̳̣̰̯̥͙̰̦̠̀̅̓͆̏̉̊̋̄̈̀̊̄͑̓̋̐̊̾̋͆̉̑͑̓̎̽͛̐̚͜͝ͅͅͅę̶̡̡̡̛̛͍̦̙̗̯͇̫̭̮͈̫͔̠̮̥͈͓͙͙̖̱͎̆͋̅̅̒̇͑̍̅̍̉̒̏̇͐̉̽̇̾̉̉͛͘͘͠ṟ̸̨̡̢̠͕͎͙͔̘͈̲̰͖̠̳̞̔̀́̂̍̈́̒͋̾̌̏̀͘͝͝ ̶̧̨̢̥̬̖̤̜͕̼̖̪̱̮̺̣͚̯̺̣̍̈́͂̊͂̔͒̑̾̅͛͆̈́̈́̔̀̇̚͜͠͠͝m̶̧̟͇͕͎̻̓͆̿͆̈́̈́̌̈́̆́ą̴̧̨̢̡̛̪̯̥͍͓͍͖̭̫̜̳̈̿̋̈͌̽̎̽̆̐̽͘ͅņ̷̢̰͖̗̼̗͓͙̬̫̼̝̪̗̟̙̘̟̟̯̒̈́͒̀͒̓̈́̀̕͜͝͠͝ ̸̡͇̣̪̩̥̠̣̼̥̙͈͓͉̥͎̤̣͈͇̹̺͕͚̳͇̪͈̝̈̈́̄͜w̸̢̨̧͉̠͔̮̼̜̯͇͔̦̤̫̼̗̳̤͙̖͓̫̙͕̳̘͆̈̏͛̈͗̕͜ͅo̸̧͓̬̮͕͇̥̮̣̠̺͖̭̮̝̓͛̈̃̓̉̓́̀̃̑̚͝͝͝u̵̧̧̨̗͖͓̙̳͍̜͚̠̥̫̱̘̘̦̇̌̈́̿́̕͝͝ľ̶̛͎̳̬̻͔̜̜͚̹̬͖͙̖͔͕̗͇͎̯̻̞̲̲̒͆̆͑̑̔̈̐͂̿̈͐́̄́̉͐̅̇̈͗͂̈́́̕̚̚͘͝͝d̶̡̝̟͓̹̥̥̦͚̞͔̱̭̽͋͋̆̉̋̌͋͛̓ͅ ̸̧̡̛̬̣̦͇̤̠͕͙̖͇̱̪̜͉̳͇̉͊̆͌̅̿̔̋͋̎͑̀̓̈́̒̀͑̓͌͗̓̈́̕͘͝ͅb̴̹͎͈̻͂̓͌̈́̎̽̄̈́̌̇̒̂̄ͅę̴̡͚̟̗͈̥̩̜̪͍̮̘̤̘͔͙̞̳̫͙̰͛́̑͋̏͘͜ͅ ̵̛̛͈̞̙͈̹̰̪̻̲̺̥̜͆͋͛̈̋̌̃̊́̒̏̆̈́̎̋̃͐̃̾̕̕͘͝͝͝ḅ̶̨̧̛̳͔̙̜̻̫̱͚̣̭̎̇̑͒̿̃̊̄̊̏́̀͒̕̚͘͝͝e̶͎͙̖͕̗̬͖̲̞͈̎̎͂̆͑̂̑͘̚̚͜͝ģ̵̧̨̢̨̨̛̻̥̟͇̤̝̰̞͖͎̬̹͈͕̥̹̦̬̳̜̳̝̱̤̱͖͐̅͗̒͌̌́̽̏͝͝ͅg̷̛̥͍̗̦̯̩̙͔̯̪̱̟̝͙̪̖̙̯̈́͐̃ͅi̴̪̺̪͖͐ņ̷̧̨̨͕̮͉͈͙͙̺̦̩̤̗̺̳̺̲͕̻̬͕͙̞̖͉̜͇̻̥̟͛̐̉́͆̐͂͊̅̅̃́̍͌̋̓̂̈́̂̏͘͜͝g̴̨̢̛̝̱̻͖͓̞̬͔̯͍͕̽̈́̿̋̾͆͌̍͒̂͑̚ͅ ̷̨̡̛̛̝̯̩͎͎̬͉̪̥̟̣̞̜̰͈̫̙̐̍̏̽̿̀̈́̋̐͂͆̅̌͆̃̑́͒̍̾̆̈́͊̑͛̕͠͠͝͠͝t̴̯͚̥̲͓̱͔͓̱̳̒́̀̇̀ơ̸̡̡̝̹͙̮̫̜̭̬͉̜͒͊͌̈́̐̌͑̅̍̈́̓̆̾̍͂̆̓͂́̃̅̚̕̕̕͜ ̷̢͍̳͇̪̘͈̪̤͕̮͍̞̥͓͔̦̤̼̝͚̱̣̲̜̤͓̫̓͐͗̊̑̀̍̅͠ͅf̶̮͕̙̍́̄̉͗̍̊ų̵̧̞̞̻̣͇͍̙̺͕̗̦̦͎͕̖̜̫̖̫̆̏̀͐̿͛̕͜ͅc̵̛͎̪͈̩͙̩̲͓̦̖̳̠̫͆̄̃̂͗̋̿̀͝͠͝ͅk̸̫͖͍̣̣̼͕͎̰̏̈́̿͒͊͐̃̏̊̆̌͊̃͋̍̿̒̾̇̾̽͒̌̈́̅̇̕̕̚ birdie, I’m gonna open the door, okay

̴̬̙̪̩͈̯̥̺̠̲̱̝͚͔̫̮̤̤͕̖̩̼̙̮̘̖̈́̏̔̊̃͗̅̔̑̈́̌̐ ̴̢̨̠̱̗̤̦͉̻̯͔͔̤͔̭͚̗̮̝̩͎̩̝̥̳͎͖͇̲̳̯̣͉̫̣̖̝̠̻̞͆̋̅̐̾͋́͆̀̾̆̓̀̈̐̓̍̈́͌̈̓̊̃̍̿͋͆͌͛͑͜͜͝ͅ ̷̧̧̪̫̽̄́͛͐́̋͂̆͆͒̐̆ ̴̛̗̯̮̻̜̣̰̪̭̲̖̦͈͋̎̄͠ ̶̛̛̭̼̾̊̍̓̈̉͗͋̑̍̾ ̷̢̢̢̢̛̦̠̜̺͓̼̪̣̩͇̳͎̩̖̦͇̟̘̭̙̗̺͔̺̦̟̠̟̜̮̤̻̰̠͙̘̥͛͗̄̂̉̍̀͐̇͗̑̐̋̾̚̕͘͘͘͘ ̵̡̡̢̢̧̝̟̲͔̘̞̮͕̻͇̹̩̬͚̞̖̙̥͇͎̝̥̞̘̰̱̹͚͓͖̼̳̤͎̟̞̮̰̈̇̿̾͗̽̄̆̉̉̃̀̆̓́̅́̐̈́͘̕͠ͅͅ ̶̡̢̢̡̠̖̞̫͕̳̮̠̳͇͕͔̟̟͛̈́͊͒̀͆͗̏̆͑̈́̅͛̃̅̅́̄̈́̎͋̈́͌̃̌̃̃̂̎̅̈́̾̔̃͘̕̕͠͠͝͠͝ ̵̢̢̡̨̨̻͔̣͎͕̟̮̲̰̜̘̲͍͔͕͇̹͍͎͇̟͉̯͑̈́͆͑̈́̋͗̾͌̀͗͜͜͜͝ ̴̧̨̻̝̖̦̥̫̭͍̲̜͈͕͎̗̣̗̰̭̹̺̣͓̗̗̹̹̖͔͉̼̜̙̰̝̤͔͇͚̈́͜ͅ ̸̧̩͖̲̪͙̭͔͎̮͋͛̓̒͗̀̇͆̋̄͌͊̃̈́̑́̄̏̿̅̒͌́̕̚̚͠͠͝͝͠͝ ̶̨̡̡̯͓͎̗̦̲̝̻͕̬̩͔̰̹̙̺̳̣̠̙͉̤̯̙̖͔̤̞̞̬̣̼̖̼̳͙̓́̆͋̄̀̀̐͌̿̽͛͑̏̆̈́̓͊͌̓̒̇̉̃̓͂̄͒́̇̕͘̚̕͜͜͝͝ͅ ̶̧̨̛͉̣͖͍̲̲͖͈͎͕̩̺͖̦̩̠͇͚͎̯̻̼̫̙̱̬̠͎̱̩̪̺̟̼̣͕̊̈͋̾̎̐͐͐͆̓̋͒̀͑͛̃̊̎̀͋̍̈͋̈́́̍͗̔̚̕̚͜͝͝͠͝͠ͅ ̷̻̖̪͙́̈̽͐̈́͆͑̈́́͒̿̎͘͠ ̴̢̡̨̧̢̳̠̬͍̫͔̩̬̭̲͓̤̣̜̖̇̿͛̕ͅy̵̧̢̳̖͎̱̭̺̩͚͇͇̮̞̥̥̳͈̳̪̙̬͉̪̬͙͉̿̓͌͌̍͛̈́̇̀͗̐̽̋̒̓͋̐͛͋͊̃͊͒̔̈́͘͝ͅơ̷̢̢̡͍̫̲̗͙͈̝̭͖̗͉͉͍̻̩̞̳̯̘͚̍̽̂̎͑͒́̓̔͂̆̍͒̀͊͑͑͛̅̽͌̑͋̒̔̀̈͐̈̓͑̒͛̏̍́́̌̕̕̕͜͜͠ͅú̶̧͈͙̳͚̩̥̮̠͖̺̘͙̖̹̝̯̲͚̯̝͍͎̮̹̍̈́͑͐͗̊͌͐̓̅͗̆̋́̎̑̍̑̉̾̈́̾́͊̀̋̅̔̈́ ̵̧̡̨̧̧̛͈̱̫̘͈̩̟̥͖̤̤̞̲̭͈͚̘̫͇͈̙̻͕̦͙̤̗͉͎̝͍̘̠̞͓̞̐̔̈́͊̀͒̿̆̄̕͜͝͠͝ͅf̶̡̡̡̢̛̛̼͚̲̭̼͕̰̤̥̯͕̼̳͖̲̫̖͍̮̩̱̣̲̪̜̬̆̑͒̎̎̎͛̋̽͒͗̅̈́̑̈̂̓̊͊̓̈́͌̋͌̅̄͛̉͋̊̂̏̏͛͒̑̎̚̕̚͘͘͜͠͝͝ͅų̸̢̛̞̜͔͓̖̭̭̘͇̰̲̦̩͉͓̰̭̻̳͓͇̭̘͖͍̳̮͕̫͈̩̯͇̱͎͇̥͙͓̹̖̔͒͌͋̍̔̑̀̉̐̈́̅̇̉͒̿̍͋̐̈̀̕͜͝͝ͅͅç̵̢̧̩͖̥̟̗̟̼͖̮̝̺͈̙̝̰͇͎̠͎̬̩̯̯̼̣̺̗̯͓̯͈̟̹͕̄̑̀͂̊̓͛͜ķ̷̡̢̢̨͖̤̙̠̹̗̳̪͎̫͖͎̤̳̱͍̟̞͕̫̲̖̜̼̦̼̳̙̏̊͂̓̅͛̇̚ͅͅi̶̢̢̢̡̡̡̡͓̭̖̫̱̺̰͎̭̪̬͍̹̙̭̮̜̦̤͔͔̹̯̱̳̦͍͙̦̝͂͋̀̉̔̑̀̂̊͗̆͒͛͋̐̔̂̿̿͆͐͘͜͝͠͠ͅͅņ̷̢̣͍̳͔̺̥̣̠̳̣̳͔͈̤͇̘̟̦͍̳̩̞̜̯̫͖̞̹̮̩̭̪̯̙͌̓͜͜g̶̡̧̡̛͉̠̱̩̲̹̼̯̠̩̩̦͙̣̘͕͚͚͔͚͙̹̭̖̗̜̯̩̠̤̪͔̰͍̗͇̈͊͌̌͑͗͝ͅ ̸̛͕̱͔͍͈̼̒̋̌̔͑͂̈́̒̇̍̈́̂͛͗̀͒͂̆̊̏̄͐̿̔̆͐̆̓̂́̅̑̈́̒̀̃̏̇̇̚͝͝͝d̸̡̢̡̢̗̠͈̬͖̥̺͖̺̻͕̫̻̰̹̙̪̜͔̰͙̯̹̯̱̟͚͖̔̀̍̉͗̏͛̉̓͊̔́͒̓͊̎̓̊̆̀̅̎͛̓͆̆̐̎̎̈́̈́͘͜͝͝͠͝į̸̧̨̨̢̡̧̧̛̛̝̲̼̣̖̰̙̰̦̹̼͎̰̖̯̘̪͕̖̤̩͎͔͎͍̪͙͖̫̬̮̤́̌̐̆̈́̀̉͋̑̃͑͋͂̿͐́̔̆̍̓̎̈́̓̆͋̄̽͆̈́͌͊͐̈́͑̎̃́͐͘̚͜͝͝ͅs̵̢̢̢̡͉͍̗͈̼̘͙̤͎̺̝̼̯̘͖͎̙̳̮͕͚̣͙͕̜̥͉̝͇͇̻̠̜̲͋̋̈͘͜g̶̨̛̭̦̻̠̗͙̙̘̠̃̊̃̄̊̒̿̇̒͗͗̔̆̊̇̌͋̈́͐̓͊̒͗͊̌̀͘̚̕͘͝͝r̴̨̢̨̭̩̰̮̱̻̝̮̼̠̮̖͈͚̟̥̓͐̌̕͜͝͝͠ą̷̢̗͚̩̯͉̞̝̱̫̰̘̝̯͙͍̙͖̭̳̜̲͓̠̜̥͔̫̺̥͔̝̦̺̭͂͆́̊͜͜ͅć̴̖̥̌̒͆͒͆́͘͠e̶̛̤̖̞͚̹̥͙̥̼̘͕͓̼̩̫͉͇͍̮̪̰͋̐̏̏̂̍̓͋͛̉̏͊͂̋̊̋͒̌̎̀̏̒̄̅̋̓̅̐̍̈́̐̕͝͝͝,̷̡̨̧̥͓̬̯̣̩̝̼̲̝͚̖͚̐̍̐̑̈́̓́̈́̀̀̌͒͊͊́͐̀̈̾͛̓̌́̂̽̅̚͜͜͝͠͝͠͝ ̴̧̧̧̢̛̬͓̟̭̬̬͚̬̱̦͍͎͉̰̲̙̯̪̱̤̞̰̪̯̹̹̰̪͗̉̌̂̔͐͌̉̀̐̿̓̈͊͊̾̀́̉̈́̀̅͂̎͗̏͒̓̃̊̅̉͘͘͘̚̕̕ͅy̶̢̨̢̰̹͕̣͖̳̲̯̹̞̰̤͚̬̬̝̰̥͖̯͕̹̺̼̻̪̜̮̣̰͉̼͖͔̳͇̞̞͈͇̣̲̋̐̽͂̾́́͆͋̀̈́̐́̎̄̌͊͊͂̏̚͝ͅͅő̷̧̧̝͎̫̪̳͎̰͖̝͇͖̣̝̝̻̙̫̣̫̥͖͖͖̈͑̓̍̅̑̈͛ư̸̧̛̼̥̯͍̥͆̀̓̈́̅̎̄̈͊͂̄̉̅̀̀̓͛̽̍͌͒̂̈́̈́̍̅̂̎̅̐̕̚͝ ̷̡̡̧̡̢̡̧͉͖͙̦͕̗̗̼͚̠͉͇̗͚͖̻̲͌̈́̆͂̓̂̆̄̽̂̍̐̒̈́̽̿̓͆̿͛͗̚̚c̵̡̨̧̙̟̫̳̣̘̠̫̖͍̘̱͈͈͈̥͙͇̥̟͍̺̼̟̾͌͒̆̀̋͒͂͛͂̇̃̌̉̏̌͊͒̑̃̿́̆̊̾̄̈́̅͘̕͜͝͝͝ọ̸̧̨̧̧̡̢̥̦̭̼̞͙̹̙̻̗̫̮̗̞̳͔̲̰̱͔͔͙̫̺͍̪͚̳̖̦̮̠̦̪̈́̽̈́̉̋̆̋̿̊̌ͅư̷̧̧͍̬̱͍͔̝̫̱̪̠̮̠͉̣̻͉̹̦̼̥̫̝̜̱̰̑͑̽́̏̀̈́̏̾̊͛͋̅̊̄̓͗̽̽͊̿̂̈́̅͊̈́̌̌̍́̕͠͠ͅl̶̡̟̭͈͉̱͈̫̠͍̪̖͍̬̹͖̬͖͙̻͈͔̉̃̈̃̎̓̿̓̐͐̈̉̌̓̄̓̔͐̏̾͑͑͊̃̈́̿͆͌͐͗̀̅̾̊̈́̕̕̕͝͝ͅd̷̢̪͎͙̹̭̺̲̘̤́̅͌͊͑̅̑́̍̌̃̈́̓̆̒̍̈́̿̊̑̾̑̂̆͆͋́̃͌̄̅̐͋͗̇̊̓̽̀̂̀̐͘̕͝͠ ̷̨̥̹̬̙̹̎̄͗̀̈́̅̐̏̊̈́̍̌̊̀̎̔̀͋̿̓̆̀̚͘a̷̛̲̹̻̯͙͎͓͈̤̹̰̝͙̭̹͇̝͖̠͕͕̪͎̹̬̼̝̼̰͋̋̃̐͊̊̎̎̂͌̑̂̓̍̽̀̂̏̚͝͠ͅt̷̛̛͇̔͛̀̓͑̏̂͑͋̒̿̔͊̾͊̅̄̿̌̒̏̎̽̔̒̒͗͘̚͘͘̚ ̸̡̧̡̫͙̣̗͈̞͇̱͔̝̩͔̙̠̺̠̳̬̩̮̱̮͖̞̭̞̮̜̬̈́̄̈̒̆͂̊̾̉͐̀̂̊̀̈̈́̽̕͘͜l̷̡̨̛̫͔̬̺͔̦̮̗̣̬̟͖̘͇̼̭͎̥̥̇̍͋̉̓̇͑̚e̸̡͙̠͋͛̐̿͗́̒̈̓͗̓̆̎̏̃̀̌̀̕̕̕͝a̵̢̡̢̙̤͓͎̠̹͍̼̰̩̻̣̥̘̗̙̳̣͉̻̠͚͈̻̖̺̩̲̮̼͎̬͍͍̣̘̝̗̰̻̐͛̍́̔̓̆̽̎́͆͗̌̈̐̉̽͑̂͋̅̌̀̅̉́̀͘̚͠ͅͅs̷̡̧̢̧̧̜̦̹͍̘͍̯̹̦͕̫̰̗̩̻̭͚͖͈͖͓̜͙͕̈͒̽́̈͑͠ͅt̸̥̖̦̪͖͗̿̿̒́̈́͊͐̀̚͠ ̸̧̨̤̬͇͎̦̬̩̳̞̻̗̲̩͔̯̣̼͎̫̹̉̃̈́̾͊̋́̓͊̉̈́̿̊̌̊̋̋̒̆́̿̅͆̌̈́̀͆͑̊̏̾͐̉̐͒̋̔͐͂̑͋͘͘͠͝p̵̛̖̝̹͕̺̜̖̭̝̻̦̉̄͛̽̂̏͗̔̿̾̌̎͆̈̓̆͌̎͐̊͆̽̉͗̄͆̔̃͌͋̀́̾̐͂́͑̚͘͘̕̚͜͜͠͝ͅr̵̨̢̧̢̥̩͎̤̯͇͈̭̱͍̫̦̣̗̦̮͍͉̯̣̱̱̭̦̳̹̗̪̟̜͖͇̯͈̪̐̀̃̐͆͋̄̓͑̉͒̌̓͆̌͜͝͝͝͝ę̵̡̢̧̢̖̭̥̩͇̩̗̠͔̯̺͓̙̞͖͙̻̬̘̹̠͕̜͙͍̹̗̭̙̳̊̌̇͒̒̾̉̄̎̌͑̒͛̑̃́͛̐̊͘̕͠ͅť̸̡̡̙̘̻̳͔̦̥̱͈̫̟͙͈͇̮̣̬̻̟̻͈͈̀́̍͊ȩ̷̧̨̨̧̢͓̥̬͕͙̳̤̫̭̘̫̞̙̞͉̞͇̭͍̞͐͜͜͝ǹ̷̢̨̙͍̞͈͈̦̰̹̥̼̜̬̼̣̞͚̝̮̺̝̉̈́ͅd̴̢̢̨͍̩̠̘̳̗̗̝̮̳̟͙̖̙̻̦̯̗͈̥͎̳̫̖̀̔̄ ̵̧̧̨̛̞̜̝͉̦͕̮̼͔̭̙̮͈̲͕̥͍͉̬̤͔̗̱͚̟̣͍̍̀̚͜͜͝ͅͅţ̷̨̡͈͎̩̗͇͓̙͚̝͕̬̘̜͙̣̗̤͎̘͉̩̼̞̠̻͍͕̭͕̗̳̳͓̜̜͔͕̗͈̳̯͒͐̍̐̐͋̈́͆̅͌͐̐̈́́́͋̅͐̽͋̋̉̾̚̚͘̕͝ͅo̴̡̧̧̤̬̙̝̩͚̘͔͖͖̭̖̭͈̙͔̣͇̜͚͇̝̭͇̯̦̦͔̥̣̗̜̳̰͛̿̿̀̏̃͐̇̍̐̑̍͑̄̇͒̽̅̽̊̄͝͝ͅͅͅ ̸̛̭͎͇̈́̂̃͊͋͛̈̐͂͒̿́̓͊̆̿̓̏̂̈̑͆͆͌̓͌̈́̈̃͂̌͆̀̓͑̀̈̔͋͋́͘̕͘͠͝ȩ̷̡̦̩̘͎̺͍̳̥̦̠͇͎̩͖͇̳̤͈̰̼͇̓̎͑̑̈́̒̀̄́̉̈́̒̓̈́̈́̔̌͌̈̄͒̕͘̚͝ṉ̶̢̱̖͈̭̝̻̭̗̟̜̟̻͖̰̤͗̇̽͌̀̊̑̽̆̈͒̎͋͌̔̐̄̂͂́͂͑̑̌̒͂͊͌̂͆́̀̇̀̉͂͂̍̚͝j̷̨̨̢̨̧͉̦̻̜͙͚͉̤͓̹̼͖͍̫̬͈͈͇̯̟̹̄̂̈̿̅̌̂̀̀͊̍̈́̌͂̈́̔͗̀̃̒̇̈́̅̈́͗̊͋̓͆̆̏̎̕̚̚̕͜͜͝ȯ̶̧̳̬̯̼̜̞̜͠y̶̨̲̻̠̰͎͎̦̥͒̌̈́͑

Fuck – what are you –

g̶͖̪̍͂̋͗͑͘i̷̧̧͍̜͕̙͇̺̳͈̅̀̽̏́͊͋̓͝v̷̢̡̜̬̟͓̭͈̩̭͚͇͉̈́̆͑̆͗̾͆̃̃̚͜e̶̤͚̋̈͂̆̓͌͂̏̆̚͝ ̷̡̢̢͎̳̬͉̱̮͉̭̮̻͍̳̊͆̆̐̌́͜m̵̟̜̫̏̒̄̓͂̌̎͆̌̉̄̕̚̚ẹ̸̞̙̮͍͚͔̪̩̟̳̋̐̂̃͝ ̵͇̺̠̩͓̭̖̘̩̠̤̞̱̮͋̽͒͋́͑͘͘y̷̡̥̪̩̹̩̺̋̒́̇ơ̵̧̢̛͙̺̥͈̰͚̂̊̑̈́͒͑̑̚͝u̸̧͎͉͗͊͗͗̂́̀͒̈́̃͝r̵͖̣̫͚̭̭͉̫̮͔̞͕͐̿͋̆́̋̑̌̓̀̉͑̿͐͝ ̶̛̖̟͇̰̦̙͎̹̞͒̉͛̾̆͂̚͝u̷̧̢̗͉̝͍̞͉̞̣̫̇̌̓͋̑͗̚̕ģ̴̪̪̰̭͖͇͋̒̑̈́ļ̶̡̛̭̝͉͚̓̀̔͂͝͝y̸̞̮̖̲̓̊̊ ̸̟̠̣̦̘̪̼̫͈̙͉͔̑͆̓͑̒̒̈̕͘m̶̡̛͇͈̺͕̩͍͖̞̳̉̔̐͒̾̒̑̀ǔ̸̬͈̺̺̠̻͂̎͒̇̄̚g̴̨͇̫̻̟͇͚̪͇̺̏̊̂̎̽͆̉̊̓̊́͝͠ ̷̢̛̛̞̥̳̱̣̙̖͉̱̤̗̹͇͙́͛ͅo̶̳̜̙̤̿͐̊̒̇̋̀̎͊͝f̴̡̡̪͚͈̯̥̭̭̲̜̱̝͈̌̋͜͜ ̸̢͔̘̗͇́͗͋̈̋͑̉̔̊ă̶̩͇̻͚̰̝͎̎̋ ̴͉͙̥̱̜̏͐̈́̌̓͌͆̒̓́́̈͠ͅf̷̢̟̞̩̗̯̃̑̿̐͆̔̄̉̔̿̈́͠ä̸̢̠̻̺̞̽̾͗̾̄̉̇̿͌͛̏̾̋̚c̵̼̍̄̊̐ȩ̵̜̰̺̥̺̟̩̦̤̘͈͉́̍̆͐̓͋̓̂͋̽,̴̡̛̲̣͇͈̦̫̟͖̱̾͐̏͂̀̉͂̉ ̷̨̛̠̝̜͎̰͉͕̿̒̆͌̀͛ͅĮ̶̦̣͍̣̇͋̍́̊͝ ̸͕͓̠͔̘͓͙̏̒͜c̴̯̤̬̳̟͔̲̲͇̜̥̣̥̺͍̔ä̴̦̫̬̘͖͔́͌̒̈͘̕ņ̷̨̹̙͎̦̹̱͉̠̳̜̩̪͉̇̈́͊͋̈́̍͛͘ͅ ̷͇͉̙̑̃̆̊̀͊̐̌̅̌̆̆̅̂͠͝m̴̡͖̞͇̫͚̥̬̝͔̹̙̄̒͜ͅa̶̢̨̠͉̻̬̱̭̬̳̳͒̎̃͐̈̎̾k̷͓͉̭̬̹̝͍͓̖̪̾̒ͅe̸̢̳̳̙̬̯͊͗̒̑̈́̓̃̇̽͘̕͝͠͠͝ ̶̦͎̼̣͔̺̳̑͋͊̀̈́́̍̿̅̂̈́̎͑̏͝ỉ̷̧̢͕̱͓̙͚̬̺͕̜̔̎̍͛͑̏̓̎̋̓͠t̶̥̝͇̥͕̘̯͈̞̥͓̯̲͑̃̾̊̋͛̾͌̽́ ̴̡̡͚͇̥͕̮͚̣̯̭͆͐̓̔̑̿͌̂̊̉̕ͅs̵̢̨̫̦̘̙͐͒͐̽͌̆̔͋̀̚͠͠͠o̷̧͚̱̠͈͙̠͕̼̟̦̻̓͌͌̎̀̑̓̽͐̈́̿͆̆͘̚͝ͅ ̵̢̙͖͉̩̻̞͔͎̬̖̃̎̾͛̈̀̑͝ń̶̫͙͎̿o̶͉͈̫̱̽̀͑͑̽̅͊̈́̽̃̔͊̑͝ ̴̩̬̣͙͚̤̠͖̤̻͎̏͆̌̆͂͂͐̈́̇̆͘ȯ̶̖̺̹̹̳̦̹͖̥̝̥̣̣͙̤͌̽̎͒̆͠ņ̵̛͇͖̯̪͚̲͕͕̬͈̝̀͆̎͝ę̴̡̨̮͖͙̟̫̮͔̭̥̥̿͊̊̋͂̃̒̀̚͘ ̴̜͎̾̔̌͊w̷̙̏̇̄̀̅́̈́̊͗̂̋ĩ̸̧̛̞̙̖̝̹̯̫͕̗̂̒͗̽̎̐͌̒̆̉ĺ̷̢̡̮̬͚̻̹͒͋͌ĺ̸͓̱̗̻̬͔̼͓͔̳̳̬͓̰́̂́̍̆̀̽̉̃̕ ̴̤͙̜͖̳̞̬̘̮̩̙̱̪͙̞̭̎̎͝t̴̻͊͒̾̏͌̓̐̅̔̕̕ǫ̵̱̩͛̾ũ̵̩̩̯̜͈͍̗̉͗͌͐̿͑̋͊͘̚c̵͇̮̝̜̱̝͓̠̮̻͉͋̑͐̂̄̾͛̅̈́̇̊ḩ̴̯̮̰̳̙̀ ̵̨̛̮̗̣̜̱͔͈̮̬͓͆̈́̀̆̀͐̅̐̒̉̈́ÿ̵̨̢̲͎͈̳̱̲̱̗̱͎͈̟̺͜ó̶̧̼̳̞͉̇̾̇͜͠ư̶̻͉̣̪̤̑̽̈́͂́͌͘ͅ Stolas stop, stop

̴̮̊

Ṣ̸̢͔̟̤̃̈̎̑ͅ ̴̙̲̘͎͖̺̇̽͂́̊ͅT̴̳̺̱̖͈̫̽̀͂́̓̀̈́ ̸͙̉̌̋̾̆̕͠Ö̵̧͕̗͓̝̣̟́͊ ̵͖̻̦̱̺̝͎̈́̽̃͘Ľ̶̢̮̳̲͔̗̱̳̙ ̸͙̹̿̔́̿͊̃͝A̵͈̭͚̪͓̋̉ ̶̪̠̇͛̾̑̍͌̀͘S̸͚͂

Stolas breathe

Y̵̡̨̡̨̡̞͓̦̝̹̩̩̺̖̖̜͍̺̺̙̠̠͈̼̟̥͇̼̩͖̳̪͊̏̇͐͜O̷͈̱̖̻̣̜̣̖̞͚͍̻̹̯̳͈̣̹̺̐͛̎̈́̍̋̓͋̃̐̐̎͋̆̏̄̓̈́͗̉͐͛̑͐̈́̆͌̕͝͝͝Ư̵̢̥͔͓̙̙̮͕̹̈́͂̓̃͂͐̆̏̇͒͒̐͌̐̓͂̽́͂̈́̏͘̕̕͘͠ ̵̨̩͉̞̟̥̳͎̹͖̠̝̗͕̘̳̼͇̭̞̟̯̗̳̲͈̗̘̰̗̖̠̎̑̄̈͌̄͐̊̋͊̍̀̊͘͝M̵̡̨̡̛͍̰̟͓͖͈͈̳̫̦̻̹̦̲̣͇̭͉̅̈̍͂̏͗̑́̎̽̾͑̍̄̓̆͛̕͘͜͝͝I̴̧̨̨͚̯̭͙̟̮̯͇̫̳̳͖̪̟̩̤͉̹̳̠̘̠͉̖̮͎̗̦̱͑̾͛̇̌̀͐̔̾́̾̃̉͂́̈́̈̾͝͝͝Ș̶̨̛̙̩̞͚̭̳̦̞͇͇̲̲̓́͐́̿̒́̈̌̈͛̇̅̂͂͋̐̉̈́͂̾̈́̈́̋̂̓͂̐̍͛̕͝͠E̴̢̥̠̟̤̱̜͔̤͙̣͔̲̫̖̳͇̯̱͆͘͜Ȓ̷̨̨̗̗̱͓͕̯̪̜͕͖͕̫͚͓̲̼̘̗̹̩̝̐̒̾́̆͗̀̓̀̔͊̌̅̊̊̈̾̄̔̆͊̾̔̊́͌́̅͜͝A̵̧̧̛̛̻̖̝͉̺̥̤͔̖̲͙̬̱̜̦͔͖̙̺͍͒̈́͆̓͛́̆̄̈́̈́̂̈́̏́́̈́̈͊̽̈́͂͆̄͊͜͝͠B̷̡̨̨̮̮̺̞̹̝͕̘͚͙̣̬̐̈̔͗̅͝͝L̵̯̫̖͙͖̤̍̅͌̏͜Ë̴̡͎̪͖͈͇̳̱͓̲́̊͑̒̾̏̓̄̓̒̃͌͊̂͋͒̀̍̈́́͐͛̆͘͠͠ ̸̡̢̟̭̗͈̝͖͓̻͒̓̂̿̅̂̾͛̍͌̏̅̀̌̿́̄̑̋̄̓̓̾̚͝
̸̢̡̟͙̦̗̱̮̹̜̹͓̮͕̫̮̤̜̑͘͜ͅ

“Not Via, please,"The bird gasped out, holding her close to his chest. "Please, not Via – “

“Satan’s fuck, Stols, how many feathers – 

Ņ̴̡̛̛̳̟̹̳͙͎̝̻̜̱̝̙̖̻͔̺̖̱̩̣̲̩̟͓͓̜͎̭̹̓͐̑̅͌̈̒͛̋̇̈́̈̽̿̽͂͛͒̀͑̈́͌͆̎́̀͐̾̉́̋̎̿̚͜͝͠͝Ớ̸̧̭͖̙͓͖̰̪͚̞̮̙̉͗͂̊̍̍̔͆́̓̂̄̂̉̅͋̽̔́̄̀̂͐͑̃͊̿̄̈̎̌̒̏̏̾͗̓̍̂̈́́͛̚͘͘͜͜͠͠͠T̷̢̫̗̝̱͚̲̮̪̭̫̞̠̦̯̣̭̰̝̹̹̺̣̮̱͎̘͚͔̜̱̝̝̰̲͙͔̐͆̌̈́́͌͊̔̈́͐͊̿̎̓̊͗̅̂̋͂̐̍͋̑́͋̎́̾̃̈́̒̚̕͜͜͝͝͝͠ͅ ̵̛̙͍̯̮̱̰͔͓͕̭̩̲͂̅̆̓̓̂͑̌̏̅̓͛͊̏͊̏͐̅͛͊̐͋̉̓̅̃̀̀́̒͛̀̿͊̓͘̚͝ͅͅV̵̨̩̫̳̪̭̳̰̻̦̳̜̻͒͝I̴̤̲̰̪̍̉̓͗̀͑͆̄͐̇́̋̀͆͗́̕͝͝͝À̶̛̜̗̄̂͆͌͊̔̓̈͗̇

“Okay – okay.” He felt a touch on his arm, and he jerked again, banging his knee on the tub. He felt a presence, stabilizing his shoulders. “Stolas. It’s okay. It’s me. You need to breathe, okay? L-let’s – sloooow breaths. Copy me. In….”

“Out… that’s it, one more… ”

"Not my Octavia," Stolas sobbed. "I'll do what you want..." 

“Good birdie,” Blitzø said softly as Stolas hugged the bundle of towels in his arms tighter, sobbing. A gentle hand ran through his feathers. “One more for me, there we go. In…”

“Hold… and out…”

Stolas felt his head pounding, something sticky at the nape of his neck. He did his best to obey the voice, mostly because nothing else made any sense. 

“There you go," A soft voice said. Someone was holding him steady. He felt the cold of the tile against his talons. "It's alright." 

With a shudder, his eyes opened. Stolas looked down at the bundle of towels he was clutching to his chest like they were a lifeline, carefully unfolding them. No Octavia. 

"What - what happened," The bird groaned. He made to stand only to slip on the somehow-wet tile, strong arms catching him before his head hit the edge of the tub and easing him back down to the floor. 

Blitzø took a deep breath. "I don't know," He admitted, and his voice was shaking. "I don't know, but you're - you're okay." It was unclear which of them he was trying to convince. 

Stolas felt a cup of water being placed in his hands and drank it without a second thought. He felt the cool liquid soothe his parched throat, a lump or two rolling over his tongue as he swallowed. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, the world seemed to come back into focus. The hoof-print shower curtain, the fluffy rug, the feathers on the floor - 

Stolas looked quickly at himself, and found that his forearms were missing patches just the size of the width of his palm. Before he could open his beak to comment on this fact, he felt Blitzø carefully spin him around, and then a sharp pain at the back of his head, making him let out a little screech. 

Blitzø winced. "Sorry, should've warned ya. It'll sting just for a second, alright? Stay still - there's a good birdie - " Stolas sucked in a breath through his beak, releasing when Blitzø put down the antiseptic bottle.

Stolas stared at it. "What... am I injured?" He murmured, speaking at last. 

"You... you slammed your head into the edge of the bathtub," Came the reply from behind him. He felt fingers shaking as they applied bandages to the back of his head - the softer kind that wouldn't pull so much at his feathers. "A few times." 

Blitz then crawled over to his front, taking his left wrist in his lap like it was something precious, and carefully wiping down the places on Stolas' arm that resembled a grocery store chicken skin more than they did the arm of a Goetian prince. 

"I think you had a panic attack, or a flashback," Blitzø said without meeting Stolas' eyes. 

"How - how did you - " 

"I've had them before." 

Blitzø's arm wrapped around Stolas' waist and stood the bird up, carefully, leading him over to the couch. "Now you just - sit here a sec," The imp muttered, pulling out a broom and a dustpan to clean up the feathers. 

Stolas spent the next hour curled up in a blanket, sitting next to Blitz on the couch, staring at the screen. He knew it was the sixth season of Hellanovela – the one where Gabriella finds out Alejandro was the mastermind behind the volcanic eruption that killed her sister after all - but all that reached Stolas’ mind were flashing lights and the sound of Blitzø not making any sound at all against his side. He felt nauseous, like the room was still spinning.

The season ended with the two leads kissing one another beneath a Hellish sunrise, and finally, after seemingly interminable credits, the television fell silent.

Stolas swallowed. He knew he had to be the one to speak first. The problem was, he really did not want to.

“I…” He managed, quietly, after a few moments of deliberation – “I’m sorry, Blitzø.”

The imp turned his head to meet his eyes. “You’re – sorry?”

Stolas nodded, glancing down at his nervously twiddling hands. “I… I never meant for you… to see me that way,” He admitted weakly. “To have to deal with…”

“So it’s happened before?” Blitzø asked simply. After a few seconds, the bird nodded.

“It’s been happening,” He mumbled. “Since I was – ten or eleven, I believe. Though it didn’t matter much, until once at a family function…” He winced at the memory, unable to shape it into words. “That’s when they took me to see someone.”

“You saw a therapist as a child?” Blitzø said a bit surprised.

The owl laughed faintly. “Satan, no. Of course not. My family physician just – gave me a prescription so it wouldn’t happen again – so at least I could keep myself together well enough to put up a show in public, which was the only part anyone cared about.”

“Is that… the pills you take?” The imp asked softly. The Goetia nodded, his face flushed. And then – to his surprise – Blitzø sighed and looked a little relieved.

“Well – that’s good, then, at least you’ve got a solution. Clearly if it’s no longer enough, maybe we need to get your dosage adjusted, but it helped – get you out of that – pretty quick, didn’t it?”

Stolas blinked. “What do you mean?”

“It said on your prescription – take daily or as needed,” Blitzø explained, a little sheepish. “Well – I felt that fell under as needed, birdie. And I could tell – when it kicked in – it calmed you down, yeah?”

Stolas remembered the glass of water, and suddenly felt very nauseous. “How much – “

“It said four was a safe maximum.”

“Blitzø,” he said, his voice sounding slightly worried. “I – I’m not supposed to – go from zero to a full dose like that.”

“But you’re not,” The imp said, rubbing Stolas’ back soothingly. “You took your normal dose this morning – that’s two, right – so your body is already used to – “

And suddenly, Stolas’ eyes told him everything he needed to know. Blitzø’s voice fell silent.

“You haven’t taken your medication?” Blitzø asked, voice monotone. After what felt like an eternity, Stolas shook his head, eyes welling up in the corners. “Blitzø –“ He said, quickly. “I can explain – “

“Any of your medication?”

“…no.”

“Since when?”

“Since… since the trial.”

Blitzø looked at him with an expression Stolas couldn’t place, and that worried him. “Blitzø,” he said again, reaching for the imp’s hand. “Please, let me – “

Blitzø stood up, facing away from Stolas. His hands and muscles were clenched, and Stolas’ heart sped up.

“Okay,” The imp said, his back tensing. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Stolas. You’re going to sit here – right here – and go nowhere else. I’m going to go for a walk, because I’m really fucking upset right now. And then – and then we’re going to have a talk, or some shit. I don’t know.”

“Wait, Blitzø,” he said, desperately. “Don’t leave – “

“Stay right there,” Blitzø repeated, barely-restrained emotion cracking into his voice, making Stolas pull back his hand.

The imp just barely made it to the sidewalk. And then he picked up a trashcan, threw it as far and as hard down the street as he could manage, punched the wall of his building with a guttural scream, and began to walk brusquely without knowing his destination.

Figures it would be there.

Blitzø sat on the wall – the ruins of the wall – overlooking the wreckage that was once Loo Loo Land. They hadn’t bothered clearing it – it had been built on a swamp, and renovating the place was deemed far more of an expense than the shithole was worth. A cigarette hung from his lips, and a bottle of bottom-shelf tequila stayed comfortably within arms’ reach.

Here, he could destroy – he could break, he could throw, he could burn - without restraint, and he did. The smoldering remains of the smoldering remains of the tent he’d grown up in lay in tatters around him. All the windows had bullet-holes in them now, and so did some of the mascot cutouts. The faces on the posters were defaced in a way Blitzø was sure would come up in his own therapy appointments. A path of caved-in midway fair booths and shattered lightbulbs led to where he sat now, exhausted by anger and pain.

He was a fuck-up. That he’d known for a long time, even though he’d done a lot of work to convince himself otherwise once in a while. But this time was different. He couldn’t find, no matter how many structures he’d torn apart, what he’d done wrong. He’d done everything boring, healthy people were supposed to do – things Blitzø almost never managed to do for himself – for Stolas, and it wasn’t enough. Why? Was he doing it wrong? Was there a secret manual he’d never been able to read?

Or had Blitzø fucked Stolas up so bad, made him lose so much, that he was beyond help? Had Blitzø broken him? Is that all he could do, now, is watch Stolas -

“Hey there,” said a scratchy voice behind him, making Blitzø jump. A robotic arm snaked its way around his shoulders, and he groaned.

“What are you doing here, Fizz?”

“Your daughter texted me. Said she came home to your bird crying on the couch, saying something about you going for a walk.” Blitzø felt the guilt churn at those words.

“How’d you find me?” Blitzø sighed.

“Lucky guess.”  

The two imps sat on the wall, looking onto the wreckage – twice over – of their childhood home.

“Nice aim,” Fizzarolli noted, pointing to a poster advertising his robotic self’s Special Sunday Matinee – For the Kids Too Poor for the Full Show! “Shootin’ out just the eyes, classy.”

Blitzø snorted, playing with the safety latch on his gun.

The clown took a swig, without asking, of Blitzø’s tequila. “I’m gonna sit here until you talk about what’s wrong, you know.”

Blitzø sighed. “I know.”

The robotic arms wrapped around his torso, pulling Fizz closer to him with a metallic twang.

“Let go – I’m not in a hugging mood, Fizz – “

“Better spill then,” Fizzarolli said, tightening his grip as Blitzø squirmed with increased annoyance.

“Ugh – fine – FINE – “

The arms slackened their grip.

“I fucking love that stupid pigeon,” Blitzø groaned. “That’s what’s wrong.”

“Yeaaaaah, that won’t cut it. Need at least a chapter here.”

“What for?”

“Your celebrity biography, dipshit.”

Blitzø crossed his arms, his tail curling tightly. “He lied to me. About taking his meds – the ones you said you could help me get refills of – for a month. For – I don’t know what fucking reason. I don’t know why he does shit anymore. It’s like he just – doesn’t want to get any better. Like he just wants to wallow in misery while I have to watch. Like he doesn’t realize how much that fucking hurts.”

Fizz glanced at him. “Yeah. Watching someone you care about self-hate themselves into destruction – no idea what that must be like.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

Fizz passed the bottle to Blitzø, who took a swig heartier than what was good for him. The two looked back at the smoke rising from the circus tent.

“We all need somewhere… to put the pain.” Fizzarolli gestured out at the circus. “You go out and you hurt things. And you’ve gotten better at hurting stuff that doesn’t matter anymore, instead of people. And Stolas… I guess… hurts himself instead.”

“Why?” Asked Blitzø, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. “I’m giving him help. Why can’t he just take it?”

“Because he can’t bear to lose anything else.”

Blitzø looked up at Fizzarolli with a frown. “Look, Fizz,” he muttered. “You’re not making a lick of sense right now, you know that?”

Fizzarolli took a long sip from the bottle.

“I lost everything, in that fire,” He mumbled. “Or at least I thought I did. Performing was my whole life, something I was finally good at. And one day… that was it. I had no arms. No legs. No face. No fans, no family, no friends.”

“You gotta understand… what that does to someone. I’m not saying it to make you feel bad, Blitzø. I know it wasn’t your fault. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t sing. All I could do was lay there. And once a day, they’d come and give me pills for the pain,” he said, his eyes glazed over for a moment. “And I didn’t take a single one, Blitzø.”

“My life had shrunk, down to that one tiny, daily interaction. There was nothing – no one – else. And so, it became the last choice I could make. If I didn’t take them – if I just held out, withstood the pain – I could be proud of myself for it. I could feel like I was strong. I could have achieved something – anything. I had lost everything, and I couldn’t bear to lose my dignity, too.”

He sighed. “Not to mention, you know… the pain… it reminded me, at least, that I was alive. That I hadn’t been pulled under yet. And if I could feel then I could live, and then maybe there was a future out there, somewhere.”

He looked back at Blitzø who was staring at him, tears flooding his eyes. “Fizz…” He choked out.

The robotic arms wrapped tightly around him, and Fizz pulled him close. The imp threw his arms around his friend.

“Thought you weren’t in a hugging mood?” Fizzarolli teased.

“Shut up.”

They stayed like that for a while – Blitzø crying into his shoulder, a fact he would forever deny until the end of his days.

“So is that it?” The imp finally said, pulling back from the embrace. “Stolas wanted – control over something, and that’s what the birdbrain picked?”

“I don’t know,” Fizz said honestly. “I don’t know him, like you do. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe the voices in his head telling him it’s not something he deserves are just louder than you are. But I can tell you what I think. You can’t – force him, or threaten him, or bribe him. No matter how much you want to.”

“You’ve got to give him a reason. Something that gives him a purpose. He won’t do it for himself, and he may not even do it for you. But for someone else… for some hope of a future… he just might try.”

When Blitzø came home, it was dark. He clicked the lights on to find Stolas, sitting still on the couch exactly as Blitzø had left him hours before. The imp felt a bit bad about that, but in that moment, it had been all he’d managed.

His tail twitched. The bird’s eyes were rimmed with red, like he’d been crying. Blitzø took a shaky breath and sat down beside Stolas.

The Goetia had his hands between his knees, nearly curled in on himself, his eyes shut. Trying to look small. Blitzø’s heart felt suddenly squeezed in a vice grip as he realized Stolas expected him to yell at him and put himself into that position to make it through that.

“Stols,” he said, softly. Slowly, the red eyes opened, gazing up at Blitzø. The imp smiled, weakly, wiping a stray tear from the owl’s face. “There’s my pretty bird.”

Stolas blinked, staring up at him in silent bewilderment.

Blitzø reached out, running his hand through the feathers on Stolas’ head. After the third stroke, the shoulders lowered just an inch, the body uncurling as the heart hammered.

The imp took a deep breath. “I want to tell you something, Stolas,” he said softly. “About Sinsmas morning.”

He felt the bird tense under his fingers.

“The first time I saw your daughter that day wasn’t at your palace,” He admitted. “Soon after you left, Octavia came here – to I.M.P.”

Stolas’ eyes widened. “She did?” He asked, and Blitzø winced at the rasp in his voice. “…why?”

“To bring you your medication.” Blitzø carefully arranged his feathers as he spoke.

Stolas looked down. “So to tell me what she told me at the palace, then.”

“No – Stols – I don’t think so. Well – maybe a bit. But – “ The imp’s fingers stilled, hesitating. “Look. No one’s coming all the way to Wrath to yell at their dad when they’ve got a cell phone. She came to bring them, for you. Because she cares. Because she knew you needed them. That’s it.”

The red fingers lifted Stolas’ chin just a little, so that all four of the bird’s eyes met Blitzø’s yellow.

“It’s your choice,” He murmured. “But I don’t think – I don’t think Octavia would want this. And one day she’ll reach out to you, want to see you – because she’ll need you. And because she’s seventeen, and her mother is a fucking piece of work, she’ll be a mess, Stols. She’ll come to you because she’ll need a father. And when that day comes – I think you’ll want to be there for her. I think you’ll want to be what she needs – a strong, loving dad who can help her work through her feelings without pulling her through his own mess. And neither of us had that, birdie. But she can, and Loonie can. And they deserve it.”

Blitzø put the bottle of pills into Stolas’ hands, wrapping his fingers around it. “I can’t tell you what to do,” He murmured. “I don’t know what shit Stella put in your head, only that I’ll shoot ‘er on sight if I see ‘er. But I can tell you where that future with your daughter starts. And it starts with that, whether you like that or not.”

And the next morning, Stolas carefully counted four pills out with his morning coffee.

Chapter Text

“So,” asked Dr Smith. “How are you feeling today?”

That question always caught him off-guard, even though by now, it really shouldn’t.

And it had been… quite a week.

Stolas sighed, falling back against the chair. “Not very well,” he admitted.

To his surprise, Dr Smith beamed at him, causing all four eyes to blink in surprise. “Very good, Stolas.”

“It’s… good that I am not feeling well?” The owl said, visibly confused.

“No. But that is the first time you have answered the question honestly. And being in touch and open with your feelings is a very important step.”

“Now – let’s talk about the previous week.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Stolas. You’re going to sit here – right here – and go nowhere else. I’m going to go for a walk, because I’m really fucking upset right now. And then – and then we’re going to have a talk, or some shit. I don’t know.”

The imp said that, even as Stolas pleaded not to be left alone. And the door had closed behind him, even as the owl’s hand stretched out towards the door.

It fell with a trembling sob. “Blitzy…” he whispered. The words followed the imp, yanking on the doorknob with all of their might, but they gave up soon after, falling into a broken heap against the threshold.

Stolas’ hands searched for relief in desperation. First, they reached for his arms, grabbing fistfuls of feathers, but soon fell limply. When Blitzø came back – if Blitzø came back – Stolas couldn’t be the same mess the imp had run away from. He squeezed instead, the talons scratching deep into his flesh. But it didn’t hurt quite enough, and he dropped them with a frustrated groan. The fingers searched for another solution, briefly, but there were no bottles within reach of the couch. He tried lower down, but even brushing a finger against his cloaca made him instinctively recoil after that night’s events. Left then, to his fear and his loneliness with no method of relief, he curled up in a ball on the cushion where Blitzø had told him to stay, shaking as he cried in an empty apartment.

“That sounds like a very difficult evening,” said Dr Smith. Their eyes shone with compassion, and Stolas still could not bring himself to accept it.

The bird shrugged. “It was my fault.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I – I ruined my night with Blitzø. I lied to him about taking my medication. I made him angry.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

The bird looked up.

“I said, that sounds like a difficult evening,” the therapist said, gently. “And you responded, it was my fault. I want to understand why you connected those ideas.”

Oh.

Stolas sat there for a moment, eyes darting around. His hands wrung together. It wasn’t often he really had to stop and think to get a grasp on his feelings, but it was increasingly happening in this office. It felt at times like his heart was an open book, and that frightened him. Dr Smith watched the owl’s fingers twitch, as if trying to knit a sentence out of the thoughts eluding him.

“I don’t know,” He said at last.

“Alright,” the doctor said softly. “Let’s see if we can figure it out together. You said that when Blitzø came back, you talked, and he convinced you to begin taking your medication again.” Stolas nodded. “What did he say that changed your mind?”

“He…” His throat felt a bit dry. “He talked about…. Octavia.”

“Your daughter,” confirmed Dr Smith. The bird nodded, avoiding eye contact.

“You told me in a prior session that you found it difficult to talk about her,” the therapist noted. They could see how their words affected Stolas – the fingers, twitching to his wrists, the knees coming closer and closer together, the figure retreating deeper into fabric. “But this time, when Blitzø talked about Octavia, you listened.”

“Yes,” he breathed.

“Why do you think that was?”

“Holy FUCK, what happened in here?”

Stolas opened his eyes. The apartment was still dark, but a bright light shone from the bathroom, illuminating Loona’s figure. The bird straightened up with a squawk and quickly glanced at the time. An hour – Blitzø had been gone for an hour.

“Oh – dear me – my apologies,” he said, sounding mortified. “I thought Blitzø had cleaned up – “

The bathroom door closed, and the living room suddenly flashed into bright existence with the flick of a switch. Stolas winced.

“Ah – shit – sorry – “

A few clicks of the dimmer, and the light was reduced to a caliginous haze.

Loona settled on the couch beside him. She looked worried. It was an expression that hurt him – like a quiet tug on a festering wound.

“What’s wrong?” The hellhound asked.

She’s more perceptive than she should be at that age, thought Stolas.

“Nothing, dear,” he said with a weak, forced smile. “Please. You don’t have to worry.”

“There’s feathers and water all over the bathroom, Hooters, what gives?”

Stolas’ hand absently rubbed the spot where his wedding ring used to sit. ‘Your father and I had an argument’ didn’t sound quite right. Not when it was this one-sided. “I… I was… I had a small… bit of an episode,” Stolas said, squirming with embarrassment. “Your father… helped.”

“And where is he?”

“On… on a walk.” 

Loona growled. “Oh, I’m gonna kill him.”

Stolas felt guilt rising in his chest. “I’m sorry, Loona. I’m the one who upset him. I’m sure he meant to be here when you returned -”

“What? No, I’m angry he abandoned you here after something like that, you dipshit. Come on.” She grabbed his still-stinging arm, standing up.  “We’re going for a walk, too. At least to the ice cream shop.”

“No –“ He pulled his hand back with a blush. “No – I would prefer not.”

“And why’s that?”

“He… he told me to stay here.”

“Okay – let’s at least go eat at a table, then.”

“Right here,” murmured Stolas in embarrassment, his hand picking at the cushion. Loona raised her eyebrows.

“I don’t think he literally meant – “

“Thank you for your care, my dear, but I would – I would rather – not upset him further than I already have.”

The hound growled low, her hands folding into fists for a moment. Then her frame relaxed, just a little. “Fine.”
A minute later, something made of hard plastic was thrust into Stolas’ hands as the bird gave a surprising squeak.

“What is this?” He asked curiously, examining the object. It looked somewhat like a c-curve, or a boat, with a cross in the middle. Runes were inset into buttons that felt surprisingly pleasant to the touch. He raised it up in front of him. “Is this from the human world? A nautical amulet, perhaps? I don’t think we should be keeping holy objects,” he said, with slight alarm.

The plastic amulet was snatched from his hand, flipped over, and handed back to him. “It’s a controller, dipshit. For video games.”

“Video… games,” Stolas said slowly, his tongue learning the taste of a new word. The screen before them blared to life as the hound picked up an object identical to his, but silvery-grey.

“A to jump, B to shoot.”

“And how did that feel?” Asked Dr Smith. “To spend time with Blitzø’s daughter?”

Stolas ran his tongue over the inside of his beak, feeling out the word taking shape there. “Sad,” he said at last.

“Why did it make you sad?”

“Why do you think?” Deflected Stolas with a strained laugh. But those dark eyes did not look away from him, and he knew he wasn’t getting away with that. “I felt guilty,” He admitted.

“Why?”

“Because… “ he sighed. “Because it shouldn’t have felt good.”

“So, it felt good,” checked Dr Smith. “You enjoyed spending time with Loona.”

Stolas swallowed and nodded.

“But you feel guilty for that emotion.”

There was a silence, for a while, in the office, until Stolas finally spoke, entrusting his words to the darkness.

“Since Sinsmas,” He said softly, “It’s as if… there is a black hole, inside my chest. Pulling in all other emotion… all other happiness. And at the center of it is Octavia… my Starfire… and the fact that for one hundred years… or perhaps forever… she’s gone.”

He trembled. He felt the tears coming, and this time, he did not stop them.

“She’s gone. I’m – I may never see her again. And if I was the father I hoped I was… the father she deserved… if I truly loved her… how could I ever be happy? Blitzø tells me I’m wrong – that she does not hate me. That she will not want me forever gone from her life. But it cannot be both, Dr Smith. I cannot be a father who can be redeemed, loved, someone who, yes, made mistakes, so many fucking mistakes, but ultimately loved her, cared for her, ultimately was if not a perfect father, a decent one, someone who deserves to have her back – all of that – and – and – “

Dr Smith handed him a tissue, and he merely crumpled it in his hand. “Spending time with Loona fills that hole in my heart, even if only a little,” He whispered, tears streaming down his face. “And nothing – no one - should be able to do that. Not if I was a father worthy of Octavia’s forgiveness. Not if I love her.”

His heart lay at his feet. Open, unprotected, and tender. Dr Smith had enough experience to know what a gift it was to have a client show them that – and also how delicate, how vulnerable it was. How easily a wrong touch could destroy it.

And so, their next words were considered carefully.

 “You like gardening, don’t you, Stolas?”

The bird nodded, his talons shredding the tissue strip by strip.

“How many plants did you have at the palace?”

Stolas sighed. He didn’t know where this was going, but he had learned to trust in the doctor. “Thirty-six.”

“Knowing the precise figure, you must have cared for them a great deal,” noted the therapist.

“I did,” Stolas said softly. “I do.”

“And when you bought a new plant, Stolas, did it make you care less about the rest?”

The Goetia blinked. “…no,” He admitted softly. “But…. But my Via isn’t a plant.”

“No, she isn’t. But what I’m trying to show you, Stolas, is that you are under the impression that the love you have to give is finite. That loving Loona, perhaps beginning to care for her as a second daughter, and taking comfort from once again playing a paternal role, does not diminish your love for Octavia. In fact, it seems to be making it less painful for you to talk and think about her. And that in turn allows you to process your feelings. To make changes in your life that will improve your relationship with Octavia. Is that not an act of love?”

“You’re cheating,” Loona growled, throwing the controller at the floor in frustration. An empty pizza box, two bottles of soda, and a greasy plate and utensils – on Stolas’ side – sat between them. It had been their fifth match of Halo – the Hell-produced version involving a reverse extermination in Heaven. After the first round, where he had struggled with the controls, Stolas had won every time.

“I am not,” The bird said, sounding offended at the very notion.

“You’re looking at my screen,” she complained. “With your second set of eyes. How the fuck am I supposed to hide from you?”

Stolas shrugged, smiling as he fiddled with the buttons. “Being good at this game does not constitute cheating, my dear,” he said with a hint of sass to his voice.

“Fuck off, rat-eater,” she said, grabbing the controller back. But she was laughing, and it made Stolas feel warm.

“Rats are full of protein, you know, my dear. Very healthy for you.” He smiled. “Might help you with your performance,” He teased.  

“Yeah, fantastic, I’ll stick to chips, thanks,” Loona said with a roll of her eyes, scrolling through the game menu for an anti-weird-bird setting.

“Now, now, you never know until you try it,” The owl said in his best fatherly tone. “You know, my Via – “

And then he remembered it – that black hole in his chest – and watched as it sucked his next breath away.

There was a moment of silence.

“You know what Octavia would hate?” Loona said, with a soft smile. “The food here. Bet she’s even pickier than you.”

“Yes… and no,” said Stolas, softly. “She does have strong preferences, but… I think she would’ve liked the pizza.”

“Then we’ll have to get it again,” the hellhound smiled. She elbowed him slightly. “But no fucking pineapple this time.”

And Stolas smiled – just a little.

“I don’t know,” Stolas muttered. He took a deep breath, and rested his head on his hands, folded over his knees. “I don’t understand why everything always has to… hurt so much.”

“I want to tell you I’m proud of you, Stolas,” said Dr Smith, softly.

“I know this is difficult. It is very difficult, in fact. I do not like to sugarcoat things. When people need help, they don’t need more lies. They want honesty.”

“And the truth is, Stolas, that for you to get better, we will need to talk about Octavia. And we will need to talk about Stella. And some of those discussions may be painful for you.”

“We’ll take them slowly,” They reassured, as the Goetia looked up. “But I have full faith in you. And I’m happy – truly very happy, Stolas – that you are taking your medication again. It may take a week or two to begin affecting your mood again, but it should make things – just a little bit easier.”

Stolas took a deep breath. 

“In the meantime, there are skills I can teach you to help manage your emotions. Why don’t we start with that next session, okay?"

Loona stood up, her body finally succumbing to sleep. Blitzø still wasn’t home, but at least Stolas was calmer.  

“Just – talk to him,” She sighed. “Or listen, or whatever. I’ll give him a piece of my mind in the morning. But work it the fuck out. I think the universe wants you two weirdos together.”

The hellhound flipped the switch, letting the darkness wrap around Stolas like a blanket.

“What if it doesn’t?” she heard, barely audibly, from the dark living room.

Loona smiled. They really were the same, deep down – her dad, and his bird. The same mess of insecurity, wrapped in different packages.

“Then you kick the universe’s ass and tell it to try again. Had to do that a few times myself. Works like a charm.”

It was a few days after his session later that he found himself back in the owl nest. New additions popped up inside it, almost every day – nearly always horses. Wednesday’s addition was a smaller decorative figure doubling as a scent diffuser – eucalyptus and solar wind, as claimed on the label. Yesterday’s was a large, squishy black mare, nestled lovingly in the corner. Today, Stolas had found a small grey one – fluffy, and slightly leaking its stuffing. He popped a Hoot Loop into his beak and took a deep breath.

He thought about why he answered that sounds like a difficult evening with it was my fault. He thought about how he managed his emotions, and which ones he allowed, and which ones he hid away in shame. 

He remembered that earlier today, he'd felt brave, and with shaking fingers he selected Octavia’s contact.

Hello, my Starfire, he typed. Each letter felt like a brand to his heart, but he pushed himself onwards. You have no need to respond to me, but I wanted to share something with you. I learned recently that I am very sensitive to daylight, and that darkness helped alleviate the headaches you know I suffer from. Being my daughter

Sniffling slightly, Stolas pressed backspace seventeen times.

It is my theory the same may apply to you, and I don’t want to keep something from you that could spare you pain.

I hope you are doing alright, my darling Octavia. I love you dearly.

Before he could change his mind, he pressed send. He stared at the screen like it would answer him, soothe the hole in his chest that hurt every time he took a breath. He pulled up her contact photo – his lovely owlet, smiling proudly as she held up a taxidermized possum with which she had taken particular care, her beanie sliding over her eye. It was one of his favorite photographs.

🌟 My Starfire🌟 is typing …

Stolas nearly dropped the phone. He stared, his heart beating faster and faster, his fingers hovering over the keypad. She was there. She was there. What should he say? What could -

And then the three little dots disappeared over the little digital horizon.

But Stolas knew they’d been there.

Chapter Text

Those three little dots hung around in Stolas’ vision. Every moment, his hands itched for his cell phone. Longed to write something – anything – to see them again. Longed to beg her to respond, to write to him, just to know she was okay. He kept swiping to her contact, opening the chat, and typing out words he knew he’d never send.

What did it say on her side, he wondered, when he did so? Dad is typing? Or was his name in her phone something else now?

I love you dearly, said his last sent message. And underneath it, the second checkmark. The only proof it hadn’t all been a cruel dream.

Please, Via, he wrote one evening. Please just tell me you’re okay. Please let me talk to you. You don’t understand how much I miss you.

I’m sorry, he wrote the next night. I’m so, so sorry, Octavia. You’re right. I abandoned you, something I promised I’d never do. I can’t ever undo that.  

I don’t deserve you in my life, but Via, please

Starfire, you were the only

I understand if you can’t forgive

And then his finger – always - hit backspace.

Every day, each letter melted like freshly fallen snow. Like it had never been there.

 And every night, nothing but the cursor taunted him, like the blinking pupil of a serpent in wait.

“Stols.”

“Mmm?” The bird mumbled with an upwards inflection, stirring his tea without looking away from the book in his other hand. It was a recent gift from Moxxie – a replacement of a book he’d sorely missed after having left the palace, and he was wholly enthralled by Elizabeth’s first meeting with the aloof Mr. Darcy. A welcome distraction, for once, from Octavia’s profile. 

“I owe you an apology.”

At this Stolas looked up, immediately sliding one of his molten feathers into the book to mark his page. He knew the walls Blitzø had to scale for an apology, and he had sworn to honor that.

Dammit. When those four eyes were actually there, looking at Blitzø all trusting, suddenly this shit got a lot harder. He glanced up past Stolas’ shoulder, where Loona silently gestured him to go on.

The imp sighed. “I’m … sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that, that day. I was just…” His tail whipped through the air. “If I get angry, I… I tend to hurt people. So, I left, ‘cause I didn’t wanna hurt you anymore.”

“And?” prodded Loona, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. Blitzø groaned. “And I’ll explain that next time, so I don’t make ya feel like shit.”

Stolas considered Blitzø’s words carefully, his thumb running around the rim of his cup. He’s just being kind, said the voice in his head. He wanted to leave, I know he did. He came back because he felt he owed me, and because of Loona. He doesn’t care about me.

Silently, he watched those words drift to his left, as a new list appeared to his right.

1. He made me the tea I am holding.

2. There was a new stuffed horse in my arms when I woke.

3. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t apologize. Blitzø hates apologies.

Stolas took a deep breath, returning his gaze to Blitzø, who looked rather concerned with his lack of response. Words, Stolas, reminded a newer voice in his head.

“Thank you,” Stolas said at last softly. “It’s alright, and I forgive you. It – it was a difficult evening for the both of us.”

“Holy shit, you weirdos,” Loona grinned. The look of pride on her face could’ve turned night into day. “At least hug already.”

And as Blitzø’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, Stolas felt – for the first time, perhaps, in months – like this could be home.

“How are you feeling?”

“Been worse,” sighed Stolas. “Been better.”

“Well,” Dr Smith smiled faintly, “That’s why we’re here. Today’s an important session – one where we focus on the behavior part of the triangle we discussed, in our second session. Some skills for emotional management. This is because once you’re comfortable with those skills, Stolas, I’d like us to try something a little different. It is somewhat… unconventional, but I believe with you, it may be quite helpful.”

“What has Blitzø told you about the techniques we used in session?”

“Not much,” Stolas said, frowning. “I mean, that’s – quite personal, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Dr Smith reassured softly. “I do not mean the content of my sessions with Blitzø, merely some of my – methods.”

At this, Stolas looked suddenly nervous, his talons digging into the carpet. “You want to… go inside my mind?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I want to assure you this would not take place without your explicit and signed consent, Stolas. If this is not something you’re comfortable with, there are other therapeutic avenues we can pursue. However, if it helps, I can explain what this might look like for you, and why I think it would help.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Stolas nodded.

“Prolonged sessions, like those you may or may not have heard about from certain clients, are not my common approach. That takes trauma centered on a singular, identifiable moment, and an extraordinarily focused mind.”

“And I take it I have neither,” quipped Stolas with a raise of an eyebrow.

Dr Smith smiled, fairly amused. “Well – to be quite frank – “

“So, what would it look like, then?” The bird asked. “If it’s not like that?”

“For patients with strong reactions to certain traumatic triggers, I engage in something called exposure therapy. In essence, we’d start by identifying things that make you scared or uncomfortable to think about or remember. We’ll rank them by difficulty. And then we will experience memories or thoughts relating to those fears, within your mind, in short pieces. The goal is to repeat that exercise, going a little deeper each time, to teach your brain that those stimuli are not to be feared.”

“So, to reiterate,” said Stolas, “You want me to repeatedly experience my worst memories.”

“In session – in a controlled, careful manner – with my support, and only when you are ready – yes.”

“Ooh,” he said, his feathers fluffing up as his eyes sparkled. “Well, that sounds like tremendous fun.”

Dr Smith raised an eyebrow and Stolas sighed, his upper eyes rolling back – just a little. “What, I can’t be sarcastic, now?”

“On the other hand, Stolas. It brings me great joy to hear you use sarcasm.”

Stolas wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. That directness – that sincerity – was still just as jarring to the bird as it had always been.

“You don’t need to agree to anything, but I’d like you to think about it.”

The avian shrugged his shoulders non-commitally. “I suppose.”

“Excellent. I am honored to be trusted enough by you that you are willing to consider it, Stolas.”

“Now, let’s review. Have you been evaluating your thoughts, like we did in session?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“And…” Stolas stopped himself with a blush.

Stolas Goetia, rang out in his mind. I can tell when you lie.

He cleared his throat, choosing his words more carefully. “It helped and encouraged me to be very… thorough.”

Dr Smith shrugged. “Well, most of my patients begin to find it rather tedious.”

Stolas had the decency to look embarrassed. “Oh,” He laughed softly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Well – I wouldn’t put it quite – “

“It’s alright if you found it tedious, too.”

“… perhaps a little,” admitted the Goetia.

“Good.” Stolas looked surprised, and Dr Smith went on to explain. “The opposite of fear is not joy, you know. The opposite of fear, Stolas, is boredom. You cannot be bored by a task and at the same time be afraid of it. If you’re beginning to find it boring, that means those thoughts are losing their grip over you, little by little.”

“It also means that we can move on to some shortcuts. We can keep the full table for more difficult or persistent thoughts, but I imagine you’ve realized it’s quite cumbersome to pull out your workbook in the middle of a conversation. That’s going to be the focus of today’s session – how to manage your emotions in the middle of a difficult moment.”

“You’ve learned, by now, that thoughts can lie – that your own thoughts aren’t always supported by the truth. There are some common ways in which thoughts lie that you can learn to spot – general patterns – without having to go through the full list. These are called cognitive distortions.”

Dr Smith picked up the marker. “We’ve already talked about one, do you remember?”

“Yes,” said Stolas. “My tendency to… impose rules or obligations where none may exist. I meant to discuss that one, actually.”

Dr Smith nodded, encouraging him to go on.

“I don’t see why it’s a problem,” he admitted, reluctantly. “It feels like… there are certain standards of behavior we should hold ourselves to, aren’t there? There are good people – and bad people. And somewhere within, there are definitions of both. Is it really so wrong, to try to do right, and to conceptualize that within a rules-based framework?”

Dr Smith thought carefully, considering his words. Deciding which to respond to – and which to file away for later dissection.

“No,” They admitted. “It is not the fact of having rules that is in itself the problem. But if you are following a rule set by someone else, Stolas, you should understand why you are choosing to do so.”

“It may be a useful exercise for you over the course of the week. Any time you notice yourself thinking about how you should be doing something a certain way, write it down, and then think about whose rule that is, and whether it benefits you. Can we try that?”

Stolas nodded.

“Alright. In that case, there are three more cognitive distortions we will learn about today.” They began to write on the board. “These are, by their nature, almost never true, because they constitute a logical fallacy. You can substitute that understanding for a more detailed analysis of the thought, especially in the moment.”

“The first is called black-and-white thinking. The idea is simple. It is any thought that assumes an OR, with only two options. If you’re not a good, or perfect person, then you are a bad person. If this may not go perfectly, it will go horribly. If this person is not head-over-heels for me, they must despise me. Have you noticed that in your own thoughts?” Stolas nodded.

“The next is called mind-reading. Of course, there are demons, both Sinners and Hellborn, that genuinely possess some level of psychic ability – “

Stolas snorted.

“ – but it is a mental distortion in those that do not. I presume you do not?”

“No,” Stolas said, amused despite himself at this line of discussion. “I cannot read minds.”

Dr Smith sat, silently, until the bird’s giggles died down. They raised their eyebrow slightly, and Stolas blushed a little, like a pupil chastised for making too much noise. “My apologies,” he said, politely. “Please continue.”

“You cannot know, for certain, what another person is thinking. Any statement where you presume to know the thoughts of another – unless it’s what you’ve been explicitly told by that person – cannot be based on true evidence.”

“That makes sense,” Stolas admitted – albeit reluctantly.

“Good. There is one last one we will cover in today’s session – it often overlaps with the others. The thought that one small thing will lead to another, and another, and that a situation will result in the worst possible outcome. This is called catastrophizing.”

“You often assume, based on what we’ve discussed, that the very worst-case scenario is the one that will come to pass. It is one of many possibilities, yes, but it is statistically quite unlikely. Our brain, however, can filter out all other possibilities, focusing on only the worst – which is inherently illogical.”

“I don’t see why,” Stolas admitted. “I think when it comes to mind for me, it’s often – quite likely.”

“Let me demonstrate,” said Dr Smith. “How is your hand-eye coordination, Stolas?”

Not as good as Stella’s, came a dark thought, unbidden. “Rather average. I have good vision but no particular talent with aim.” Although – he hoped – if he had another opportunity to play Halo with Loona, he may find himself improving.

“Alright.” The doctor pulled out a stack of papers from their drawer and handed them to Stolas. They pointed at the waste basket. “Crumple those up, one by one. If you get one in, we can have your next session outside – somewhere quite special.”

Stolas suddenly lit up. “Really?”

“Really.”

What followed was the most Stolas had ever concentrated on an athletic endeavor. The papers landed over the floor, many almost hitting the basket, but not quite. After six tries he ignored his taught propriety and began to throw with his right hand. At last, a paper ball landed in the small opening in the wastebasket. Stolas cheered with a loud hoot, forgetting himself for a moment and then clamping his hands over his beak. “Sorry,” he said, sheepishly.

“No apology needed,” said Dr Smith with a smile. “I suppose there will be a therapeutic field trip in your future. But let’s focus on the game for now. How many did it take you?”

“Twenty-one,” Stolas said easily. Counting was second nature to him.

“So that’s one in, twenty out. What percentage is that?”

“4.8 percent,” answered Stolas quickly. “Although, it’s not quite correct – for a true success rate, I should have settled on a number of tries and continued throwing after my initial success.”

“Let’s go with 4.8%,” Dr Smith said, ignoring Stolas’ bait to pull him into a mathematical wormhole. “And you were sincerely trying to get it in, correct?”

Stolas nodded.

“Now imagine that paper basket is the worst-case scenario, and the paper balls are potential outcomes of the situation you fear. Is it possible to get the paper ball in? Yes, of course. But even here, you only managed it 4.8% of the time, trying your hardest for that outcome. In real life, you are trying your hardest to avoid that outcome. Do you see why, at the very least, it is a logical fallacy to conclude that it is the most likely outcome, rather than one of many?”

Finally, Stolas nodded.

“For the next week, your homework is simple. I would like you to notice, when your thoughts follow these patterns. And I’d like you to think about my proposition,” The therapist said, gently. “We will not take any steps in that direction until you are ready.”

“Blitzø,” Stolas said, opening the door. It had been a few days of worried thinking, and the bird was ready to talk. “I’d like to ask you something.”

Blitzø looked up, blowing the bubbles out of his eyes. He held a claw clipper in his hand, rusted from long-term use. The other arm arched behind his back, having just been vigorously scrubbing out the day’s bloodstains from his lower back with a long-handled bath brush. A rubber duck in a cowboy hat floated lazily through the bath, and Stolas’ bottle of bubble bath liquid – the one scented with dragonfly and bergamot that Blitzø claimed to hate – stood open next to the imp.

“… right now, Stols?” asked Blitzø.

Stolas wrapped his arms around himself and nodded. It was then that Blitzø noticed the slight tremble in his bird’s frame. He put the brush and clipper down, reaching out a hand towards Stolas instead. The bird made to sit down on the wet floor, until Blitzø clicked his tongue.

“Nah, birdie. Serious business talk means ya gotta get in.”

“I am clothed, Blitzø,” Stolas said with the raise of an eyebrow.

“Sounds like a fixable problem.”

The avian demon sighed. Reluctantly, he had to admit the warm water looked inviting, even if it would be a tight fit. His oversized t-shirt fell to the floor first, followed by a pair of sleep shorts patterned with crescent moons. Water splashed out onto the tile as the owl climbed in, however carefully he may have tried to do so.

He met Blitzø’s eyes then, and the nerves returned. “Right. So, um – I wanted – it’s about – about something that came up in therapy.” There wasn’t quite enough space for him, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his arms. His knees were crammed up against Blitzø, pressing them both into the tiled wall.

“Good something?” Blitzø asked, softer. “Bad something?”

“In the middle, I suppose,” murmured the bird. He looked down, watching his reflection in a bubble. Was that really him? Did he really look that ashen, and that frail?

What are you doing here? Asked his reflection. Can’t you see that he deserves better? Don’t -

“AH – Blitzø!”

He started with a sudden squawk, splashing water onto the floor, as he felt the imp quickly touch his beak. Stolas reached up his hand, coming away with foam along the crest. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a mustache,” Blitzø explained. His tone suggested that this was obvious.

Stolas couldn’t help but laugh. The imp was being ridiculous. “I beg your pardon? The Ars Goetia do not - ”

“There we go,” Blitzø said, running a hand through Stolas’ wet feathers. His eyes shone, reflecting the slowly dying lightbulbs in the ceiling. “Tricked ya. Now you’re smiling.”

Stolas’ smile faded to something so tender it could not be named.

Blitzø picked up the bath brush he’d discarded to the floor and lathered it up with bubbles. “Turn around, birdie.” He helped maneuver the avian demon, careful not to bang the bird’s knees against the tub and began lathering up the feathers on his back in practiced, soothing circles.

Stolas took a deep breath. Slowly, the movement, the scent and the warm water around him slowed down his heart rate, and he leaned his head against the wall.

“Dr Smith said they thought it would be helpful to go into my mind.”

The brushing paused, but only momentarily.

“I want to know what it was like for you.”

Blitzø thought back to that day. “It was – a lot,” He admitted. “I mean – for me - just being back at the circus like that, with mom, and - Cash, and Fizz, and Barbie – it was a lot. Felt really – real. But now… it’s not as fucked to talk about anymore.”

“They want me to – to explore memories with Stella, I think. And Octavia.” Stolas swallowed. “Memories that… aren’t very happy, Blitzø.”

Blitzø put the brush down, massaging the lather through Stolas’ feathers. In the process his firm, practiced hands worked out the knots in Stolas’ back, dissolving the tension with his fingertips, little by little.

“They said,” Stolas said softly, “That going back there… seeing it again… it would make it easier to, to…”

“It might,” Blitzø murmured. He didn’t need Stolas to finish the sentence – he understood it from the way his shoulders tensed.

For a while, they sat there in silence. Blitzø’s hands moved steadily upwards, his thumbs pressing with steady, gentle pressure between Stolas’ shoulder blades.

“I’m scared,” whispered Stolas.

Blitzø nodded. He pressed his face against the back of Stolas’ neck. “I know.”

“I,” Stolas gasped softly, trying to find the words among the bubbles. “I – “

“Turn around for me, birdie.”

Blitzø turned Stolas back around, carefully. The bird looked down at the imp, eyes beginning to water.

“I don’t know how it would feel to – to have someone see me like that,” Stolas murmured. “To see things that are so – so – “ He gulped. “Weren’t you scared? To let someone see - ”

Blitzø couldn’t help but laugh faintly. “Fuck, Stols, I was terrified.”

“So… so how did you…”

Blitzø looked down, picking up Stolas’ right arm. His wrist was plucked nearly bare, but Blitzø treated it no differently. He simply soaped the feathers, gently, massaging his way down Stolas’ arm as he went.

“Because it was the only way out,” said the imp, quietly. “Because there was this – big fuckin’ ball of pain in my chest, Stols, and I couldn’t fuckin’ take it anymore. It was burning me up. Me, and everyone else I knew. All I knew was that I kept hurting people, and that there was a part of my past I was so scared to go back to I screamed at anyone who tried to make me.” He brought Stolas’ wrist up to his lips, kissing it gently, pretending not to notice the way the owl sucked in a breath.

“…did it help?” Asked Stolas softly, as he watched Blitzø switch to his other arm.

“…yeah.”

“Did it…” Stolas swallowed nervously, looking at the imp’s horns to avoid meeting his eyes. “Did it… hurt?”

“You mean like, the procedure?”

“…no,” said Stolas softly, his talons curling a little.

“… yeah,” sighed Blitzø. “But I think… sometimes it has to.” He smiled sadly. “Even if it sucks ass.”

The imp squeezed the owl’s hand. “Want me to be there with you?” He asked, softly.

“No,” said Stolas, almost immediately. Almost too quickly. He sighed. “I mean – well – first of all, I haven’t yet made up my mind. But if I did agree, I… “ He winced. “I just… don’t want you… to see me that way, Blitzø.”

“Hey.” The imp waited until Stolas met his eyes. “There’s nothing you could show me that could make me stop carin’ bout ya, Stols,” he said softly. “You know that, right?”

“It’s not that I’m afraid of,” said Stolas. He touched a bubble with the tip of his talon and watched his reflection pop.

“Then what?”

Stolas shook his head and pulled Blitzø into his chest. The imp wrapped his arms around the wet feathers. He could hear the owl’s heartbeat steady in his embrace. If there were things Stolas couldn’t tell him yet – or might not ever – well, that sound would have to be good enough.

Stolas wasn’t sure why Dr Smith had moved their usual appointment time to late evening. It seemed like an odd time to meet, but he supposed the doctor knew better. He wrung his hands, waiting alone in the small waiting room, his feathers sticking to the plastic chair too small for him.

He ran his fingers over the spines of the books on the shelf next to him. The titles – things like “Mind before Matter, Matter and Mind, or Matter and Mind? Psychotherapy for the Quantum-Locked”, “The IMPortance of IMPS”, and “Acceptance and Commitment Therapy for the Recently-Deceased”, intrigued him. He did appreciate it, when a place had books. Books had, for a long time, been his only friends.

Is that why he was like this? Would he have been different, he wondered, growing up in a fuller, happier house? Would he still have met Blitzø if he had not been so desperate for a companion his father had to purchase him one?

Would he be here, waiting for his therapy appointment in a small city office, or would he be more like the Prince he was supposed to be?

“Stolas?”

Stolas glanced up to see Dr Smith by their open office door, with their hand outstretched towards him. The door beside them, however, did not lead into their office. Stolas blinked, and then carefully walked forward.

He felt his feet walk on linoleum and then grass. Air – earth air – filled his lungs, and he stared at the doctor.

“Are we – earthside?”

“Yes.”

“But how?” he said, startled. “Of course, my Grimoire enabled me to do so, and there are Asmodean crystals, but surely – “

Dr Smith merely smiled. “I assure you,” they told him. “I have my means. Now look up, Stolas.”

The owl did and felt his breath hitch in his throat.

The milky way spilled out above his head like a silk scarf, forgotten somewhere long ago and yet somehow still there. The stars twinkled at him, like thousands of eyes taking their turns to blink. He used to walk among them. He had listened in on their conversations. He had cradled supernovas; he had sung lullabies to meteors; he had tearfully watched as galaxies died. He’d conducted the tangoes of nebulas and felt them wrap around him as if he, too, were part of their dance.

The moon hung above the trees, merely a sliver, as the wind rustled his feathers.

“It’s beautiful,” whispered Stolas. “Thank you.”

“It was your job, wasn’t it?” Dr Smith asked quietly. They pulled out a blanket, settling both themselves and the owl on it. Stolas couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sky. “To study the stars, and the planets.”

Stolas smiled in the way one did when remembering dear friends that were long gone.

“I… studied the stars the same way you study the mind, Dr Smith,” he said. He lay back on the blanket, reaching his hand up. He could almost, if he focused, feel the fabric of the night against his fingers again.

“And how is that?”

“By talking,” Stolas murmured. “If you listen… they have a lot to say.”

Dr Smith watched Stolas’ features. “And what did they say?”

“Oh,” laughed the owl, weakly. “All kinds of things. Everyone wanted me to ask pointed, specific questions, you know. They wanted answers about their futures. They wanted to know who they should marry, whether their business would prosper, and whose children will die in the war. But the stars…” His hand dropped, softly. “I came up there, sometimes, after the work was over… after I’d delivered the mighty kings their prophecies… and asked other questions.”

“What did you ask?”

“About their day, mostly,” said the owl softly. “Whether they were… tired… or lonely.”  

“Whether they were happy?” said Dr Smith.

Stolas did not answer.

They looked up at the sky, for a while.

“Have you thought about my proposal?”

“Yes,” said the Goetia. His voice was quiet.

“Have you come to any decision?”

“No.”

Dr Smith nodded. They had expected as much. “What are your apprehensions?”

The owl curled in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest.

It was easier to talk to the stars.

They’d never asked about him.

“I - ” He whispered into the darkness, “I don’t think I can handle it.” He swallowed tightly, feeling tears nip at his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” came the gentle answer.

For a while, Stolas let himself be held within the dark, familiar silence.

“I’d like you to imagine yourself as one of them, Stolas.”

“As a star?” The owl asked, looking over at the Sinner next to him. The therapist nodded.

“It’s what you call your daughter, isn’t it? Starfire. If she is the fire produced, the heat, the light, would it not be appropriate for you to be the star from which it emanates?”

Stolas’ hand twitched. “It’s… complicated.”

“It is,” Dr Smith said softly. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

The Sinner’s eyes looked back up, reflecting the endless dark. “Suppose you were a star. Imagine you had planets orbiting you. Some might be smaller, and faster – almost mere space dust. So small, you may not even notice them. Others may be larger – constants in your sky, coming and going. Still others may be even heavier, taking their time to make their way around you. Imagine you could feel the weight of them all, pulling at your core. Demanding you feel their weight, their impact. Demanding your attention. Demanding you orbit around them. What would be wrong with that picture?”

“Stars don’t orbit planets,” Stolas said.

“Could the planets exist without a star to orbit?”

“Not as planets, I suppose,” The owl said, “No.”

“Can they hurt the star?” Dr Smith asked, softly. Stolas fell silent.

“Some of them might be heavy,” the Sinner said quietly. “Some may feel, to the star, as if they take up the entire sky. But a star can handle its planets, Stolas. Even if it doesn’t think so. All they do is spin around it… even if they like to pretend they’re anything more.”  

“Stars burn,” Stolas whispered. He felt the wind rustle his feathers. “Stars get old, Dr Smith. They get cold. They collapse, under their own weight. They can’t hold… themselves up anymore. Sometimes, by the time their light reaches earth…” His gaze turned upwards. “They’re already dead,” He said, and his voice was hollow, “Even if we’re still seeing their light. They may have been dead for centuries.”

“Stolas...”

“I can’t,” The owl gasped out. “I’m scared because it finally feels like maybe I can breathe, now, just a little, and seeing her will break me again, is that what you want me to say?”

“Being honest with your feelings is always a start,” Dr Smith said gently. “Yes. But remember – we’re not going to start with your worst fears. We’re going to take it one small step at a time. Yes, the process will challenge you. But I will not push you beyond what you can handle. I need your trust, Stolas.”

“I need more time,” sighed Stolas into the darkness. “I need more time.”

“Then you can take as long as you need.”

The stars spun. It was too slow for anyone else to notice, but Stolas knew. Or rather, he knew that the earth was spinning in relation to the stars, and that he was spinning along with it. Somewhere, he was aware that it had been far longer than his allotted hour, and yet Dr Smith had not made them get up. They seemed content to lay here with him, looking at the stars, tracing their paths across the vast expanse.

“My mother called me Starfire, too,” said Stolas.

Dr Smith said nothing.

“She was kind,” The owl sighed. “We went out – just like this – all the time. She was the one who taught me about the stars. She taught me their names.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Stolas,” said the Sinner, and it sounded so genuine that Stolas wanted to cry. But he laughed instead – weakly, and brokenly.

“Oh, she’s not dead. At least, not to my knowledge. I would imagine she’s alive and well…” He waved his hand in the direction of the galaxies spinning overhead. “Somewhere out there.”

“But you’re not in contact with her?” Stolas shook his head. “What happened?”

“She left,” Stolas said, simply. “Didn’t want to… deal with it all anymore, one day. With my father. With the family.” His hands squeezed the blanket beneath him. His words sounded hollow.

“Probably didn’t want to deal with me.”

“Stolas,” Dr Smith said, softly. “Do you really think that’s true?”

“I don’t know,” the owl said quietly. “I only know I wasn’t enough for her to stay.”

And his eyes drifted, sleepily, towards the sun creeping up over the horizon.

The universe could be a funny thing.

Sometimes, despite its best intentions, more time was simply not something a person could ask for.

“Thank you, Loona,” Stolas said, climbing out of the car. It took a little longer, now. When Blitzø had proposed they add a convertible roof to the van for Stolas, both the owl and Moxxie had imagined a professionally installed, retractable sunroof. Blitzø’s solution had been more along the lines of cutting out a hole in the top with a chainsaw, around the circumference of Stolas’ head. But it had greatly reduced the amount of pain in Stolas’ neck after an extended drive, and so the owl, despite his reservations about safety, had begun to accept it. “You don’t need to drive me every time, you know. I can take the bus.”

“Like shit you can take the bus, Hooters,” The hellhound laughed.

“I am absolutely capable of taking the bus,” Stolas said, rather offended. Loona raised her eyebrow.

“Then what route goes here, huh?”

The bird had the decency to look slightly flustered. “What route? Doesn’t the bus driver know his way around Imp City?”

“Oh, forget it,” said Loona good-naturedly. “And for the record, I’m only drivin’ ya because I need makeup tips, and my dad’s useless with that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, my dear,” said Stolas softly. “I hope you have a nice day.”

Loona’s phone buzzed – a text bubble saying where are you? popping up on her screen from a contact named The OG 💀. She cleared it quickly with her thumb. “You too, Stolas.” The car revved back to life, leaving the owl coughing his way through the cloud of exhaust.

He climbed up the familiar steps, up to the elevator. He rested his head, eyes scanning the posters he had by now memorized.

Hang in there! Exclaimed a cartoonish speech bubble emanating from a dead soul, hanging on a meat hook.

Every Day is a Fresh Hell, suggested cursive writing overtop a screen-saver sunrise.

Need someone dead after bitching about them in therapy? Hire the Immediate Murder Professionals with a special discount, only for the CLINICALLY pissed. That one, at least, did make him smile.

It was a short ride. Stolas emerged from the elevator, leaning down to press the familiar code into the office keypad. And then he froze, finger hovering over the one, at the voice coming from behind the door.

“I have the legal right to those notes, you know,” came an all-too familiar screech. “I am his wife -”

“You have made it clear you have previously been married, yes,” Replied Dr Smith’s voice. Stolas’ sensitive ears picked up the sound of the Sinner sipping tea.

“Do you know what I can bring upon this practice?” Stella hissed. Her talons scraped against the desk. “I can destroy any so-called credentials you claim to possess. I can make your personal life a living hell.”

“Interestingly enough, it already is,” Responded Dr Smith. “That’s actually where the office is located. May I recommend a map?”

Something crashed to the floor, and Stolas flinched.

“I can also recommend an excellent referral for anger management classes.”

“Do you know who I am?!” Screamed the Goetia. “You and this little office aren’t worthy of the refuse bin in which – ”

“Actually, I know exactly who you are, Stella.” Stolas felt through the door a sudden coldness, seeping through the crack. “In fact, I’ve been rather intrigued about you for a long time. Most of my curiosity has been satisfied by this exchange. I do, however, have one more question for you, Ms. Goetia.”

“Stella,” they said quietly, and it rung out like a guitar string pulled too tight. “Such a beautiful name.”

“Tell me, what is the origin of that?”

There was a silence. “Fuck you,” spat the swan in the Sinner’s direction. And yet her voice shook, in a way Stolas had never heard. “Fuck you – ”

“I’m afraid that would be inappropriate workplace conduct,” said Dr Smith. “Additionally, I have no desire to spend any more time with you and find you rather unattractive – in both face and personality. I will ask you to vacate my practice now, please.”

“This isn’t over,” spat the bird. But her voice lacked its previous venom and held something new Stolas had not heard. Fear. Her heels clicked over the floorboards, and Stolas only had a moment’s notice to jump back as the door was flung open in his face.

The pink eyes met the red, and Stolas felt his heart drop to his feet. 

"...Hello, Stella." 

Chapter Text

“Stolas.”

There’s no hello like he dignified her with. A sadistic, satisfied smile spread over her beak.

“So, this is what you’re up to, now? Brain doctor, hmm? About time,” She laughed. “Always knew there was something wrong with you.”

“How much are you paying them to listen to your pathetic whining? Half your meager little salary?” She giggled, bringing her hand up to her beak as her eyes sparkled.

“No,” Stolas said softly. “I have insurance.”

Stella let out a screech of a laugh. “Oh yes, glad you have someone to pay for all the help you so desperately need. Where is that money coming from, your little imp boy?”

Before he could process, he found himself pinned against a wall, her hand against his chest. Her palm pressed down into his ribs, squeezing a breath from his lungs.

He shivered as she leaned closer, her beak by his ear.

“I can really hurt you now, you know,” She whispered. He felt her claws digging into the skin by his neck. Like Blitz, she knew where he was sensitive.

Her hand pushed in harder, and Stolas could barely make his chest rise to draw in air.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” She hissed. “It’s not enough for you to make a mockery of our family publicly, but you need to drag our entire marriage through the mud, don’t you? You have a need to humiliate me. A pathological fucking need. I can’t imagine what kind of lies -”

Her fingernails dug in. Exquisitely manicured as always, they drew blood as Stolas whimpered.

“What have you said about me in there?” She screeched. She grabbed the collar of Stolas’ shirt and threw him sideways into the wall. The back of his head hit the drywall hard. “I was GOOD to you, you thankless disgrace! What are you in there telling them?“

“If I find out you’re making me look bad – “

Stolas gasped out something inaudible, and Stella was taken aback enough that her fingers loosened. “What?”

“I said,” gasped the Goetia, red eyes boring into pink, “I don’t need to do your job for you. You’re good enough at that yourself.”

He watched as her hand drew back.

“Miss Stella Goetia,” Came an ice-cold voice from somewhere behind Stolas. The hand froze. All the owl could focus on were those pink eyes, those red lips, and the distance between her hand and his face, as his heart pulsed in his ears, echoing louder and louder.

“I believe I asked you to vacate my practice.”

“I’m in the hallway,” Sneered Stella, dropping her arm. “That’s public fucking property, you pathetic little whelp. And what did you do to get sent down here anyway, sweetie? Threw a tantrum while the grown-ups were talking?”

“Something like that,” said Dr Smith calmly. “I also happen to have rules about talking, when talking involves assaulting my clients.Kindly, Miss Stella - get the fuck out of this building.”

“You speak big words for someone so small,” the swan grinned. “Do you think you can – “

And then there was the whoosh of a portal, and a distant sound of splashing Envian water, and Dr Smith and Stolas were alone in the hallway once more.

Dr Smith’s voice changed immediately as they approached the bird. “Stolas – “

“I’m fine,” Stolas said, far too quickly. He smiled – too wide – eyes open and empty of feeling. “I’m fine.” He turned, grabbing the handle of the open door, and walking into the waiting room.

Dr Smith followed.

“I said I’m fine,” Stolas snapped. “I can wait for my appointment time.”

“That happens to be now.”

“Well, I’m still fine.” The Goetia straightened up his back, his eyes daring – or pleading? – for Dr Smith to snap back.

“Yes,” said Dr Smith calmly. “You’ve clarified that.”

“Good,” said Stolas. “Glad we’ve got that settled. On the same fucking page. That’s good.” He walked down the familiar corridor until he reached the office door, throwing it open. The doctor followed, turning behind them. The lock clicked as they cocked the handle, turning back to look at Stolas.

Stolas happened not to be fine.

At the moment, the bird was curled up in a shaking, sobbing ball in the corner. His hands clawed at the carpet as he gasped out great, heaving breaths that kept getting faster, and faster.

“Stolas – “

“I can’t,” The avian demon gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t – “

“Stolas,” The therapist instructed, sitting down on the floor, cross-legged, in front of Stolas. Despite their spell preventing any real damage, they could see the bird’s talons clawing, desperately, at his wrists, and took them gently but firmly in their own hands. “We’re going to breathe together, now. Listen to my voice. Breathe in – “

Those pink eyes. His chest was constricting; he felt like he was running out of air, and that only increased the panic. He felt sweat, coating his feathers. And then he was suddenly beside his own body – watching, passively, as if he was someone else entirely. Someone ethereal, and weightless, and yet unable to grasp onto any coherent thought.  

“- three, four,” Dr Smith was speaking, patiently. “Now feel that air in your lungs – hold it in. One – “

Those pink eyes. The hand holding him down.

“ – four. Can you hear me? “

The springs of an expensive down mattress digging into his back. Squirming to escape, as her hand gets tighter. Feathers suddenly moving against his, his lower body beginning to warm without him wanting it to.

“Squeeze my hands if you can hear me, Stolas.”

Faster and faster. His heartbeat, faster and faster. The feathers moved, faster and faster. Her hand, nails scraping against his –

“I’m going to calm you down now,” He heard a voice, his brain unable to form the syllables into words. “It may be a little jarring.”

It only hurts more if you fight.

“STOP!” Screamed Stolas. “STOP – “He yanked his hands back, panicking for a second as he felt them restrained, though he was quickly released. He thrashed, like a caged animal, trying to grab something, to tear, to shred – his neck twinged as he stretched, trying, with his beak, to tear out his feathers –

And then a sudden feeling flooded him. His limbs felt heavy, his heart somehow resuming a normal rhythm between one beat and the next. Air rushed into his lungs as if through the hatch of an airlock. A sudden switch turned off Stella’s voice, like she was nothing more than a broken recording.

Stolas sat, gasping for air, on the office floor. Tears covered his face, and Dr. Smith was sitting in front of him, cross-legged, their hand on his shoulder.

“Better?” They asked, softly. Stolas nodded in bewilderment. “What – h-how – “

“You had a panic attack,” They explained. “I have the ability, if I choose, to affect the emotions of others via physical contact. I do not use this ability unless given explicit consent, or if a client is in danger. However, as you were in considerable, strong distress and I could not get you to calm with other means, I made the choice to use that power on you.” Stolas brought his hands into his lap as Dr Smith pulled back their arm. “I am very sorry,” they said earnestly. “I should have asked your consent beforehand for this kind of contingency, given your history. Please forgive me.”

“That – “ Stolas heart his voice come out raspy, and swallowed, feeling saliva coat his throat. “That’s alright,” he said, in his own voice at last.

Dr Smith stood up and held their hand out to Stolas. It was a little comical, given that the avian demon towered over the Sinner, but Stolas took the offered hand and pulled himself to his feet. The doctor gestured him to his usual chair, which he took, his hands still shaking. Dr Smith switched off the lights as usual before taking their usual seat as well.

Stolas looked up as he was handed a glass of water. “You may feel a bit of jitteriness, or a feeling of dissociation, and perhaps a pressure in your supraorbital nerves,” The Sinner said kindly. “It should go away in a minute or two.”

Stolas took a sip of water. Then he took another. Then he breathed in, held his breath, and breathed out.

“How do you feel?” Came the gentle question.

“Fine,” The Goetia said automatically.

“Stolas.”

The bird shut his eyes, just for a second. He wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere dark, and quiet, where he was alone, and no one expected anything of him anymore.

“We can take this slow, today,” Dr Smith said quietly. “You’ve had quite the emotional upheaval. I had plans for today’s session, but right now my only goal for this session is to make sure you are safe when you leave this office. But what I do need from you today, Stolas, is honesty. I can’t help otherwise – and I want to help.”

“Please allow me to help.”

Slowly… hesitantly… Stolas opened his eyes. He looked down and nodded. He felt tears, coating his lower lashes. He felt shame swishing around in his stomach. Once. He’d seen her once since his banishment, and it made him into a sobbing fucking mess.

“I want to do it,” said Stolas, firmly.

“Do what?”

He looked up, his eyes suddenly glowing like Dr Smith had never seen. “I want you to go inside my head. Go through – all of it. Every last second. I don’t care if it takes ten hours of watching her beat me and fuck me. I’m ready. I consent. Whatever you need me to do.”

“...Alright,” Dr Smith said, softly. “I will give you the forms when you leave today, Stolas, and give you the chance to review them before our next appointment.”

“No,” snapped the Goetia, surprising himself with his own anger. “I want them now. We’re doing this now.”

“No, Stolas. We’re not.”

“Yes, we are.” The demon stood up, his head brushing the top of the office – two pairs of red eyes, floating in the darkness as his feathers bristled. “We are doing this right now.”

“No,” said the Sinner.

“If we don’t do it right now, I’ll – I’ll – “Stolas looked around in desperation for something to break, something that would make the Sinner do what he wanted. “I’ll break your – plaque.”

“Go ahead.”

“Your desk.”

“I hardly use it.”

“I’ll – “His breath hitched. “I’ll burn your books.”

“I have thought, recently, that perhaps I have too many.”

“And then you’ll do it,” Stolas said, stepping forward. “You’ll go in my head.”

“No,” said Dr Smith. “Not today.”

“Why,” Stolas asked, knowing perfectly well why. He was met merely with Dr Smith’s gaze – those endless black whirlpools of eyes. He felt his muscles contract, and something inside him snapped like a twig.

“WHY?” Stolas screamed, suddenly. He grabbed a chair – one of the smaller ones – as if about to throw it at the wall, and then threw it back on the floor instead, where it collapsed with a crunch. “WHY WON’T YOU JUST FIX ME?”

His hands began to shake, as he felt his anger transform into something uglier, and more guttural.

“Why,” He whimpered. “Why do I have to – why does it have to hurt?”

He felt his hands, once again, gently guided away from his forearms. He hadn’t even realized he was trying his hardest to pluck out his remaining feathers. Those same hands guided him back, and then down into his chair. As they squeezed his palms, his gaze lifted.

“You are in pain right now,” The Sinner said softly, “Because terrible people did terrible things to you, Stolas.” If the Goetia listened closer, he could hear the deep, rumbling anger underneath those gentle words. “Because you were traumatized by those events, and because your brain learned to fear those events to keep you safe. And sometimes our minds – try a little too hard. They do a little too well. They don’t understand when there is something to fear, and when they are safe. And right now – in this office, in this moment – you are safe, Stolas Goetia, and she cannot hurt you.”

“The way to teach your brain that you are safe is, yes, through exposure therapy. And I am glad that you are considering it. But right now, you are emotional, and you are in distress. You’re trying to push yourself, well past what you are ready for, out of panic and anger. And therefore, under no circumstances am I putting you into an even more vulnerable state today – one that requires a steady mind, and informed consent. That is a matter of professional ethics. Do you understand?”

Slowly, Stolas nodded.

“Sorry,” He sighed. “I just… “

His hands clenched and unclenched.

“It feels like after all this time… after all the work I’ve done… I’m still so… helpless,” He whispered. “She can always just come and – do with me whatever she pleases. And there’s nothing I can do.”

“That’s a two-fold answer,” The Sinner replied. “From a legal perspective, there are ways you can ensure she stays away from you. I have no expertise in that area, but I can give you a contact to a lawyer. As you can imagine, the Pride Ring is rather… overrun with representatives of that particular profession. And a number of them owe me a favor.”

“But I believe what you’re truly asking is how to make yourself less emotionally vulnerable to your triggers. How to recover from incidents like what just occurred and handle panic attacks like you just had. Is that correct?”

Looking ashamed, Stolas nodded.

“That’s not something we achieve in a day,” Dr Smith said softly. “But we can start today, if you’d like that, by going through some strategies on what to do in the case of another panic attack. Over time, as we make progress on your fears, they should decrease as well. But that’s two within two weeks – is that correct?”

Stolas shakily nodded.

“Alright. The good part is, it’s not a surprise to you now. You know what to expect, and that it seems they have been triggered by specific memories or – interactions – with Stella. Can you feel it, when it’s about to happen?”

“Sort of,” said Stolas.

“Once she was gone, you went straight to my office. Were you looking for privacy?” Stolas weakly nodded.

“Why? What did you feel at that time, in your body?”

“My heartbeat… sped up,” he said softly. “And my chest hurt.”

“So if you feel those sensations, it’s likely the start of a panic attack.” Stolas nodded. “Alright. In that case, here’s what I’d like you to do.”

“The first thing you did instinctually, which is excellent. Can you think of what that is?”

“Cry?” said Stolas, with a slight roll of his eyes.

Dr Smith smiled. Sarcasm was good.

“You sat down on the floor,” they said softly. “You placed yourself somewhere safe, and private. When you feel that sensation, that’s the first thing I’d like you to do. Move yourself somewhere close to the floor, and away from any objects if you can.”

“Like a bathtub,” winced Stolas slightly, ignoring Dr Smith’s questioning look.

“… like a bathtub,” They confirmed, deciding not to push.

“The most important part of panic attacks is that they’re physical, Stolas. It may feel like your mind is going a million miles a minute, but you can focus it on the sensations in your body. You can experience them, like you are merely a star being pulled on by the planets’ gravity. Many people choose a sentence – or a mantra, if you will – to place themselves in the right mindset. Something like this is uncomfortable, but it will pass, or I have handled this before. Something to remind you that what you’re experiencing is a set of physical symptoms that are time-limited and will not cause you harm.” Dr Smith smiled encouragingly. “Anything speaking to you?”

Stolas thought for a moment. A long moment.

“You will be okay,” He spoke softly, at last.

Some diaphragmic breathing, distraction and grounding techniques, and a list of ideas for adrenaline burn-off later, Stolas emerged back into the hot, sticky air of Hell. He leaned his head against the car seat, explaining in a sentence or two what occurred, and closing his eyes as he heard Loona rapidly firing off texts.

The consent forms were held tightly in his hand, like a lifeline, even as the scent of Stella’s lipstick still clung to the back of his throat.

A few sessions went by. Stolas paused every time the elevator doors opened, expecting to hear Stella’s screech once more. She knew where to find him, now, even if he’d moved his appointment time. But week after week, there was nothing but silence.

And Stolas was discovering how – even when helpful – how dreadfully boring some parts of therapy could be.

He practiced breathing. He practiced affirmations. He endured Blitzo’s encouragement flag-waving as he practiced affirmations. He journaled his thoughts, underlining cognitive distortions. And then he and Dr Smith spent an entire two sessions figuring out a list of scenarios and memories that Stolas was afraid to encounter, listing them in a hierarchy, and scoring them by his level of fear. Dr Smith had rejected the traditional acronym – SUDS, or Subjective Units of Distress – as the bird had gone on a tangent about Blitzø in the bath that put a blush on the owl’s cheeks. The replacement term, however, had been a little more difficult to decide on.

The answer came from an unexpected source.

“HEY STOLS!” Yelled Blitzø one morning with two boxes of cereal in his hands. “DO YOU WANT ASMODI-OS OR SINNERMON TOAST CRUNCH?”

“DON’T GIVE A FUCKING HOOT, BLITZO,” returned the hungover owl, groaning as he pulled a pillow over his head.

And so, HOOTS: Honest Observations Of Triggers and Stress were born. It wasn’t perfect – but neither was he. In practice, they didn’t use the term much – but when needed, it was there, on his forms, to make him smile.

And soon – both too quickly, and too slowly – Dr Smith declared him ready.

Stolas signed the form with his right hand.

He was nervous.

Well, at least you're starting to identify your feelings, said a voice in his head that wasn't his. It was piping up more and more lately. Sometimes it made him feel good. Other times not - but when it hurt, it merely tingled in the same way that antiseptic stung, letting him know it was working.

"I want to do it," he said, softly, sitting down. "I am informed and aware and consenting, and I have a ride home. And I don't want to back out. I'm just -"

He smiled weakly.  

"I'm still - scared," he admitted. "I'm scared, but I want to do it. Is ... that okay?"

They smiled calmly at him. "Yes, that's very normal. Would you like to discuss what you can expect during this session?"

"Sort of. Blitzø told me.... some." He took a deep breath. "He said that you said it can feel... invasive," he mumbled.

They nodded. "It definitely can. There is no experience exactly like having someone else see inside your mind. But it can be extremely helpful in allowing yourself to address things that you have no other methods of properly addressing. Still, it is important that you are aware of the procedure beforehand. And the knowledge may help you be more comfortable in beginning."         

They steepled their fingers. "First, in order to initiate the procedure, the standard method is through minor physical contact, such as placing your palm on mine. It is the most direct way, but not the only way. Do you consent to this physical contact?"

Stolas hesitated and left his hands in his lap.

“I… suppose that’s a rather silly question for most people, isn’t it?” He laughed softly.

“Not at all.”

Words. Words were hard some days, because some days, they were like soldiers winding through a minefield. They had to be carefully chosen, carefully lead, to avoid a word or a turn of phrase that would open a door he wasn't ready to enter.         

"There were times," he said, very slowly, "In my past.... when I was .... touched..." He took a deep breath. "In ways I didn't want and couldn't... couldn't make stop."       

His hands clasped and unclasped on his lap. He looked down to avoid meeting those eyes. He feared them, right now. Irrationally, he knew - but he feared their judgement.

Or their reflection of his own.

Last session, he had made a list. A list of memories that made him uncomfortable.

Exposure therapy involves experiencing increasingly more intense versions of the things that make you anxious, but slowly and gradually, Dr Smith had said. It will require you to endure some discomfort, so that you can learn that the anxiety itself cannot harm you.

He had listed those memories, and he knew which ones he feared. And for some of them, he knew, the sensation of skin against his feathers would feel like a manacle.

"You... said there were other ways," he asked softly. "Without... touch?"

"Yes, there are more indirect ways. For example, you could hold one end of a rope, and I could hold the other. Though without physically touching you, it may take longer for you to relax enough to enter into the correct headspace.”

“But that is all right,” The Sinner smiled. “We can take as long as you need."

A thick, braided string appeared in their hands. Stolas carefully picked up the other end. It felt soft, like velvet, and yet sturdy and unyielding. The name of the material seemed to escape him. He lifted his head as he realized Dr Smith had been speaking.

"... any material is fine. Now, here is what will happen. You will hold the tether, and I will help you relax. When, and only when, you are adequately relaxed, I will ask you to show me a memory that feels safe. It may help to think ahead of time what might be a suitable memory, one that puts you at ease. Once you are there, I will begin to phase into that place with you. It will feel like you are there – like we are both truly there.

“From there, you can show me your memories, and we will both be able to observe and modify them in a way that will help you process them.”

“I’ll check in with you on your anxiety level, periodically - just as we practiced. A key component of this is that you learn to tolerate that pain as much as you can, so that your mind can learn that these memories do not actually pose any danger to you. But I don't want you to push yourself past your limits. If you ever decide that it is too much, you can let go, and everything will stop. I may also terminate the procedure if I feel that your distress has gone past merely testing your limits and toward actually breaking them. Do you understand?”

The Goetia nodded. “I understand. It’s the difference between red and yellow.”

The two looked at one another, and Stolas blushed. “... never mind.”

“.. it’s a very different context, of course,” the therapist said hesitantly. “But if it would help to - “

“It would not,” said Stolas, his cheeks scarlet. “I’m ready.”

He took a deep breath.

He wasn't sure how he was supposed to relax for this when his heart was thumping against his chest, but he had learned to trust. He wrapped the rope once around his wrist - not so tight he couldn't easily pull away, but enough so that he wouldn't drop it by accident. And then he closed his eyes.

He tried to picture feeling safe.

Who made him feel safe?

Blitzø. But would he, in a memory? Most of his memories with Blitzø also held pain, and longing, and desperation borne out of fear. Would it put him as ease, or remind him of his failures?

His father? Certainly not. His mother? Made him feel small and no longer wanted.

Thinking of Stella made him want to vomit.

Thinking of Octavia made him want to cry.

He tried to just reach for a feeling of safety, despite not knowing what he may find on the other side.

"Imagine," heard Stolas. The voice was almost hypnotic.

"Through this tether, I am sending you a feeling of pure, unobstructed relaxation. Feel it move up your arm, releasing the tension there. Allow your arm to become heavy and at rest, its muscles purely relaxed. Now, feel that relaxation spread into your shoulder. Feel how it loses its tension and comes to a position of rest. And then your left shoulder... good, exactly like that.”

“Now, feel it move into your chest, your lungs. Let it make your breathing slow and deep.”

It reminded him, oddly, of being in the hospital after Striker. It was as if he had an IV in his arm, and he could feel a cooling, relieving sensation travel up his arm to his chest, like he did then as the drugs numbed him. The office began to feel distant and fuzzy. For a moment that scared him, and then he felt a deep, comforting presence, filling his chest with every breath he followed. It was like being drunk, he thought. His mind felt light, and unrestricted, as his muscles relaxed.

“How do you feel, Stolas?” asked a kind voice.

"Feels nice," he whispered. "Like I've had three bottles of absinthe."

"Good," they replied, their voice so low and smooth that it was almost mesmerizing. "Now, close your eyes, and follow my voice. Let everything else fade away. Let your thoughts drift away, like leaves being carried away by a river. Only one thought returns to you, and it is this: I am safe. You don't need to think about anything but being relaxed and safe in your own mind. I am going to count backwards from ten.”

He tried to picture the leaves. They bobbed, carried by the stream.

Ten.

There was a river like this by Paimon's palace. He remembered walking along its borders, holding his mother's hand. He'd liked to jump and slash around in his rain boots, but mother had been quick to tell him it wasn't becoming of a prince to splash. Still, it had been fun.

Nine. It was scary, to drift. Stolas liked to be anchored. Liked to have something tangible in his hands. His fingers squeezed the rope. Where was he? I am safe, he told himself, breathing deeply. I am safe.

Eight. He felt a twinge of pain in the back of his head. It seemed that a small part of him, however distant, resisted giving up control. But it was momentary - barely a bee sting, and it was washed over soon after by a soothing wave of calm.

Seven. He felt more relaxed than he had in his life and followed that feeling eagerly. He wasn't quite sure where he was, even as it drew itself into existence around them - towering arches, colorful stained-glass windows, and the smell of parchment. The carpet here felt soft under his talons. It felt like he was almost in a dream, rather than a memory. A dream where no one would touch him. Where everything was okay.

"Your Highness!" Came a faraway voice. It was faint - many doors away, many walls. "Prince Stolas!"

Six.

Five.

Four.

Stolas heard a small giggle and realized it was his own. He could feel the door frame press into his back as he held it shut, his eyes slowly taking in the full scene around him at last. The magnificent library - shelves spiraling upwards, seemingly into the night sky itself. Windows, covered with rich velvet curtains that hung down like a widow's veil, still let in rays of sunlight that projected dazzling rainbows of light upon the shelves. The small owl gasped, taking it all in.

Three. A little stool stood at the foot of the nearest shelf.

Two. Stolas smiled. He wasn't allowed in here yet, in the library that would someday be his. The books here were expensive and precious, he was told. Some of them dangerous, bound with thick chains and rusted locks.

The staff were searching for him.

He hadn’t yet learned to fear the consequences.

He never did hear a one.