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The eager stinging in his palm was a telltale sign that he had fucked up. When he glanced down, the black blood beginning to coil around his wrist like unbelonging serpents was an even bigger sign to him that he should never have done this without Blitzø. The man would be arriving any minute now, and to see his boyfriend in this state wouldn't make him particularly happy.
Stolas groaned when he heard the thunk of normally-lightweight boots hitting his balcony—as if Stolas had called him there with his thoughts rather than scheduled a time for him to make his arrival. Damn his lack of patience.
There was no use in scrambling to the medicinal cabinet himself. Frantic behavior would only worry Blitzø more, but he'd be fucked upside down a hundred ways over if it didn't hurt like a bitch. He closed his dampened palm and sheathed the rapier he'd been practicing with with the other, just as Blitzø shoved the stained glass doors open.
A sharp sting made him withhold a flinch as he desperately tried to ground himself in anything but the wound.
Knowing him, it'd take Blitzø all but a few seconds to clock onto something being the matter. The imp grinned when he spotted him from across the room, so Stolas didn't hesitate to save him the trouble as he lifted his bloodied hand to a square and waved timidly his direction.
"What the fuck?" Blitzø darted over in an instant and reached for his wrist, unconcerned with the obsidian blood now sticking to vermillion fingertips. "What happened?"
Blitzø's thumb pressed too near to the wound and Stolas winced, emitting a sharp hiss.
"It hurts?" Blitzø's voice was laced with anxiety. "Why does it–?" His boyfriend looked past his towering frame, spotting the array of holy weapons splayed out against the wall and floor of his bedroom.
"You were practicing with holy weapons?" Blitzø stressed. "Stolas, I told you not to do that alone!"
"I know, but," he was usually quick-witted and eloquent in his thoughts, but the burning in his hand was beginning to cause a fog to drift into his brain. "I just wanted to."
Blitzø raised an eyebrow and huffed, "You think that excuse is going to fly, mister?"
Stolas shrugged, "It might."
Blitzø scoffed, suppressing a slight laugh at Stolas' apparent nonchalance over the entire ordeal. He gently took the prince by the wrist and pulled him along to the bathroom. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Blitzø hopped up onto the marble countertop, knocking aside a plethora of toiletries that were in the way. It would have typically annoyed the owl, as he prided himself in the fact that his organized clutter was still organized. His brain was too focused on trying not to reel from the pain to give Blitzø a lecture, however.
His boyfriend tugged his hand over to the sink and turned the tap on, allowing cool water to splash over the injury. Stolas watched as the black turned to gray and began to run clear, but his mind was beginning to drift elsewhere.
No. No. Not this again.
He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to mentally combat the memories that were trying to force their way to his conscious mind. His chest tightened and he knew his breathing must not have sounded ordinary, because he could make out the muffled voice of his boyfriend from miles away, echoing his name.
It must have been pathetic to witness. He was aware he was whining and whimpering, until he wasn't. He just couldn't escape that godforsaken mine. The threats towards Octavia adhered to him the most, then the realization that Blitzø wouldn't come for him, along with the pain that every stab, every crack, every slice brought. He attempted to pry his eyes open, but when he did, all he could see was a flash of chartreuse.
Another voice layered over the vicious western accent that belted taunts at him. He recognized it, but it was far away. So far away.
It was saying his name, he knew that for sure, and he was trying everything in his power to extend his senses past his own suffering to reach it. He focused on his breathing first, that's something he knew he had control over. It was the first thing one learned to do when they were brought into life, after all.
Then, the touch of crisp water over the aching nerves in his hand. If he could center himself around that and–
And the comforting palms and pointed fingers gently smoothing out his facial feathers.
Next, was the voice. Once miles away, he could hear the hushed murmurs of a firm, sweet voice swiftly approaching his being and grounding him back down into reality. Blitzø.
Stolas opened his eyes, no longer seeing chartreuse, but a beautiful, bright golden hue instead, complemented by irises of a carmine variant. A slow breath of relief escaped his lungs, as he continued to simply gaze directly into the shorter man's eyes, honing in on the tiny circles Blitzø rubbed into his cheeks.
"Shh, hey," he whispered, voice now directly in front of him. "You're here, Stolas. I'm here. There's nowhere you can go right now, okay? We're right here, hon."
Stolas nodded, noting the water still wasting away, over his hand, and down the drain as he leaned towards Blitzø to turn the tap off. The other must have registered it as him needing a hug, because his small, but strong frame wrapped around his own figure.
"I'm sorry," Stolas' voice shook. "It's the holy weapons. I can't seem to–"
"I know," Blitzø mumbled into his shoulder. "Stolas, it's not your fault."
The blood slowly started to pool back up to the surface of his palm and he sighed when he realized he accidentally got it on Blitzø's shirt. "Sorry, you have blood and water on you."
"I can change," Blitzø pulled away.
"But, it's–" Stolas began to protest.
"What? Think I can't rid myself of my own clothes?" He tried for humor.
Stolas smirked and fell forward to bump his forehead against the imp's insignia, coming down a little too roughly.
"Bonk," Blitzø chuckled. Stolas huffed back, a small laugh escaping his throat.
They sat there for several moments, Blitzø running sharp fingertips through bushels of silvery feathers, before he pulled away to retrieve the first-aid kit and softly drag him to the bedroom. Blitzø patted the bed for Stolas to sit on as he stripped free of his clothes and rummaged around in Stolas' closet to don an oversized t-shirt.
Stolas was in and out of his own thoughts, occasionally registering his silent boyfriend cleaning and dressing his wound and bouncing back to his now-hushed brain. He watched Blitzø's furrowed brow with intrigue and sympathy.
"You're not mad at me, are you?" Stolas inquired, putting an end to the silence that lingered between them.
"I'm not mad at all." Blitzø's eyes glanced up, then back down to the gauze he was spinning around the owl's wrist. "If you must know, 'upset' would be the correct term."
"You're upset with me?"
"Nope," Blitzø shook his head. "Not at you."
Prying thoughts and feelings out of Blitzø was always a multi-step process that required too many questions on Stolas' end and not enough answers on his boyfriend's. Which is why Stolas often resorted to staring him down in an attempt to read his mind through his actions. A twitch of an eye could mean he was lying or withholding information. The favoring of his bottom lip between jagged teeth could mean he was worried or mad at himself. And the trembling of his fingers always meant that he was scared.
"You're upset you weren't here to help." Stolas voiced aloud.
Blitzø breathed out through his nose, snugly fastening the gauze. He toyed with the tips of Stolas' fingers as if they were on the brink of shattering and moved to bring his knuckles to his mouth.
He planted an airy kiss to the center, causing Stolas' heart to flutter like a windstorm lifting foliage and leaves out of their dozing spots. Trembling, he placed his palm against the cheek of his lover, only for Blitzø to storm again by pressing another floaty kiss to the inside of it. The leaves and brambles churned again. Blitzø's grip latched onto his wrist as he drew Stolas' hand directly to his lips once more to place individual kisses to each of his fingertips.
Blitzø held a tiny smile. It was a rarity to see him being so benign and soundless. Though, since they began their relationship — properly — Stolas was fortunate enough to see it far more frequently.
"You always do that," Blitzø half-criticized. "Yes, I'm upset that I wasn't here to help."
"But you were," Stolas smiled. "You helped me just now."
"You shouldn't have been injured in the first place." Blitzø sighed, his eyes darting away.
"That was my own fault," Stolas reassured. "It's not like you could have known."
He was met with silence; another eye twitch, another tooth piercing his lip, the repeated shaking of hands.
"You're still upset that you weren't there, either," Stolas came to the realization.
Blitzø only confirmed his suspicions by folding in on himself. It was a slight gesture, but Stolas knew him well enough now to be able to tell.
"Sweetheart, that was months ago. Nearing eighteen, in fact," Stolas cradled his face.
"You shouldn't have to keep count," Blitzø grunted, his eyes tightening. "'It's been this many months since my last trauma,'" he bit out. "Fuck off with that Stolas. You have PTSD because of that bastard and I can only do so much to help!"
"Hey," Stolas soothed, wiping a single tear away. "You're here right now, darling. You know there's absolutely nothing I hold over you for that. It wasn't your fault."
"You're not the problem!" Blitzø whined, frustration in his tone. "My mind won't quit, okay? I imagine the worst case scenario? I got it! You don't understand how much I need to be next to you if wounds are being thrown at you from every direction."
"You do realize how unreasonable that is," Stolas prodded, gentle and patient. "Darling, it was a small wound."
"I don't care," Blitzø's face was twisted and scrunched up in a way Stolas would have found funny under different circumstances. "I don't want you having any wounds."
"Oh, my sweet, sweet, man," Stolas leaned forward to kiss between his eyes, nuzzling him with his beak. "That's just life. Things like that are going to happen whether you like it or not. Just because you can't change the course of it, doesn't mean I don't appreciate the comfort you bring after the matter. In fact, you're so frantic, I almost prefer the post-injury clean up to you being there when it happens."
Blitzø couldn't refuse the chuckle that escaped him. "I know. But the hurt that comes with it– if I hadn't come when I did, you would have been left to that panic attack by yourself."
"Hush now," Stolas pressed a finger to his lips. "Blitzø, I've seen my fair share of those in my 37 years of life. Don't think I don't know how to deal with them alone. Stop thinking about the 'what ifs' for a moment."
"Okay," Blitzø met his eyes with sincerity.
"Thank you for being here at all," Stolas traced his thumbs along the sharp lines sprouting from Blitzø's bottom eyelids.
"Yeah," the sweet voice was thick and raspy and full of emotion. It was swift to snap back to the usual thunderous and unavoidable tone, mostly due to Blitzø's brain's relentless ability to rapidly think at all times. "How the fuck did you even practice with holy weapons without an opponent?"
"I'm shocked you seem to forget so often that I can use magic," Stolas laughed. "I conjured an avatar of sorts. It runs a bit like it's on autopilot."
Blitzø stared at him with something akin to awe in his eyes.
"Would you like to see?" Stolas smirked.
Blitzø seemed to consider it for a fleeting moment before shaking his head. "As fucking cool as that sounds, I came over to sleep and your clumsy ass already cost us an hour." As if on cue, he yawned.
"Maybe tomorrow?" Stolas pulled the covers up around their bodies, settling down to nestle into his sweetheart.
Blitzø nodded, a smile in his voice. "Yeah, maybe tomorrow."