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Stolas cannot sleep.
It is not a new problem. Ever since he was a small nestling, he has struggled to maintain the same sleep schedule as those around him. There are still days when he wonders if his mother was an owl like him, something to explain away his biology as being more than the passing whim of his shapeshifting father. Perhaps she, too, struggled with insomnia in the dark hours of the night, only feeling sleepiness overtake her restless mind when the sun was highest in the sky. Maybe she knew what it felt like to always be on the cusp of consciousness and sleep, never quite matching the speed of those around her.
Unfortunately, Stolas cannot blame his genetics tonight. He cannot even blame the loud drivers of Imp City, nor the drunken pedestrians who shout down alleyways and pick fights with dumpsters. He certainly cannot blame Blitzø, who he leaves silently sleeping on the beanbag, his breathing subdued and steady like white noise.
No, like with so much else in his life right now, Stolas can only blame himself for his predicament. For once, he is not even lamenting the choices that landed him here, exiled from his palace and forbidden to see his daughter for the next century. Instead, he means the state he has worked his body into that makes it all but impossible to lie down. It is a combination of restless tension, of vague hunger and dehydration, of several days spent skipping baths because he lacks the energy to hold his head up for so long, of even more days neglecting his feathers because preening takes twice the effort of bathing and he can hardly keep his eyes open.
Feathers are such fickle things. They require a healthy diet to grow properly, and choking down bites of food has become Stolas' least favorite pastime. He can tell that he has lost weight not only from the prominence of his collarbones and knuckles, but also from the dulled color of the plumage and the empty gaps where his body is consolidating energy, refusing to make new pinfeathers to replace the ones he has tugged out. Stress, too, has made an impact: He knows the way that the vanes clump together unevenly when he is too overwhelmed, and he has witnessed it several times in his life when stopping and restarting his antidepressants has caused all of his feathers to take on a curled, matted appearance. It's happening again now.
And it itches. His feathers cannot rest flat against his skin in this state, and they curl uncomfortably into the hidden spots where he has plucked himself bald to stave off his anxiety. The sensation only makes him want to pluck more, and it becomes a painful cycle that he cannot stop – plucking and itching and rubbing at sensitive skin beneath damaged feathers that he simply needs out of his skin.
"Can't sleep?"
He flinches at the sound of Blitzø's voice, knowing he has been caught. It feels sinful to be found wallowing in self-pity when Blitzø is doing so much for him. The imp cooks for him, picks out his clothes, sets up the couch for him every night, makes a thousand little decisions when Stolas is so paralyzed by choices that he cannot function, and what does Stolas do with the small bit of autonomy that remains? He mopes on balconies at two in the morning, a thin blanket clutched around his shoulders and the remnants of tears clinging to his lashes.
He knows he is pathetic, but he is so, so tired, and he cannot pretend to be anything else.
"Sorry," Stolas murmurs. He is grateful for the couch, for the pillows and blankets Blitzø has offered him, for the relative quiet of the apartment, and he wishes it could be enough, but his body simply will not obey.
"Hey, I'm awake, too."
Blitzø settled down beside him. Where Stolas is curled up, face pressing against the cold bar of the railing, Blitzø stretches out, legs swinging between the posts as he gazes out upon the city. It makes Stolas wonder just how many times Blitzø has done this, coming out to the balcony in the middle of the night as Loona sleeps, taking in the dull roar of the sleepless city below until he can drift off himself. How many of his midnight texts might have been answered while Blitzø sought out a moment's peace above this view. How little either of them ever expected to be sitting there together.
For so long, Stolas has craved moments like these. A quiet night with Blitzø at his side, sans obligation, simply existing alongside him. He has wondered for far too long what it might be like to walk through life with someone truly at his side – a person willing to entertain the thoughts that enter his head, who can handle long silences beside him, who knows his routine and his preferences and desires as well as they know themselves, who he could understand in return.
How fucking cruel to have a taste of it now.
"Couch treating you alright?" Blitzø asks, and Stolas nods.
"Yes. My apologies. I simply… couldn't sleep."
"Thinkin' about anything?"
He glances away. So often, he had asked the same question of Blitzø in bed when the imp seemed lost in his thoughts, gaze distant and fixed on something outside the palace balcony. Back then, he would always snap at Stolas to mind his own business. Stolas knows he should be happy that they are finally in a position to care about one another's thoughts, to finally have those kinds of discussions, to act like friends –
"Many things," he responds simply.
Blitzø hums his quiet understanding and leans sideways. His horns are heavy against Stolas' side, a welcome weight most night, only now it prickles against his feathers and Stolas lets out an unconscious hiss.
Immediately, Blitzø straightens up, eyes wide with concern like he can diagnose the problem from sight alone. And who knows – perhaps he can, just as he has managed to diagnose so many of the small ailments bothering Stolas since the loss of his magic, now that invisible injuries are becoming new aches and pains that his body cannot magically suppress.
"Scar?" Blitzø guesses, already reaching out to gingerly press around Stolas' shoulder and part the feathers around the old, white mark.
He knows that Blitzø saw the scars from Striker's attack the first night he spent in the apartment, when Stolas had been so shell-shocked that Blitzø had needed to bathe him. Had wanted to bathe him, Stolas has slowly come to realize. Even now, long past the point when Blitzø should have given up on him and told him to handle it himself, the man still slips into the bathroom behind him half of the time, gingerly helping Stolas disrobe and setting the water temperature for him. It is perhaps the only act of care that Stolas can handle without guilt, not fixated on the fear that he might be treating Blitzø like one of his servants. After all, they have left him alone ever since he became old enough to fluff up his own soft down as a fledgling and wash himself adequately. They may have continued to preen him and dress him for several years longer, but Stolas has known from a young age that the bath is one of the few places where he could always be granted privacy.
No, the only person who has washed him as an adult has been Blitzø. Until now, it has always been in the context of aftercare, of washing blood and slick off his feathers, of teasing his cloaca and helping him ride through one final orgasm to leave him utterly boneless. He fears that he should be more hesitant to accept those gentle hands than he is now.
For weeks after his banishment, Stolas continued to accept his baths, and Blitzø continued not to speak of his scars. The conversation only happened after Sinsmas, when Blitzø had caught him limping and asked if he had been injured in the fight against Andrealphus. That had been when Stolas had parted his feathers and admitted that the scar on his shoulder was not the only one Striker left behind, that the traces of angelic steel still embedded in his bones still agonize him sometimes. Then Blitzø had returned with a jar of cream, clearly well-loved and much-used, and began his routine of gently massaging around tight muscles, moisturizing thickened scar tissue, pressing kisses over each old injury.
Stolas inhales sharply when Blitzø pulls at the old feathers around his scar, the shafts dry and brittle, splintering and sending starbursts of pain through his skin.
"No," Stolas quickly murmurs, pulling his arm away as gently as he can, terrified that rejecting Blitzø's touch will spell the end of it forever. "My feathers are simply – I fell out of the routine of preening – it's no matter."
Only he should know better than to insist that something is not worth Blitzø's concern. Living in close proximity with the imp is rapidly teaching him that the man does care about everything – to an excess, almost, that Moxxie seems to interpret as meddling and Loona interprets as smothering and Millie views as self-sabotage and distraction. Stolas feels like he understands. It feels so much like the same obsessive care he had dedicated towards Via's egg before she hatched, when he had been so consumed by love but unsure where to place it, needing to prove his adoration while having no idea how to express it.
It is clear that Blitzø and Moxxie and Millie and Loona love one another, but Stolas wonders who among them is willing to be loved.
Blitzø's touch immediately turns gentle, claws just barely grazing Stolas' feathers to lift them and peer underneath. Stolas sucks on the inside of his cheek, struggling to keep his expression neutral. This is not the first time he has neglected his grooming and worked himself into such a sorry state, and no matter how fragile his feathers feel, Blitzø is gentler than he has ever been with himself.
"Okay," the imp murmurs, carefully parting more feathers. One gives up its valiant effort to stay lodged in place and splinters along the shaft, and Stolas finally grimaces. Blitzø, of course, notices. "I've got you. What do I do?"
And – oh, something warm blossoms in Stolas' chest, and he can't help the small smile that curves his beak even through the pain. "I'll be fine, Blitzø. I only need to sit down and preen them at last."
"But what do I do?" Blitzø insists. He runs his claws over the palm of Stolas' hand, one of the few parts of him not covered in feathers that therefore cannot ache. Nails tickle at his skin, causing Stolas' fingers to unconsciously contract. "I know I've pulled out the loose ones after… I mean, they look a little shittier than that."
Yes, he remembers well how Blitzø used to dote on him after sex, smoothing down every misplaced feather and tugging away the ones threatening to fall on their own. Stolas sees the flush rising on Blitzø's face and knows he cannot look any more composed.
"They're…" he begins hesitantly, wanting to protect his dignity but also unable to turn away Blitzø's gentle touches. "It is my own neglect. I can fix –"
Blitzø manhandles him into his lap, arms wrapping around Stolas' waist until he squawks. The momentary flash of pain from having his feathers grabbed does not hurt as badly as it should – not when he's in Blitzø's arms, body reacting to long-lost memories of nights spent being bound and flogged, bitten, spanked, hurt until he climaxed from the delicious release of it all. His body knows instinctively how to curl between Blitzø's legs, resting against a torso too short to hold him but sturdy enough to provide support. Bit by bit, the pain dissipates.
"Christ, you're leggy," Blitzø teases, raking his claws across Stolas' arms. His voice softens alongside his touch as he finds the first feather and gives it a gentle tug. "I remember when Loona's hair got real matted the first time."
The feather smarts for a moment before releasing from his skin, relief pooling in the itchy area it previously occupied. Blitzø sets the discarded feather aside and moves to the next, giving it the same careful test, leaving it when it refuses to budge.
Despite himself, Stolas feels his eyes begin to shut, lulled by Blitzø's rhythmic movements.
"She'd kill me if she knew I told anyone," Blitzø continues with a soft snort that Stolas unconsciously echoes, "but a lot was going on. It took her a while to settle in. She was scared as shit of this place and didn't want to go to the shower when I was in the apartment - not that you'd know she was scared, she acted so fuckin' fearless. And I don't think the pound ever, you know, gave them good shampoo or shit like that. So she ended up with these horrible mats, and I think the first time she let me closer than ten feet away was when I helped her comb them out."
It feels as though Blitzø is pulling splinter after splinter from his arms, the momentary prickles of pain vanishing each time his skin is exposed to air and allowed to move unencumbered. Stolas shifts, ignoring the twinging in his back so he can nestle his cheek against the other man's horns like a pillow.
"I imagine she felt much better afterwards."
"Yeah, well, everyone needs some help sometimes."
When Blitzø smoothes his thumb over each patch as he finishes, Stolas envisions glossy feathers left in their place. It has been so long since he has felt good – clean, attractive, sober and desirable. It goes back further than the trial. He keeps his eyes shut, excited to see the final reveal all at once when he is back to himself, perhaps even improved under Blitzø's patient hand.
"She almost bit my head off every time I hit a tangle. And I'll be real - I was so fucking scared of hurting her more. They already treated her like shit at the pound. I just wanted to make her happy, so I let her get more matted 'stead of helping her and hurting her."
Stolas remembers the snide comments Moxxie has made about upgrading their receptionist now that Stolas has taken Loona's previous position. He gets the impression that Loona had been unwelcoming, unprofessional, in her role, enough so that even Stolas is an improvement, yet it seems Blitzø did little to correct her. It is not difficult to imagine him giving his daughter the same leniency he offers Stolas each time he refuses to scold the owl for snapping at clients, wandering from the desk, or even falling asleep in the corner of Blitzø's office when the world becomes too overwhelming.
"Was she upset with you?" he murmurs.
Blitzø pauses his preening for a moment. Thick fingers thread between Stolas', and he squeezes those familiar hands. Blitzø squeezes back even tighter.
"Nah," Blitzø whispers. "She just didn't know how to let someone help just yet."
He has seen Blitzø assist Loona with her fur once since moving into the apartment. It had been late at night when Stolas had been unable to sleep and Loona had just returned from a party, the air thick with the familiar smell of alcohol and smoke. Stolas had pretended to watch the movie Blitzø had put on as the imp had settled on the couch, Loona sitting on the floor in front of him, as Blitzø had braided her fur away from her face. Then she had absconded to the bathroom, and Blitzø had dutifully turned up the volume to help cover the sound of her vomiting as he went to tend to her.
"Shoulda seen me when I was a kid, though," Blitzø continues. "I thought polishing my horns was the most boring shit, so I never did it. And, I mean, why would I? Everyone focused on Fizz's horns 'cause he was the star, or Barb's 'cause they had a nice shape and they were the kind that needed filing so they didn't stab her. But mine always seemed fine and no one had time to bother, so..."
Blitzø's horns, like every other part of his body, are so impressive that Stolas has never considered them being anything less than perfect. He knows the basics of horn care, having once noticed Blitzø's dulled, rough horns during an impromptu night together and then turning to Voogle to conduct his own research. They needed regular polishing to buff away old keratin, with oils to keep them hydrated much as feathers needed. After that, Stolas had invested in a few tools - horn polish, a sturdy file, a buffing tool, brands taken from recommendations by his staff who had been baffled by his questions and had surely laughed behind his back for asking.
"I wish I could have taken care of you," Stolas murmurs.
Blitzø snorts. "Yeah? You like the idea of imp dandruff snowing on you?"
Stolas runs his beak along the length of Blitzø's horn, finding an old piece of keratin. It comes off easily, like peeling the thinnest layer off an onion, and he tests its strength against his mouth before discarding it to the side to answer.
"I like imagining if we could have kept in touch after that afternoon when we were children," he admits, and for a moment, Stolas hesitates. He knows, logically, that Blitzø remembers that day – after all, the imp had been the one to track him down and had remembered the existence of the grimoire, the location of his palace, all the broad strokes of their meeting – but he wonders if it had weighed as heavily in his mind as it had for Stolas. Had he relished the memory? Held it close to his chest for years? Fantasized about a different ending, one where they had become true friends, playmates, bosom buddies?
Without a response, Stolas cautiously continues, letting his closed eyes give him all the confidence he knows he would have lacked had he been facing Blitzø directly.
"I like imagining," Stolas breathes, turning his arm over as Blitzø's hands wander to a new patch of feathers, "what it might have been like to have grown up together. To have known each other as friends first, to have preemptively addressed my ignorance, to have... developed our relationship in a more traditional way."
To have had a relationship - one where he might have courted Blitzø, or been courted in return, where their emotions might have played as much of a role as the sex itself and no arrangement would have been needed to pull them together.
"Yeah, birdie," Blitzø mutters, "not sure you'd've wanted to be around an imp like me."
Stolas opens his mouth to protest (because, oh Lucifer, he has so many protests to make against that statement) when Blitzø tugs at a feather that leaves Stolas gasping in pain.
"Shit!" Blitzø clamps a hand around Stolas' forearm, squeezing it so tightly that it hurts. "Sorry! There was a - a bald one or something, it looked like a needle -"
"Pinfeathers," Stolas manages. He draws in a breath through a pursed beak, gently pulling away from Blitzø's hands to inspect the damage. "They are new feathers, not needles. The sheath is very -"
But before he can explain their care, he sees his arm. Black blood wells from the spot where Blitzø pulled out the pinfeather, darkening his skin – skin now visible in the bald patches where his feathers have been removed entirely. They are not glossy as he had imagined; they are still dry and dull, now sparse and ugly like a new hatchling growing their first downy patches.
Fat tears leak from Stolas' eyes as he stares in horror.
"I'm sorry," Blitzø immediately babbles. "They were all breaking and coming out when I barely touched them. I thought - it seemed like they were all kinda -"
"It's fine," Stolas interrupts. He cannot cry like a child, not when Blitzø is simply helping him. He is the one who neglected his feathers, who avoided mirrors and preening himself, who abandoned the diet he had been on all his life to help them grow fuller and shinier than his genetics dictated.
"Fuck, Stols, I didn't mean -"
"You are doing this correctly," he insists, hurriedly wiping his eyes to maintain some composure, but the sensation of his skin against his eyelids and cheeks feels so wrong. "It is my own fault that they are so damaged."
He tries to hug his arms around himself, to conceal them as best he can, but Blitzø is faster. He pulls Stolas' arms from his chest, inspecting the skin closely. It must look grotesque, Stolas thinks with a wince, like a plucked chicken laid bare at the grocery store, all gooseflesh and bareness.
To his horror, Blitzø lifts his wrist to his lips, pressing a kiss to one of the aching bald spots.
His body responds before his mind can: Stolas' feathers fluff up, trying to draw cool air against his feverish skin, which only makes him conscious of how many more broken feathers await them.
"Feathers grow back," Blitzø mutters, pressing another kiss to his skin. "C'mon, pretty bird. Let's go in so I can get the rest of them."
Pretty bird could not have felt further from the truth, like a sarcastic poke at the bare spots and unkempt feathers he'd been sporting for weeks, but he still feels a glimmer of excitement at the nickname. Somehow, Blitzø can make it feel genuine when it is underlined with that husky purr of his, accompanied by a helpful hand held out for Stolas to take.
He obligingly allows himself to be led indoors, hesitating when Blitzø begins to bounce around the place. First comes the blanket from the back of the couch, now spread across the carpet, then the pillow tossed down on one side. Blitzø gestures for Stolas to kneel, and the owl obliges, dutifully lifting his arms when Blitzø begins to peel his sweater off.
There has been so little time to be self-conscious in Blitzø's presence that it feels unfamiliar now. Those first times together, he had been so consumed with lust, with excitement, that there had been no time to consciously process what was happening around him. And then came the pet names, the little compliments, the way Blitzø nuzzled into his chest plumage and found sweet words of endearment for his cloaca and found little reasons to touch him. For the first time, he felt pretty - delicate rather than scrawny, soft rather than dull, powerful rather than unnerving.
He isn't sure how to conceal himself, to wrap his mottled arms over the harsh lines of his body, to smooth down feathers long past the point of return. Stolas does the best he can before Blitzø settles down beside him, helping him to lie down on his back and relax into the pillow beneath his head.
For a long time, there is only the sound of dried feathers crinkling against one another, sometimes accompanied by a flood of relief and other times by the dull ache that tells him they have a while longer to settle. Stolas tries to keep his breathing even. In, out, a cyclical exchange of exhaling self-conscious thoughts and inhaling the quiet calm of Blitzø's steady hands. He knows from the cool air against his skin that there are going to be other bald patches, larger ones sacrificed to his own lack of self-care. He attempts to remind himself that he has no one but to blame but himself, that this is necessary before the damage gets any worse, but the only thought keeping him tethered to the moment is how Blitzø is humming and concentrating on him, seemingly unbothered by Stolas' appearance.
The silence carries on too long, becoming too comfortable and familiar, and Stolas cannot handle it. He deserves to be scolded for his lack of care. This is so much worse than choosing the wrong outfit for a party or neglecting to smooth down his crest, things for which Stella had hit him for doing in the past.
"You needn't continue," he murmurs. "I'm certain that I have already cost you quite enough this evening."
Blitzø's hands still, and he knows that the imp is thinking about it. Whatever obligation he had felt to care for Stolas the night of the trial is long since repaid. Blitzø saw him through the night, gave him a job, provided him with a steady paycheck. The apartment is too small for three demons, and it only seems right that this be the moment when Blitzø realizes that he is in over his head, that it's time to cut Stolas free and return to his own life, but –
"Satan," he snorts, "would you shut up? You're not costing me shit. I'm plucking a chicken, not refinancing a house."
Stolas blinks, lifting his head. Blitzø sits over him, still gently testing each feather and adding to the growing pile beside him. There are bare patches on Stolas' chest and stomach now, swaths of skin that make him feel naked and monstrous, but Blitzø rubs his thumb over each area as he finishes, caressing the velvety skin.
"'S kinda like aftercare, you know?" Blitzø says, and there's a softness to his voice that could lull Stolas to sleep right then and there if he allowed it. "Just instead of me fucking you, it's more like I fucked your entire life."
"You didn't," Stolas protests.
"Yeah, well..." Blitzø averts his gaze, focusing more intently on a particularly stubborn feather. Stolas can feel it digging painfully beneath his skin, wanting to break free, and Blitzø is so gentle with it that when it does finally pull away, Stolas breathes a genuine sigh of relief. "Your life got fucked, how's that? And you deserve to be taken care of. I like taking care of you."
The words settle in Stolas' mind, warming him from the inside as he contemplates them. It worries him sometimes when he sees Blitzø waking up before everyone to start cooking breakfast or when he ends a long work day by unclogging sinks and washing dishes. For most things, Stolas has taken everyone else's cues, doing as they do in an effort to fit into an unfamiliar world. This is the one situation where he is unsure how to read their cues: Loona's contributions around the house always feel inconsistent, and he cannot figure out the division of labor except to know that he is useless and surely only adding a burden to everyone. Even asking for guidance seems like a burden when he does not know where to begin in using cleaning products or tidying up after himself. All he has managed to learn is how to confine his mess to a small corner of the apartment, arranging and rearranging the same five items over and over and ensuring they never spread beyond his pile.
"I look hideous," Stolas argues, wondering if drawing attention to the fact will finally be the thing to push Blitzø away. He tries to look up, to meet Blitzø's gaze, and he's thankful to see that the imp is working so low down on his torso that there is no chance of them locking eyes.
"It's skin," Blitzø bites back, and there's a hint of a smile on his lips. "You've always had skin under there, bird brain."
"Not like this. I look – I look mangled –"
Blitzø moves quicker than expected, reclining against Stolas' side so that he can bow his head over him. The imp's hands catch Stolas' face between his fingers, holding his chin in place, caressing the side of his beak.
"You look like someone who's been through hell the last few months, and that's okay," Blitzø says seriously, but there's only a flash of the moment before he's back to himself. "And you think I give a shit 'bout some missing fluff? C'mon, Stols – I've seen you crying, screaming, drunk, naked, hornier than Asmodeus himself. Didn't ever stop me from liking you."
He knows he should be embarrassed at the reminder that Blitzø has seen him in far worse states, but Stolas can only find comfort in the words. Though he had made an effort never to let Blitzø see the traces of his life that involved Stella or the other Goetias, the imp has still seen him at his most unkempt: sobbing through blindfolds, shivering and struggling to form words, limbs splayed and every inch of his body ruined and on display for him.
Stolas curls closer to Blitzø, and Blitzø immediately threads a hand through his crest, guiding his head onto his lap.
"I should still be able to preen myself. I am not – I don't wish to be an obligation to you –"
"Fuck that." Blitzø's next pull is rough – not enough to hurt, just enough to give Stolas sensation, something intense enough to redirect his thoughts and pull him out of his own mind. "You think I'd do this if you were a fuckin' obligation? You should know better than anyone that I ditch those."
It's funny. It's funny and self-deprecating and makes Stolas laugh in a way no one else can. He wraps an arm around Blitzø's back, fingers intertwining with those familiar spines as though his hand was made to fit there. His muscles unlock, and bit by bit, he swears he can feel Blitzø relaxing into him, too.
"You know how you used to..." Blitzø clears his throat. It's clear the words are sticking, and it makes Stolas all the more curious to know the reason for the flush spreading across his cheeks. "You know – let me kinda... take over?"
Stolas tilts his head on Blitzø's lap. He feels something press up against his cheek. He knows well what it is and smiles coyly.
"In what context, darling?"
It's fun to bait Blitzø and feel some trace of normalcy, and when the imp rolls his eyes, Stolas lets out a chirp.
"Not that - well, yeah, that," Blitzø mumbles, "like when you'd get all floaty and let me steer, you know?"
He does know. It was a sensation not only confined to aftercare when his body was still vibrating through the aftermath of multiple orgasms and exhaustion. It would happen earlier in those nights, too, when Blitzø would climb through his balcony and Stolas knew that he could shut his brain off. When Blitzø was there, he did not have to play the part of a royal, did not have to focus on how to behave properly, did not have to censor his words or watch his emotions. He could simply be – brainless and pliant and oh so eager to follow orders.
A shiver runs up his spine. Blitzø massages his hip where he must have twitched.
"I have always trusted you."
It is Blitzø's turn to break eye contact as he puts all of his focus on a particularly stubborn feather. Stolas groans when the dry shaft tugs from his skin, the momentary sting immediately replaced by Blitzø's warm fingers massaging the spot. He has worked magic with those damn fingers for so long, scissoring them inside him, working him open and relaxing him from the inside out, that it should come as no surprise that they are just as effective when put to a platonic use. Yet Stolas' skin prickles with each new touch, muscles twitching and relaxing as parts of him are touched that have been ignored since –
Well, shit. Since before their first and only date, really.
"I liked it," Blitzø admits. The words sound gruff, like they are being pulled from a well deep inside him that has not been explored before, and Stolas watches him closely as he works and speaks to Stolas' thigh more than anything. "I liked you looking at me like I knew what the fuck I was doing. Like... like you needed me or something."
"I do need you."
If it is difficult for Blitzø to admit that he likes being needed, then it is even harder for Stolas to wrestle out the admission that he needs someone else. It should not be so difficult to say when he knows he has lived a privileged life with a staff of servants waiting on him hand and foot, catering to his every request and leaving him incapable of caring for himself.
That is not the kind of need he refers to now. This is about the sort of independence that Stolas has always prided himself on: how he has been able to survive nearly four decades without a single friend at his side, how he could put on a mask to survive a loveless marriage, how he could stomach loneliness for so long and only self-destruct in small ways. He knows, deep down, that he could have lasted an eternity with no one at his side because it has always been the future he has imagined for himself. Blitzø was a respite from it, a fantasy of a potential future, but the day he had treated Stolas' confession as an elaborate roleplay and only pretended to want to stay, he had looked back at the walls he had once built and prepared to shut himself in again.
"I... enjoy you being in control," Stolas quietly admits. "It makes me feel... grounded, I suppose. I know that I can trust you to look out for me. You – you have always looked out for me."
There's a flicker of something unreadable in Blitzø's eyes. He is quiet for a long moment as he helps pull Stolas onto his side so that he can preen his back. Stolas does not dare look down at the carnage of his body, instead resting his head on one of those familiar thighs and looking up to watch Blitzø's look of concentration.
After a few long moments, Blitzø finally says, "'Course I look out for you, birdie. You're mine."
Stolas tries to hold back the flutter of his heart, but he cannot. His lungs constrict as though his diaphragm can expel every negative thought he has ever had. His pulse quickens, his feathers fluff up around his neck in a desperate plea for cool air –
"Ah!"
"Keep it in your pants," Blitzø teases, but he is so gentle as he helps the unkempt feathers settle back where they belong, patiently carding through them to organize row after row of plumage. "Plus, this is different, right? It's... it's like... showing up or something. Being there."
Stolas coos. There is a responding rumble deep in Blitzø's chest that he wants to crawl inside of, as though he could make the imp's ribcage into a home. Perhaps he already has.
"Already proved I can take care of you and make you feel good," Blitzø practically growls. "Let me show you how to make you feel better."
Preening the rest of his feathers is not a quick or gentle process. It takes nearly two hours for Blitzø to check over every feather. There is an area near Stolas' lower back where he swears he has become conjoined to the couch cushion, where a promising smattering of pin feathers are starting to emerge amid the broken ones. They are ugly and uncomfortable, and Blitzø has questions about testing them for doneness - his words, which make Stolas feel like a piece of steak, but he has never been opposed to the sensation when it is for Blitzø's satisfaction. Stolas stammers through answers, still ashamed, still struggling not to roll over and hide his mistakes.
Eventually, though, Blitzø straightens up and holds a gentle hand to Stolas' leg, massaging his ankle.
"All done," he announces. "How you feeling now?"
Stolas experimentally rolls his shoulders, feeling how his bones can move without the uncomfortable ache of broken feathers pressing against one another. He feels lighter, more comfortable, happier than he has in some time, until he looks down.
He has never enjoyed the sight of his body. It is impossible to after a lifetime of hearing each of his imperfections torn apart and examined, turned into snide comments passed between his wife and her friends. Seeing bare patches of his skin feels as unnatural as being muscle or bone would have been for other demons, and his eyes well up with tears as he takes inventory.
His chest plumage is relatively untouched, likely thanks to Blitzø's hands always finding a reason to work their way through the dense feathers there. His stomach and ribs, on the other hand, sport several bald patches nearly as wide as his hand, and his feathers are so thin around his thighs that he cannot help but study the faint scars left there by Striker's knife.
He cannot find any words to answer as he begins to cry.
Something soft caresses his head. Blitzø is wrangling a sweater around him – not one of the ones they have stolen, but a soft hoodie that is so short that it stops halfway down Stolas' midriff. Then comes a pair of sweatpants, these ones not quite long enough to cover Stolas' legs but enough to make a valiant effort. The hoodie smells of Blitzø, smoky and familiar, and Stolas takes several desperate, gasping breaths to fill his nose and mouth with the scent so he does not drown.
"Pretty bird," Blitzø hums. He pulls Stolas onto the couch, moving his limbs like he weighs nothing and wrapping the blanket around them both. It leaves Stolas tucked up against the imp's chest, and he cannot help but latch on, hugging him tightly. "My pretty, pretty bird... Nice and comfy now, yeah? Pretty, pretty birdie..."
He knows that he is anything but pretty, yet Blitzø's words fill his mind like a hymn. Stolas longs to be mindless, obedient, complacent – filled only with Blitzø's nonsense words hummed directly into his ear as he brushes away Stolas' tears. It is a difficult sensation, wanting to return to the days when he could simply be Blitzø's toy while also wishing he had never proposed any sort of deal or arrangement, but right now, he is selfish and he cannot think beyond his own heaving sobs.
"Birdie," Blitzø whispers directly in his ear, and Stolas bites down hard on his tongue to try and quiet down. "Take a deep breath."
He obeys. Stolas inhales through his mouth, lungs catching on the cool air. The inhale is a sharp staccato of dying sobs, but he manages before slowly exhaling. Already, his head feels fuzzy - not disoriented, but comfortable.
"You're gonna tell me you're my pretty bird," Blitzø continues.
He cannot. The only means he has to thank Blitzø for all of his care is through his body, yet Stolas knows he has thrown that away. His remaining feathers feel greasy against his skin. He needs a bath, but the idea of it – of standing, of walking across the apartment, of turning on the faucet and stripping himself and going through the dozens of steps of bathing – feels so overwhelming that all he can do is mutely shake his head as he continues to bite down on his tongue.
"S'okay if you don't think you're pretty yet," the imp murmurs, lips so close that they graze his cheek. "I think you're the prettiest demon in Hell, Stols. Tell me you're my pretty bird, 'cause that's all that matters right now."
His treacherous cloaca throbs. Stolas looks up and meets those scarlet and marigold eyes, head reeling at the look Blitzø gives him (him!), and he is drowning, drowning –
"I'm... your pretty bird."
He is rewarded with a kiss pressed gently against his knuckles. It is chaste and genuine, the sort of kiss Stolas has feverishly written about in his journal as he has attempted to craft stories of his fantasies.
"Tell me how much I should be doing this," Blitzø continues. "The feathers – is that a daily thing? Weekly?"
Stolas toys with the hem of the borrowed hoodie, caressing the soft fabric as though it were his feathers. So much of what he knows about preening, he learned on his own. His father was never around – and his presence would have been irrelevant as a shapeshifter, who only occasionally took the form of a bird – and the servants around the palace knew enough to get by but lacked the personal familiarity of life with feathers. It was only when he had been expected to spend time with Stella and her family that he had learned of preening at all, and he had pored over books explaining his own body to him, once believing that if he could behave correctly, Stella would no longer taunt him.
"Daily," he finally admits. "I – I'm sorry that I let it get this –"
Blitzø cuts him off by squeezing him closer. It is clear that his hands are avoiding the most sensitive bald patches beneath the fabric, and Stolas can melt fully into the gesture.
"Fresh start," Blitzø reassures him. "Give it a week, and every bird in Hell is gonna be jealous of your sexy-ass feathers."
He titters, knowing it is not true. They'll take longer than that to grow back, and it will take even longer before they have their old softness and shine. His preening oils are somewhere back at the palace, and he knows of no cheap alternatives except the preening gland that seems so barbaric to use. But Blitzø is shoving his snout into his chest, letting out a ragged purr and rubbing his cheeks against Stolas as though trying to mark his territory. If anyone could handle the oddities of Goetic biology without blinking at their more uncouth options, it's Blitzø.
Stolas clears his throat. "Thank you. For not laughing at me."
"Wasn't gonna," comes the sleepy reply.
He lets his eyelids grow heavy as he watches the horizon outside the glass doors. The sky is beginning to warm with the impending dawn, and when Blitzø murmurs for him to sleep, Stolas knows that the imp will allow him to get as much rest as he needs. He sleepily watches as Blitzø pulls out his phone, typing something and opening a page that has pictures of birds and feathers. They blur together like a hazy memory, and were it not for the comfort settling over his once-aching skin, Stolas would believe that the entire night had been part of some elaborate dream.
"M'your pretty bird," he slurs into Blitzø's chest, and he feels the imp's ribs rise and fall beneath him in a quiet laugh.
"Yeah," Blitzø answers. "You are."