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Blitzø’s stoop, once a place to go outside and have a smoke or scream into the void when he didn’t wanna do it where Loona could hear, is barely recognizable these days.
He can hardly take a step without tripping over a pot or getting a bunch of leaves in his face. Stolas doesn’t have much money—and boy has that taken him some getting used to—but what he does have, he spends right away at flea markets and the bargain section at the local nursery. Blitzø never would’ve had a reason to step foot inside a nursery before Stolas, but Stolas has made him do a lot of things he never thought he’d do.
Now they can’t pass the place without going in. Stolas doesn’t ask—the guy’s been real shit about asking for anything lately—but he gets this round-eyed, softly longing look on his face that’s so pretty and so sad it makes Blitzø wanna break something. So Blitzø drags him in and doesn’t spend a goddamn second looking at the plants because he’s too busy watching Stolas transform.
Some of that dorky excitement comes back. He coos and babbles about direct sunlight and soil PH balance and other shit Blitzø doesn’t understand, doesn’t give a fuck about, because all he cares about is the fact that Stolas seems maybe a tiny, teeny, isy-bitsy little bit happy again.
Except the plant Stolas picks up this time is—well it’s—he pauses to look at the thing. He tilts his head. He reminds himself he cannot be an asshole (aka himself) right now; Stolas is delicate and he needs encouragement and unconditional support. There’s gotta be a nice way to say this.
“That thing’s fucking hideous.”
Stolas gasps, scandalized, and clasps the ugly, scraggly little plant to his chest as if he’s afraid it might have heard him. “It’s sick!” he sputters. “It’s not supposed to look like this. It needs help.”
“It’s a plant. What kind of—” Blitzø sees a gleam of resolution in Stolas’s eyes, and it’s the most alive he’s looked since the day he tried to be a goddamn martyr and throw his life away to save Blitzø. The snarky zinger that was halfway out his throat slams into a brick wall of what feels like guilt but might be something even more painful, like hope.
Blitzø swallows. “We better take it home, then. Nobody knows plants better than you, bird brain.”
He has his doubts as Stolas hands over the money and take his wilted, scraggly little plant. Could’ve used that money to buy himself some decent food, since Blitzø is still shit at cooking for a Goetia. But hey, it’s Stolas’s money, and if he wants to spend it on the world’s saddest houseplant, who is Blitzø to stop him?
On Thursday, Stolas calls Octavia, and she actually answers the phone. They talk for 3 minutes and 47 seconds. Blitzø absolutely does not time it. That would be weird.
He doesn’t know what they talk about because Stolas takes the call out on the balcony, and Blitzø is working on giving him space. But he can tell by the look Stolas’s face when he comes back inside that it did not go well.
“Sooo?” He tries. “What did she say?”
Stolas moves past him, soundless as a ghost, and drifts into the bathroom. The lock clicks. The shower turns on.
It’s not nearly loud enough to drown out the sound of his sobs.
Some days when Stolas cries, he won’t let Blitzø near him. Tonight is one of those rare, precious nights when Stolas lets him in. He sits on the couch with Stolas’s head in his lap, tracing his fingers over soft feathers. His hands are all wrong for this. They’re great for tugging on those feathers and making Stolas squawk, for squeezing a trigger and blowing some fucker’s brains out, for scratching and punching and breaking things.
He’s been breaking shit all his life. And fuck, he does not know how to put Stolas back together. But he’s trying. He tries to keep his hands soft. To just…stroke. No scratching. No pulling. Stolas has pain enough for now. He doesn’t need any more.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No,” Stolas whispers, and Blitzø wants to wring his own neck because he can’t get it right, he doesn’t know how to fucking fix this and— “just…please keep doing that.”
Oh.
Blitzø’s fingers pause for a moment, then they go back to their rhythm. His clumsy, claw-tipped hands, doing their best to be gentle. Turns out they’re doing a good enough job for Stolas.
“What are you doing?” Blitzø asks. Stolas is on his knees, the ugly little plant held in his hands by its scraggly root structure. “Want me to get a trash bag?”
“No!” Stolas sounds horrified, almost a shout. He takes a steadying breath, and regal calm settles over him. “It is not dead,” he says carefully, evenly. “I’m repotting it. It was in the wrong soil. That little pot wasn’t doing it any favors, either. I think perhaps this one will be better.”
Blitzø watches as Stolas carefully lays the plant into rich, dark earth, a bigger pot of red-orange. He releases it from the cradle of his cupped hands with such tenderness, then combs soil over it like he’s tucking it into bed. “There you go,” he whispers. “This ought to help.”
Blitzø kisses the top of Stolas’s head as he sets a plate of rat down in front of him. Nothing like that smell of feathers. Smells even better than gunpowder, better than blood. He wants to stay there and sniff his head all morning like a creep, but he makes himself pull back. “Here ya go. You take your meds?”
Stolas nods. “I did, yes. Thank you for the rat. You really…you don’t have to,” he says softly.
Blitzø snorts and whacks Stolas on the arm with his tail. “You need proper food to nourish that pretty bird ass. What am I gonna do, not take care of it? It’s a very nice ass.”
Stolas doesn’t laugh. Laughter’s hard to come by since that fight with Via. But the corner of his pretty beak does quirk up, and Blitzø will take that as a win.
Stolas waters the plant faithfully every morning and night. He spritzes its leaves with a little spray bottle. Turns it every two days so that different sides face the sun. He uses a thermometer to check soil temperature and sprinkles plant food on the soil and talks to it in a voice so soft, so gentle, that the words squeeze around Blitzo’s heart.
He says stupid things, mostly. “There you are. This ought to help.” “It’s alright; you can take your time. We’ll wait for you.” “Rest if you must, but don’t give up.” “There are things worth living for. You’ll see.”
It’s a plant. It’s a fucking plant. But the way Stolas talks to it makes Blitzø feel like he can’t breathe.
One day, after a bad night where neither of them had slept much because the despair had been bad, Stolas weeping into his hands until nearly dawn, they’re stumbling out the door, late, Blitzø still hopping into his boots.
He’s almost out the door when he remembers. “Wait!” he cries.
Stolas turns to look at him. “What is it? I’ve got the keys right here.”
“No, no, something else. Fuck, Satan’s tiny ‘roid balls, hang on.” He sprints back into the apartment and grabs the spray bottle. He hesitates at the sliding doors to the balcony. What if he fucks it up, somehow?
He looks back at Stolas. “Your ugly plant,” he says. He holds out the spray bottle.
Stolas’s eyes go wide, his beak opening slightly. Then slowly those eyes crinkle with a real smile, small and soft. “Of course,” he says. “I was in such a rush I’d nearly forgotten.”
He crosses the room and takes the bottle from Blitzø. Blitzø watches as he sprays the leaves, same as every morning, then turns back to the door. “Shall we?”
“Yeah, before Millie kicks my ass for being late again,” Blitzø says with a grin.
On the drive over, Stolas reaches over and turns the music down. “Thank you,” he says softy.
Blitzø weaves into another lane just in time to avoid getting sideswiped. “Hmm?”
“The plant. You remembered.”
“Huh? Oh, sure.” Blitzø grins. “You like that thing. Guess you’ve always had a soft spot for small and kinda weird-looking, huh?”
Stolas smiles and looks out the front window. “If I can get the thing healthy, you’ll see why I’m so determined. It’s not weird-looking at all.”
“Does it have a pain kink?” Blitzø asks Stolas as he leans against the balcony railing, watching Stolas take a pair of scissors to the awful-looking little plant.
“No,” Stolas says, and Blitzø thinks he detects a whisper of laughter in his voice. “I’m trimming off diseased leaves.”
“You know, that’s a good way to put it. Where were you when I was trying to let my clingy hookups down easy?”
Stolas’s smile fades. “Most likely at the palace trying to avoid my wife,” he murmurs.
Blitzø winces. Yikes. Tough crowd. “Ah, well. You uh…how do you know you’re not cutting off too much? Doesn’t a plant like…need leaves? For pornosynthesis or whatever?”
Stolas carefully trims away a leaf and sets it in the small trash can beside him. “You have to know that’s not what it’s called.”
Blitzo’s tail lashes mischievously. “Photopimpasus?”
“Not quite.” There’s a wobble to Stolas’s beak as he tries to suppress a laugh. Blitzø presses on.
“Sorry, I’ve got it this time. Photosimpathus?” Stolas shakes his head. He’s having a harder and harder time stifling his laughter. “Penislimpathus?” He moves to Stolas’s side, rests his elbows on the table and gives him a crooked grin. “Am I getting closer?”
Stolas snorts with laughter, undignified and ugly and perfect. “No! You know you aren’t!”
“Wait wait wait, one more time. It’s photosyphilus, isn’t it? No, sorry, that’s what that slutty Baphomet told me she had after I’d already—”
Stolas’s hooting laughter drowns him out. He shoves Blitzø, and he falls back on that clown training, makes a show of toppling to the ground with his limbs flailing in the air.
“Photosynthesis, you filthy-minded idiot!” Stolas chokes out between peals of laughter.
Blitzø hops to his feet and dusts himself off. He flops onto Stolas’s back, leans his whole weight on him so Stolas has to wriggle his shoulders and straighten his spine to avoid being toppled over. “That’s what I said! Photosynthesis! The plants have to flash their leaf tittes at the sun to make food.”
Stolas rolls his eyes. “Would you get off me? I’m trying to do very delicate work!”
Blitzø can hear in the tone of his voice that he’s never meant anything less. He curls his tail around Stolas’s itty bitty waist and snickers. “No. Suffer. Us poor people have to carry the world on our backs while we work. Get used to it, bitch.”
Stolas rolls his eyes. “Anyway,” he says, “these leaves were diseased. They leech energy from the plant, and the disease can spread, so you have to cut them off.”
“You’re amputating its leaf titties.”
Stolas brandished the scissors. “I’m going to amputate part of you if you don’t let me work!”
Blitzø crows with laughter. He knows he should be sad. He ought to be eaten up with guilt, and fuck, he is. Stolas lost everything. His life is shit now, and he did it all because of him.
But…but damn it, they’re laughing together again, Stolas is actually laughing, and it’s the happiest Blitzø has been in months.
When they go back inside, Stolas tunes the TV to the best show in the world, Pony Princess Friend Squad, but Blitzø takes the remote out of his hand and switches the channel to one of Stolas’s corny helenovelas. Stolas looks down at him in surprise. “But—I thought—”
Blitzø waves him off. “Eh, I’ve seen that episode five times already. Fluttersparkle forgives Shimmerhoof even though she’s a lying cunt and she shoulda kicked her off a building.” He crawls into Stolas’s lap, wiggles until he’s comfortable and has his tail wrapped around a skinny arm. “Tell me what’s going on with this one. Who’s the dude with the great abs?”
Blitzø can picture the exact look on Stolas’s face, the way his eyes light up and his feathers puff with excitement. He doesn’t even need to turn around to see it.
“That’s Fernando. He’s secretly out to steal his father’s company from his older brother, but their father—”
Blitzø sinks into the sound of his rambling, letting the words wash over him. They probably still have more bad days than good. Fuck if he’s gonna let a good one pass them by without holding on to every second.
They channel surf all evening. Blitzø isn’t sure when exactly they fell asleep, but he wakes up in the middle of the night to an infomercial blaring about some bullshit security system that Blitzø is positive he could break through in ten seconds. He reaches for the remote and realizes the beanbag feels a lot softer than normal.
Except—it’s not the bean bag pillowed under his head. It’s downy feathers, a warm body rising softly up and down. He looks up and watches the flickering light of the television light up Stolas’s sleeping face. They’d fallen asleep curled together. Blitzø starts to creep to his own beanbag because he’s a gentleman and he has boundaries and shit, but Stolas sighs in his sleep and throws one arm around him, keeping him there.
Blitzø hesitates. They haven’t…talked about this. Even when they were fucking on the regular and he’d fall asleep in Stolas’s fancy ass bed, they were on opposite sides. They never cuddled. Maybe Stolas will feel all shitty about it in the morning. But he looks so peaceful, and Blitzø can’t stand the thought of maybe waking him up, not when sleep’s been so hard to come by lately for his sad little bird.
So he pushes the button on the remote. The TV turns off and plunges the room into silent darkness. There’s nothing but the warmth of Stolas’s feathers, the steady rise and fall of his breathing rocking Blitzø back to sleep.
“How did you sleep?” Blitzø asks carefully, feeling like he’s tiptoeing across a high wire.
Stolas smiles at him over his coffee. A small smile. Still shadows in it, but it’s there. “Best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages,” he replies.
Blitzø’s hands shake as he sets his plate on the table. He plays it off with a laugh that sounds like his balls haven’t quite dropped yet. “About fuckin’ time,” he croaks.
Stolas merely hums in affirmation.
Two days later, Blitzø steps outside onto the balcony and gasps.
The hideous little lump of twigs and half-rotten leaves is gone. Instead, there’s a real, genuine plant there. It’s not big, sure, just a few deep green leaves unfurling from a twisting stem reaching up towards the sky. And at the top? One blossom, a deep, midnight blue with speckles of white.
Like stars in the night sky.
Stolas smiles down at the plant with quiet pride. He strokes the leaves tenderly, and Blitzø’s heart does that funny thing where it forgets how to beat as he takes in that beautiful, perfect profile.
“It’s beautiful, Stols,” Blitø whispers.
Stolas smiles. He tilts his head to examine the plant from another angle. Admiring. He gives the red-orange pot a reassuring pat. “I told you it would be.”
Blitzø moves closer. To get a better look at the plant, of course. Curling his tail around Stolas’s legs, leaning into the warmth of his side, is just a bonus. “Never shoulda doubted you for a second. You’re the plant whisperer.”
Stolas laughs, warm and real, and Blitzø doesn’t detect a hint of sadness in those soft hoots. His laughter makes his face light up. His eyes crinkle. He’s all warmth and radiant light. Blooming.
“It just needed time. Other things too, of course, but small ones. Good soil. Patience. Someone to care.”
Blitzø loops an arm around Stolas’s waist. They haven’t kissed yet, not since—since everything. He thinks that soon they will. “Is that all? Shit, you make it sound easy, but I can guarantee if I’d done it, that plant woulda been dead a week ago.”
Stolas looks down at him, just studies him for a moment. Blitzø can’t guess that’s going on in his head. The attention makes him squirm. He’s about to tell a stupid joke to crack the tension when Stolas says, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”