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Fizz’s decision to “never go outside again” lasted all of three days. It only took a text from Blitzo (“shud we meetup n talk?”) to lure him from the sanctuary of Ozzie’s tower, although their rendezvous point wasn’t far—the cheap motor inn they settled on was chosen for convenience and anonymity, or so they both claimed. Fizz wouldn’t admit to himself why, but he’d fussed over what to wear for a full hour beforehand, and suffered knots in his stomach for the entirety of the drive there.
Blitzo had texted him the room number, and so, flanked by four roided-out succubus bodyguards and fashionably late, Fizz rapped on the door. There was a crash and a muffled curse inside. A moment later the door swung open, revealing Blitzo and his smarmy face, which Fizz didn’t quite know how to react to—they’d left off on a cautiously positive note last time, but still, it wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns between them. Fizz definitely wasn’t ready for a friendly half-hug or even a smile.
“Hey,” he said, somewhat stiffly.
“Well well well, look who decided to show up,” drawled Blitzo. Then, taking note of the guards looming over Fizz, he pushed back one side of his jacket to flash the giant gold pistol on his hip. “Don’t worry boys, I can take it from here.”
Fizz barely managed to give the guards an apologetic shrug before Blitzo slammed the door shut behind them.
The motel room was just as seedy as Fizz expected, most of it cast in shadow since the only window faced a brick wall. The decor wasn’t exactly curated, either, consisting of a thin-looking bed, a couple of bizarrely generic framed photos, and a television set so old it had to be a collector’s item.
Fizz wracked his brain for something to remark upon. “Man, it’s been forever since I’ve seen a shitty motel!”
“Glad the princess is having fun slumming it with the poors.” Blitzo waved him in magnanimously, grabbing a beer from an open six-pack on the floor. Clearly, he’d gotten started with Fizz, as there were two empty ones sitting on the nightstand.
“Is that shitty beer, too? I haven’t had a shitty beer in forever,” Fizz said.
“Fine, you can have one. But you owe me a dollar.”
“Woof, steep price for watery piss.”
There wasn’t anywhere to sit but the bed, so they plopped down and tried to ignore the awkward silence that filled the space between them; Fizz picked the beer label into little pieces, not really drinking it, casting side-eyed glances in Blizo’s general direction. Blitzo, meanwhile, seemed determined to swallow his bottle in one gulp.
Fizz had spent a long time—15 years, to be exact—wondering why he used to be so obsessed with this asshole right here. Because they’d grown up together, obviously, but why hadn’t he let Blitzo’s various and sundry toxic traits push him away? Why hadn’t he tried to make other close friends as a teen? There was no answer to the mystery, but now Fizz was experiencing it all over again.
“This is pretty weird, huh,” said Fizz at length.
“Yeah it is fucking surreal.” The abrasive way Blitzo popped his fucks like chewing gum was still the same, same as it was when he’d started dropping f bombs at the tender age of 9. “Can’t believe my celebrity stalking efforts have finally paid off!”
“Oh, shut up.”
“The one and only Fizzarolli in the flesh! Ya know, you look shorter in person.”
“And you look uglier in person.” This wasn't true; Blitzo looked better than Fizz remembered from three days ago. He hadn’t really been in the right headspace to fully appreciate it, duct-taped and dodging bullets. Now, he found the sight of Blitzo—the handsome horns, the sharp mouth, the angle of his brow—dredging the foundation of his memories.
“If I’m so ugly, why d’you keep staring at me?” Blitzo said, leaning in with a grin.
Fizz quickly snapped out of his reverie. “Just re-confirming your existence. Until I saw you at Ozzie’s, I thought you might have dropped off the edge of the ring."
"Liar. I bet you've seen my ads, you knew I was out there, doing my thing.”
"Must’ve missed em. I have seen the long line of sexually frustrated unfortunates waiting to get into my club every night though, so I guess I could have assumed."
"Assumed that I still get a ton of ass?"
"No."
Blitzo’s smugness increased past what surely must be the legal threshold. “But you were thinking about me.”
"No.” Fizz glared, apparently reduced to monosyllabic answers.
“Y’know, you still blush easy.”
“No I don’t. Get your eyes checked, asshat.”
“Yeah you do, I can see those lil red cheeks,” teased Blitzo.
“Whatever. I’m a sensitive artist, okay,” Fizz said, tossing back his hat-tails snootily and making Blitzo huff out a laugh. But he really was blushing hard already, secretly hating how immediately he’d fallen back into this dynamic; thrilling in Blitzo's attention but ending up wrong-footed, defensive.
“Speaking of sensitive,” said Blitzo, gesturing vaguely in his direction. “How’s your…damage or whatever?”
Fizz automatically touched his arm, caught off guard by the question. Even though Blitzo’s concern for his safety during their ordeal had been clear, it was still strange to hear him actually ask. “Uh, fine. I’m fine now.”
“Hmm. Big blue boyfriend got you all patched up, huh?”
Fizz shrugged and felt his face grow even hotter. Maybe he was imagining it, but there was a weird flatness to Blitzo’s tone, there, something that could be interpreted as jealousy—but no. He let the thought drop like it might burn him.
The thread of conversation slipped away. Blitzo’s smile faded, his eyes scanning Fizz’s face, and Fizz couldn’t break their staring contest either. If he glanced away, even for a moment, Blitzo might dissolve into thin air like he always did in Fizz’s most miserable dreams, the ones where he woke up choking on a sob and drenched in cold sweat.
The truth was that he’d obsessed over this moment for years. What he’d do if Blitzo ever wandered back into his orbit and displayed a hint of weakness, how he’d hit him right where it hurt, say something perfectly calibrated to disassemble that cowardly piece of shit just as completely as that fire disassembled Fizz 15 years ago. But it was now clear, even from their brief interaction in the warehouse, that Blitzo didn’t need disassembling, that he was already a guilty, unstable mess. All of Fizz’s spiteful fantasies seemed grotesque, now, and so he was only left with the other part of them—the sad, horny part.
“C’mere a sec,” Blitzo said.
“C’mere a sec,” Blitzo had said, when they were 13, watching movies alone in his room. It was some trashy flick that only played late at night, and Fizz couldn’t have explained the plot if his life depended upon it, especially since he’d been half-reading one of Blitzo’s creased comic books the whole time. But now the main couple was kissing the deep, overheated kiss of 80s erotic thrillers, which caused both boys to freeze, barely breathing, watching with rapt attention. The scene quickly progressed past PG-13 territory.
“Huh?”
Blitzo was staring at him with a weirdly intense expression.
“We should practice kissing,”
Fizz boggled at him. “What! Why?”
“So we know how to do it when we get girlfriends or boyfriends, idiot! Obviously!”
This caused the spark of excitement in Fizz’s stomach to dwindle a bit. Honestly, he didn’t know why he was surprised or disappointed by this dumb ass proposition; for the past year, Blitzo had been fixated on the idea of “getting a girlfriend/boyfriend” as if it was some kind of secret side quest in his favorite video game, and was eager to collect the necessary resources: pocket money, pick-up lines, new clothes. Since he couldn’t afford to buy cologne yet, he’d started wearing a pine tree shaped air freshener in his back pocket. Fizz, meanwhile, chose to focus on his training and performances, often claiming to have zero interest in girls (which was true) or in guys (which was not).
Still, even now—at the most awkward, insecure period of Fizz’s young life—he had some shallow awareness of Blitzo’s attraction to him. Or awareness of Blitzo’s awareness, at the very least. Blitzo always seemed to notice his appearance, these days, making teasing remarks about his clothes or his face. Fizz’s slightly larger, mismatched horns was an obvious point of insecurity, but there were also more general things—like the delicate shape of his hands, or his eyes, his teeth—that seemed to provoke commentary. The discomfort it triggered in Fizz had an almost pleasurable undercurrent to it, too, a sort of warm shivery feeling in his stomach he got whenever Blitzo looked at him, like he was doing now.
“Maybe I don’t wanna kiss you,” said Fizz, pretending to turn his attention back to the comic book. He’d been re-reading the same page for the past 2 minutes. “You smell like a used car park.”
“You’re blushing!” Blitzo crowed, getting all up in Fizz’s space. “You totally want to!”
“Piss off, jerk,” Fizz shoved at his shoulder. “Why do you even wanna kiss me? You don’t even think I’m cute.”
“When did I say that?”
“You always say that. You always say my face looks chubby, or call me rabbit teeth.”
“Well, your face is chubby. And you do have funny rabbit teeth, c’mon.”
“I’ll bite your face off with my funny rabbit teeth.”
Apparently, that was some kind of activation phrase for Monty Python and the Holy Grail line readings.
“That rabbit's got a vicious streak a mile wide!" Blitzo shouted, horrible accent and all.
Fizz grinned back, “I warned you, but did you listen to me, ohhh no–”
Jumping on him with a screech, he pretended to bite Blitzo’s neck, and Blitzo leaned into it quite a bit more than their usual roughhousing, tugging Fizz closer even as he howled for mercy.
“Would you idiots shut the fuck up!” came Barbie’s voice from the next room over. The two of them buried their faces in their hands, shaking with silent laughter. Then, a few minutes later:
“I didn’t mean that stuff in a bad way,” said Blitzo quietly.
“Yeah you did.”
“No I didn’t. I like the way you look, alright?”
Fizz raised his eyes to meet Blitzo’s, noting that his friend was a little flushed now, too, his brows sheepishly knit. “Really?”
“Yeah. You’re pretty.”
Blitzo must have been psychic or something, following the path of Fizz’s memories, because once Fizz complied, scooting closer, the next thing out of his mouth was:
“Damn. Still so fuckin pretty.”
“I should go,” Fizz blurted.
Blitzo gave a little jolt, as if he’d been hypnotized before. “Wait, what? Why?”
Fizz was standing now, edging back from the bed. “I dunno–”
“I take it back, alright?”
“No, I mean—I just—“
Fizz’s heart was hammering. He'd felt this same shocking rush of adrenaline that night at Ozzie’s the moment he’d spotted Blitzo in the audience, but he’d been able to mask it, professional that he was. Now he felt like an exposed nerve in the shape of a person.
“Woah, woah, hey…” Blitzo approached him, hands raised placatingly as if Fizz were some kind of skittish stray cat. “Fizz, It’s ok.”
“This feels weird.”
“We’re just talking—”
“Look, just, the longer I stay here, the more likely it is we’ll hook up—”
Blitzo’s startled eyes met his.
And then they were kissing. It was simply a thing that was suddenly happening, rather than a conscious decision on either of their parts.
Fizz’s mind whited out while the two of them proceeded to suck face in a way that was not fit for human eyes or even description. Their fangs clacked together. Blitzo’s tongue was in his mouth. His hands (always so much bigger than Fizz’s, he remembers lining up their palms) came down to grab his ass roughly. They fell onto the creaky bed, Blitzo dragging Fizz on top so he could—
He shoved Blitzo away, rearing back. “Oh wow, stop, stopstopstop–”
Blitzo blinked at him, dazed and disheveled, shirt pulled askew by Fizz’s grasping hands. “Huh?”
“We can’t, Blitzo, jesus christ–”
“Sorry, sorry, just—why though?” Blitzo said, apparently having collected himself enough to shoot Fizz an especially skeptical look. “Don’t tell me you and the Prince of Lust are actually exclusive?”
A self-conscious prickle of heat crawled up the back of Fizz’s neck. Shit. This was not a conversation he wanted to have with Blitzo tonight—or ever, for that matter. Not that it was any of Blitzo’s goddamn business, but things weren't as simple as exclusive or not-exclusive with Ozzie. Fizz had issues; Ozzie had obligations.
“No. I mean, not really.”
“Oh, wait, let me guess. He can do whatever he wants, but you can’t?”
“Actually no, jackass, it’s absolutely not that,” said Fizz hotly, shoulders inching towards his ears. “I can hook up with whoever I want.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, what about you? Aren’t you dating that leggy twink?”
“Oh my god, not this again. I told you, I’m literally just a novelty fuck toy to that guy!””
“You’re literally just a novelty fuck toy?” Fizz barked out an incredulous laugh. “Look who you’re talking to!”
Blitzo froze, mouth open, one hand raised mid-gesticulation, and the slow-motion shift from anger to concern was too much for Fizz to bear watching.
“Stop doing that thing with your face,” he said.
“That thing where I’m reacting to disturbing information?” said Blitzo.
“There is no disturbing information.”
“Ok… because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you’re actually not on board with being turned into a creepy sex doll, and Mr. Kaiju Cock has you reserved for his exclusive use–”
“It’s not fucking like that!” Fizz snapped, fury flashing through him, vicious enough for Blitzo to jerk back in alarm. But the anger faded just as quickly; Blitzo didn’t know, of course he didn’t. Gritting his teeth, Fizz gave a harsh exhale and dropped his head to glare down at the threadbare bedspread.
“It’s me,” he said finally. “I just…can’t trust anyone with my body. Except him.”
This was a raw truth, one that Fizz normally avoided contemplating, let alone laying bare for the judgment of others. Not exactly a sentiment befitting someone who was supposed to be sex symbol. Surely Blitzo was about to scoff and proclaim this the lamest, corniest thing he’d ever heard.
But Blitzo didn’t. He was stunned silent for a long moment, clearly processing—and then, with an anguished, over-dramatic groan, he flopped back onto the bed.
Fizz prickled. “You got a problem with that?”
“Noo no no,” said Blitzo dully. “Just resuming my existence as a piece of shit. It’s kind of a lifestyle thing for me.”
Of course, what Blitzo had heard was 'I just can’t trust anyone with my body, because of you.' Fizz hadn’t meant to imply that his body image issues were directly related to the accident, but Blitzo was strangely perceptive when it happened to support his own self-loathing impulses. Fizz sighed. How comforting that some things never change.
“You’re not a piece of shit,” he said. “You just have piece of shit inclinations. And tendencies.”
Blitzo gave a little snort at that, but the moment passed without response; Fizz risked a glance and could see Blitzo wincing his eyes shut.
“I don’t wanna fuck you up even more,” said Blitzo.
“Well, good news, I don’t think that’s even possible at this point.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s not your fault.” Trying to lighten the mood, Fizz rolled over onto his side and kicked one leg out theatrically. “I know I’m irresistible.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, clown,” Blitzo deadpanned. “You’re embedded in my brain. It’s a byproduct of my tragic childhood.”
“That you’re clownsexual?”
Blitzo offered a noncommittal grunt but didn’t deny it, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Good luck on your treatment plan for that,” said Fizz, peeking into Blitzo’s field of vision. Despite his panic moments earlier, they were still very much lying next to each other on that bed. “You trying exposure therapy or something?”
“Yeeeah, I’m starting to think it’s not working.” Blitzo’s heavy-lidded gaze slid over to Fizz again. He was smiling now, a wry, lopsided thing, and god, Fizz had missed him. He’d missed his stupid rants, he’d missed his dumb shouty voice and his protectiveness, his glimpses of sensitivity, his lame jokes and his eyes and his hands...
Speaking of his hands. After a moment of hesitation, Blitzo lifted one to hover a hair’s breadth from Fizz’s cheek.
It was at this point that Fizz realized he was profoundly fucked. He should have moved away while he had the chance. But he’d always been weak to Blitzo’s overtures for affection, especially the shy ones, which wrenched at his heart like nothing else. It would often start like this when they were teenagers, drunk off stolen booze and lying side by side on Blitzo’s bed—Fizz marinating in tension and hormones, waiting for Blitzo to make the first move, nuzzling against him gratefully when he did.
Blitzo’s eyebrows twitched together as he searched Fizz’s expression for signs of discomfort. Slowly, his fingers began their familiar route, thumbing the dot at the corner of Fizz’s mouth, trailing lower, sneaking under the ruff around his neck. Fizz shivered.
“Still sensitive here?” murmured Blitzo.
“Asshole. You’re making this really hard.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Ahh, there’s that lowest common denominator sense of humor.”
“This sense of humor got you into bed with me, didn’t it?”
Fizz snickered, helpless, pushing his flushed face against Blitzo’s shoulder, and Blitzo just grinned back, looking like he’d just won the grand prize at the fair. He smelled like shitty cologne still, barely an upgrade from the garbage he used to douse himself in when they were teens, but underlied with this metallic gunpowder scent that made Fizz squirm. Blitzo’s hand was trailing absent-mindedly down Fizz’s back now, slow, waiting for Fizz to move, to push him away, but no protest came. There was only that heat, that magnetic pull. That feeling of ripeness that saturated Fizz’s entire body, as if he were a piece of fruit about to drop off the tree.
“You still sensitive here, too?” Blitzo said, stroking along the ticklish base of Fizz’s tail.
“Blitzo…”
“Yeah?”
Fizz turned his head to say something stupid and half-assed, probably, but Blitzo moved forward at the same time, and their lips met again. Surrendering to it instantly, Fizz whimpered, letting his mouth fall open to let Blitzo in deep. In terms of execution, it was not the best kiss ever—in fact, it was sloppy and desperate and borderline embarrassing—but everything felt so emotionally heightened and hazy that Fizz didn’t notice. It felt like he was possessed . He couldn’t stop, crashing headlong into the nostalgic patterns he’d tried so hard to bury, the way their mouths fit together like missing puzzle pieces, the spine-numbing heat of Blitzo’s tongue stroking his.
Blitzo pulled back to impatiently tear at Fizz’s ruff.
“Hate this thing,” he muttered to himself, before diving for Fizz’s neck. The hot, wet clamp of his teeth made Fizz dizzyingly hard in record time, like a switch had flipped inside him. It certainly didn’t help the situation when Blitzo slid a thigh between his legs, a clever hand fondling the base of his tail. Feeling increasingly insane with every passing moment without skin-to-skin contact, Fizz attempted to remove Blitzo’s jacket without dislodging his mouth and was unsuccessful.
“Do you still want me to stop—“ Blitzo gasped out.
“No,” Fizz said, “No, don’t stop—“
Emboldened, Blitzo flipped him over, grinding down so that Fizz could feel the hard shape of him, and it sent pleasure spiraling down to his core, turning his blood molten. Why the hell were Blitzo’s stupid frat-boy moves getting him hot? After sleeping with the perfect man, the embodiment of Lust, for years ?
“Yeah? You want me to fuck you in this dirty, nasty motel, huh?” Blitz was saying.
“You sleazy mother fucker .”
Blitzo seemed to be falling into some memorized routine, the words coming too quick and easy, smooth, effortless, alarming Fizz just as much as they turned him on: “You love it. You wanna get dicked down like a little whore, huh Fizzy?”
“No,” Fizz said, wrenching Blitzo back by the horns. Blitzo gave him a wide eyed, guilty look. “I want you to touch me like you used to.”
“What, like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing?”
Fizz scowled at him. “No, idiot. Like you know me. I’m not here for some anonymous hookup.”
“I dunno know what you like anymore—whatever crazy fuckin stuff you get up to with Mr. Giga Chad up there in your castle–”
“I don’t need anything fancy.”
“Pfft, sure . You were always fancy.”
“Aren’t you fancy,” Blitzo spat at him, the summer they both turned 15. “Well, don’t forget about us little people back home.”
Fizz had received a year-long scholarship to attend a special Performing Arts highschool in Envy-–fitting, because when Blitzo found out, he was too jealous to even say congratulations.
It was the first time the two of them had ever been separated, but despite this, Blitzo barely kept in touch during that long 12 month period. The lack of letters or emails wasn’t too surprising-–Blitzo struggled with writing, and was pretty self-conscious about it. But he dodged Fizz’s calls, too, suspiciously busy regardless of the time of day, and when he did deign to answer the damn phone, he seemed moody, distant, always ready with a million excuses. By the time the year was almost over, Fizz was fed up with his attitude, and fully planned to punish Blitzo with the silent treatment when he got home. Maybe he wouldn’t even come home, he thought bitterly to himself as he curled up in his dormitory bed at night, his pillowcase growing soggy with tears. Maybe he’d find a job in Envy and stay there forever, and then Blitzo would be sorry, sorry, sorry.
But Fizz did return home, of course. His arrival was met with some fanfare and excitement, the other teen performers mobbing him immediately, wide-eyed, breathless with questions. And Blitzo was nowhere to be found.
As always, Fizz plastered on a smile and tamped down on his disappointment. Even after unpacking, he pretended not to look for him, but everyone offered suggestions anyway. Have you said hi to Blitzo yet? He’s probably behind the west tent, or the storage room, maybe check there! It was as if Fizz without Blitzo was visually incomplete, like a salt shaker without its pepper mill twin, and people naturally wanted to place them together.
So Fizz obeyed, wandering around the fairgrounds in the fading evening light. It was almost summer now, the air hanging drowsy and humid, a few fireflies blinking into existence here and there. Eventually, his route took him to the wide grassy area behind the storage sheds where the knife throwers would always practice. No one appeared to be there now—the only thing he found was a stack of signs propped up against the wall, probably waiting to be recycled or disposed of, the paint flaking with age.
The corner of one sign bore an embellishment that caught his eye. Frowning, Fizz dragged it out from the stack with some difficulty, as it was made of thick wood and almost as tall as he was. His own smiling face greeted him in miniature. It was a sign advertising the act he’d perfected when he was 8, depicting him in a frilly clown costume, dangling from a trapeze swing by his tail. He remembered crying, begging for Blitzo to be on the poster with him, but Blitzo’s father had been adamant. Fizz was supposed to be the star. Blitzo was relegated to a smaller role after he’d fumbled the routine too many times.
By now, the sign was so sun-faded that Fizz’s skin almost looked white. He stared at it for a long moment.
Just when he was about to give up and turn back, he spotted a familiar sloping shadow in the narrow alley between the sheds. Fizz braced himself, straightened his shoulders, let out a lungful of air.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” said Blitzo.
Blitzo was sitting there on a stack of wooden pallets, smoking a cigarette, wearing a beat-up leather jacket and an air of carefully curated nonchalance.The purplish remains of a bruise decorated his left eye, and a pair of boots Fizz didn’t recognize poked out from under the dirty, ragged hem of his trousers.
A more world-weary Fizz would’ve immediately clocked this whole look as an affectation, but at the moment, his hormones held the reins on any higher brain function. At the sight of Blitzo, he was hit by a wave of attraction so strong he was stunned silent for a moment. He didn’t even have time to consciously consider it; he threw himself at his friend, who was forced to accept the hug out of pure surprise.
“Woah, buddy.”
“What,” muttered Fizz, voice somewhat muffled against Blitzo’s shoulder, “you too cool for hugs now?”
“Hmm, I’ll make an exception.” He pulled back to give Fizz a long, appraising look. “Damn, string bean, you grew.”
They’d both grown a lot over that past year, and though Fizz had shot up, Blitzo was now taller. Fizz stared at him a moment longer, eyes huge, before he burst out with: “Wanna see a trick I learned?!”
Blizo opened his mouth to probably say no, but Fizz didn’t give him time to protest—stepping back, he pulled a top hat out of thin air. From this, he produced a bewildered looking pair of doves. He set the hat on the ground and placed one leg inside, then the other, disappearing into its spatially improbable depths until only his grinning face was visible peeking out from the rim. Then he leapt back out like a party popper, confetti and all.
“How the fuck did you do that?” Blitzo demanded. He was squinting at Fizz, an errant piece of confetti having affixed itself to his eyeball, and seemed torn between annoyed and impressed—leaning towards the former.
“A professional never shares his secrets!”
“Okay Houdini. If your head gets any fuckin bigger it won’t fit in that hat.”
“Oh! I learned to sing, too!” Fizz chirped, on a roll now.
A look of panic crossed Blitzo’s face. “Feel free to not demonstrate.”
“We go together, like ramalama ramalama dingakadinga a dong, our names are sii-iigned–”
“Augh! Jesus, my ear holes.”
“By the way, why are you dressed like an extra from Grease?”
“Not all of us wanna dress like fuckin clowns all the time.”
“That’s literally what we are,” Fizz pointed out.
“Speak for yourself.”
“Uh huh. Are you moonlighting as a boxer, then? That’s one hell of a bruise.”
“Heh, that’s an idea, but no,” said Blitzo with a dismissive huff. “Just got into a little scrap over some tips.”
“Blitzooo, you’re not stealing again? You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
“I’m saving up.”
“For what?”
“For getting outta here, that’s what.”
“You’re 16, what are you gonna do out there on your own? Work at fuckin McGreedy’s?”
“No,” Blitzo grumbled. “I got other skills, now. One of the guys is teaching me how to shoot. I’m good at it. Bettern’ fuckin trapeze, that’s for sure.”
“Okaaay, cuz it looks like you got in a fight with a doorknob and lost.”
Blitzo gave Fizz a haughty smirk and stood, stretching his arms over his head—Fizz could see his shirt pull tight across his chest. The uniform was getting too small for him. “Trust the process, sweet cheeks.”
Fizz blushed despite himself. “So now you wanna, what? Join Lucifer’s Legion? Become a vigilante?”
There was a slightly sheepish pause. “I could be a bodyguard.”
Fizz’s response to that was a spectacular eye-roll; Blitzo had some kind of hero fantasy going on for a while now, and apparently “bodyguard” was the latest incarnation of it. There were few things more ridiculous than the idea of Blitzo scampering around with a loaded weapon—Blitzo, who had once managed to break his arm while practicing karate in the shower, who used his own face as a landing pad more often than Fizz cared to contemplate.
Blitzo scowled. “Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?”
When Fizz only cocked his hip and glared back, Blitzo threw up his hands. “Are you a clown or the world’s gayest mime?”
“We’re Imps!” Fizz said. “Who the hell is gonna hire an Imp bodyguard?”
“Not everyone is as narrow-minded as you.” Blitzo shot back. He turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I’m not narrow-minded, I’m concerned.”
“I don’t need you to be on board. It’s not like you needed my blessing to leave, right? You can be the perfect little circus star, and I’ll go do my own thing.”
That stung. “You don’t even know what that thing is yet!”
“Oh, I forgot, you’re the only one who’s allowed to be good at stuff. How stupid of me.”
Fizz could feel it coming. Panic liked to sneak up on him, seizing his heart in its cold, merciless grip, and it only took a second for his vision to go all wobbly as tears sprung to his eyes shockingly fast.
“I just got back and you’re already talking about leaving…?” said Fizz thickly. “You’re such an asshole, Blitzo.”
“Fuck’s sake, Fizz...”
If anything could jolt Blitzo out of his self-indulgent spirals, it was Fizz’s tears. The cool-guy persona dropped away in a second, replaced with cringing regret, and a hot rush of something unnamable suffused the space between them—shame, but also satisfaction, maybe, to have succeeded in upsetting the other so much. For a long, breathless moment, they just stared at each other.
Sort of like how they were staring at each other now.
Fizz had just pulled his shirt off, and this was the moment he’d really been dreading; Blitzo’s wide eyes raking over his body, taking in what was nearly the full extent of the damage. It felt like Fizz’s skin was vibrating under the scrutiny. He didn’t even dare breathe. Then, just when Blitzo’s hesitation seemed to drag on to the point of being explicitly offensive, he reached out to touch.
Blitzo began to explore him carefully, rough hands reacquainting themselves with the planes of Fizz’s body as Fizz watched, wary and tense. Kisses followed, Blitzo’s lips dragging over his chest, soft, open-mouthed, pressed to the red parts, the white parts, the tight peaks of his nipples, making Fizz squirm. This was a new development. They’d never bothered with much foreplay when they were younger, too impatient to get to the main event, but Blitzo seemed intent on his task, caressing Fizz’s scars like an unspoken apology. It made his lungs feel tight, claustrophobic. He pushed at Blitzo’s shoulders.
“You’re not gonna kiss it better,” he muttered.
Blitzo’s eyes bore into him. There was some deep shit swirling around in there—pity, regret, shades of feelings that Fizz didn’t even have the words for. “Fuck. Sorry. Does it still…”
“It doesn’t hurt. It just—I don’t want this to feel like an apology fuck.”
“Man, you’re complicated, huh? Don’t want a sleazy fuck, don’t want an apology fuck...”
“It’s not rocket science, dick-for-brains.” Trying to shake off the awkwardness, Fizz went for Blitzo’s belt, jostling his pistol non-metaphorically.
“Eaaasy there Mr. Fizzarolli, I’d better keep my piece on me,” said Blitzo, putting on some kind of jokey hero voice. “I promised I’d keep you safe.”
It was so stupid that Fizz felt himself relax instantly. “Are we roleplaying now?” he snorted.
“You ever seen The Bodyguard? ”
“Yes, and I don’t think you wanna hear me sing Whitney Houston.”
Giving Fizz his most rakish grin, Blitzo grabbed him by the waist and dipped him back onto the bed. “Only thing I wanna hear you sing is my name.”
“Oh, gross.” Fizz couldn’t suppress a laugh at that, turning his pinkening face into the pillow.
Blitzo paused.
“You have a tattoo?” He was peering thoughtfully at the tiny heart that decorated the back of Fizz’s neck. Instantly self-conscious, Fizz lifted a hand to rub at it.
“Uhh…yeah, I guess.”
“Never seemed like the type. Did he give that to you?”
“Did he give that to you?” Blitzo asked.
They were 17, now.
Fizz paused from where he was appraising his own reflection in the mirror and glanced down at his wrist, where a silver chain bracelet glinted in the light. The circus’s resident fire-eater had gifted it to him after a few months of shy conversation and mutual staring. Nothing was going to happen between them, of course, but Fizz had accepted the gift anyway, enjoying the cold weight of it against his skin. He’d wondered how long it would take for Blitzo to notice.
“It’s nice, right?”
“He only did that cuz he wants to fuck you.” Blitzo said, his petulant glare reflected behind Fizz in the mirror; he was sitting in Fizz’s room on a pile of old throw pillows, pretending not to watch him, with Fizz pretending not to watch him watching.
“So what?” Fizz shot back. He bent over with the pretense of adjusting his rolled-up jeans, gratified when he noticed his friend’s gaze drift down to his ass. “Maybe he will.”
“Not if he wants to keep his dick attached to his body.”
“What do you care? It’s not like we’re dating.”
Blitzo’s shoulders stiffened. “He’s too old for you. Can’t I be concerned for my best friend’s well being?”
“Oh, Blitzo, my hero! Protector of my virtue!” Fizz spun around and flung himself into the pillow pile beside him, one arm dramatically draped over his face. “Whatever would I do without you!”
“Well, someone’s gotta be the adult around here,” Blitzo said, now poking around on his shitty flip phone.
He was probably texting Ricki, the circus’s resident cool girl and Blitzo’s new sort-of-girlfriend as of two weeks ago. She was more experienced and, from what Fizz had seen, their relationship consisted of trading barbs and swapping spit in public places. Fizz was making an honest effort to be chill about it, he really was.
“Maybe I’m tired of having no experience. I mean, you’ve got what’s-her-face to mess around with.”
“Yeahhh. Dude, did I tell you about the other day, when she took off her panties and then used them to give me a–”
“Yes,” snapped Fizz, who by now had been subjected to descriptions of every one of Blitzo’s encounters in chilling detail. “You told me. So many times.”
“Someone’s cranky.”
“I’m just frustrated, ok? I’m like, ready or whatever.”
“Well…” Blitzo trailed off thoughtfully, eyebrows raised, as if he himself didn’t know where he was going with this. Honestly, he probably didn't. Fizz was accustomed to the fact that there was zero filter between Blitzo's subconscious impulses and the words that came flying out of his mouth. “If you’re that desperate, I guess I could donate my dick to the cause.”
Fizz went completely still.
This was it, the moment he’d been hoping for. The confirmation that, after years of “kissing practice” and suspicious cuddling, Blitzo did actually want to fuck him. Of course, Fizz wasn’t dependent upon Blitzo’s charity in this regard. He’d had plenty of chances to hook up with others—ever since he hit puberty, he’d attracted attention from other men (with varying degrees of creepiness), but he never bothered returning their interest beyond a brief chat or shy smile. There was only one man he was interested in. It had always been Blitzo.
“It’s not nice to threaten your friends with bodily harm,” he deflected, trying not to telegraph with every atom in his body how desperately he wished for Blitzo to relieve him of his virginity right this second.
“Why thank you, yes, I do have a huge cock.”
“No, moron. I mean cuz you’re so clumsy. You’d probably try to fuck my belly button.”
“All the cool kids are doing it nowadays,” said Blitzo, making Fizz laugh.
“Remember—remember when you first heard about gay sex, and you thought—”
“Oh my god, shut up—”
“You were all like, ‘How do you fit your dick inside another guy’s dick?'” Fizz let out a maniacal cackle, back in his comfort zone again, which Blitzo met with a red-cheeked glare.
“We were eight, asshole,” grumbled Blitzo. “And that’s not even an issue in your case.”
Fizz had to begrudgingly acknowledge that this was true, although he didn’t realize that Blitzo had given the matter any thought. The difference between their bodies had been discovered pretty early on in their friendship, and aside from some annoying tampon jokes from Blitzo, it didn’t come up much. Hell was host to the widest imaginable array of species and genders, all of which were considered normal.
“Yeah, well, I’m not trusting you with my precious virginity,” he said.
Rather than recapturing their playful banter from seconds ago, that comment seemed to sour the mood further. Blitzo was fully sulking now, his jaw set.
“You don’t trust me?”
Ah, there it was; that barely hidden layer of desperation that Fizz both loved and hated to tease out like a loose thread. He couldn’t resist pulling it, watching Blitzo unspool.
He bit his lip. “I dunno. You’d have to be nice to me.”
“I can be nice!” Blitzo insisted, turning to him with a dark, determined look. “I can be sweet to you, just gimme a chance.”
Fizz’s breath caught. Desire came upon him like a sudden blast of hothouse steam, and Fizz’s entire world narrowed to just Blitzo, Blitzo, Blitzo.
“You can be gentle?” Fizz asked lowly. He knew exactly how he was looking at Blitzo right now, because he’d practiced it in the mirror; all pouty and sweet. And Blitzo just stared back at him, speechless, breathing shallowly through his mouth.
The power rush was exquisite. Fizz had always coveted Blitzo’s attention—craved it, reveled in it, rolled around in it like it was catnip. But this was beyond just attention. Blitzo had never looked at him like this before, like Fizz was a lodestone exerting a magnetic pull upon some deep, primitive part of his brain, stealing all his haughty words. Fizz leaned back against the pillows, letting his legs fall apart a little, almost smirking when he heard Blitzo clear his throat.
“I can be gentle. I can do it however you want. I’m an expert at this shit.”
“Okay, big shot,” said Fizz, eyebrows raised in challenge, “Get a condom, then.”
“Get a condom.”
Blitzo paused from where he’d been frotting his cock into the now-slippery valley of Fizz’s thighs. “They don’t make em in my size.”
Fizz elbowed him in the chest. “Get a fucking condom, jackass.”
“You don’t have one? I expected you to have them sewn into the lining of your clothes,” Blitzo muttered. But he relented, fishing around in his wadded-up pants for his wallet.
“Oho, but you brought one!” said Fizz gleefully. “You totally wanted this to happen!”
“You are such a fuckin narcissist, jesus. It’s just left over from my many other, less annoying situationships.”
“This isn’t a situationship...” said Fizz. His voice went a little breathy at the end there, as Blitzo was now crawling back on top of him wrapped and ready.
“Then what would you call this?” he ducked down to press a kiss to Fizz’s shoulder.
“I dunno. There’s no word in the English language for something this complicated. Maybe there is in German.”
“Fuckenfriendenshiebe?”
Fizz let out a raspy giggle, covering his face, while Blitzo trailed his hand down the arched expanse of his torso— all the way down.
“Shiiiit, you’re dripping,” Blitzo said, gravel in his voice, now. “Always knew my dumb jokes got you wet.”
“I’m just wet over how obviously desperate you are for me.” Fizz grinned up at him, showing off the slim curves of his body as he sprawled against the crappy hotel pillows. It could have been the Four Seasons for how luxurious it felt to be under Blitzo again, those covetous eyes drinking him in.
“I’m not desperate,” Blitzo grumbled, desperately. “Just–let me have a little taste.”
Fizz braced his heel against Blitzo’s shoulder, making him hiss. “I dunno if you deserve it.”
It never took long to uncover Blitzo’s mile-wide masochistic streak, and Fizz had no doubt it had gotten much, much worse between age 18 and now. Blitzo looked wrecked, flushed down to his chest, sweaty and fat-pupiled with his tail wagging behind him. God, Fizz had missed that look.
“Lemme lick you. C’mon , Fizz.”
“Hmm…” Fizz reached down to touch himself, fingers delicately spreading the sticky warmth over his own clit. “This is what you want?”
“Fuck’s sake, did you make me put on a fucking condom just to watch you finger yourself?”
“I guess I could borrow one of your fingers.”
Blitzo made a somewhat strangled noise and scrambled to comply.
It wasn’t like this with Ozzie. Their scenarios were discussed in detail; their safe words had safe words. Ozzie was always in control, and even when he let himself lose it, he only did so via a carefully calibrated pressure relief valve.
Blitzo was not in control of all this, not even a little bit. As soon as his fingers were inside of Fizz, he was gone, that slick tightness making his brain revert to standby, his gaze going hazy like he was tripping.
“Oooh, jesus fucking Christ.”
“He’s not here to take your call,” Fizz cackled, lifting his hips to lure Blitzo in deeper. “Please try again later.”
Blitzo looked almost physically pained. “Why the hell did you have to get the sweetest pussy in the 7 rings, it’s not fuckin fair.”
“To torture you with. Mmm–! ” Fizz swallowed a moan.
“What’re you being all quiet for?”
“I’m not trying to put on a free show for them,” said Fizz, thinking of the real bodyguards still stationed outside. Blitzo scoffed in disbelief.
“You’re scared of a bunch of succubros hearing us bang? Don’t you think they’ve heard it all?”
Blitzo curled his fingers, but still, Fizz only let out a whimper. This show of restraint only seemed to ignite the dark fire in Blitzo’s gaze—smirking, he crawled down Fizz’s body, his tail whipping restlessly behind him.
They didn’t do this part much as teenagers. Getting head felt paradoxically more intimate than getting fucked for Fizz back then, slippery and embarrassing, and the few times they’d tried it, Blitzo ended up coming into his own hand before Fizz could get anywhere near his peak. Now that he was a grown man with fully realized desires, however, it was one of his favorite things, and he’d enjoyed countless brain-melting orgasms with Ozzie’s face buried between his legs. Surely Blitzo was still awful at this. If Verosika’s testimony was anything to go by, it was surprising that he was willing to try at all.
Fizz was about to be proven wrong, though, because the moment Blitzo’s tongue dipped out to circle him, his eyes smoky with intent, something swooped low in Fizz’s stomach—an oh shit realization before he was overwhelmed by hot waves of pleasure.
“Blitzo,” Fizz gave a hitching gasp, canting his hips sweetly against Blitzo’s open mouth. “Oh, yes…”
“Baby, baby,” Blitzo was mumbling, almost delirious, like he’d fallen headfirst into a dream and was in no hurry to wake up. Long, deep, hungry licks followed, as if he were determined to indulge in every drop Fizz had to offer. Fizz made a helpless, breathy little sound, and that must have done something to Blitzo because he moaned back, claws digging into the meat of Fizz’s thighs.
“Ow, shit!” Fizz jerked in alarm.
“S-sorry, fuck. Did I hurt you?”
“Did I hurt you?” Blitzo had asked him, after their second time.
The first time hurt, of course, despite all promises to the contrary, both of them plagued by nerves. This time was smoother, Blitzo having learned to keep his jackhammering under control. Fizz was lying beside him now, on his stomach, basking in the glow of his extended orgasm—or trying to. It was somewhat difficult when Blitzo kept casting anxious glances in his direction.
“You didn’t hurt me.”
Blitzo’s shoulders slackened a bit at that, and he sank back against the pillows. “Right. I mean, good.”
“Was that dick my birthday gift?” Fizz teased. His tail poked Blitzo, who tensed up again, fumbling the joint he was attempting to light.
“You’re such a little—you’ll know when you get it, alright?”
“I want something nice this year, mmkay?”
“My gifts are always nice.”
“Blitzo, last year you got me a possum that you found in the bottom of your trash bin.”
“I’m broke, what do you want from me,” Blitzo muttered, taking a drag. “Besides, you loved that fuckin thing.”
It was true; Fizz had been delighted. He was absolutely devastated when the circus owners made him release it on account of some nonsense about “rabies” and “public health risks.”
Fizz reached for the joint. “Gimme some of that.”
Raising his eyebrows, Blitzo inhaled deeply again, holding Fizz in his lazy gaze, then leaned in; Fizz met him with an almost-kiss, letting him shotgun into his mouth.
“I don’t get the big deal about turning 18, anyway,” Blitzo said, with one last wispy sigh of smoke.
“It’s the age of adulthood. Or whatever.”
“We already drink, smoke, fuck—what else are you gonna do? Vote? Rent a car?”
“I dunno. Remember Gina?” Fizz said, referring to a girl who had been their troupe’s star acrobat. “Soon as she turned 18, boom. Ran away with some rich fan and got married.”
By now, Fizz had quite a few fans of his own—regular viewers, people who sent letters and flowers, even a few super-creeps who paid Buckzo to be allowed backstage. Blitzo knew about it, and Fizz knew that Blitzo knew, but the two of them never discussed it, an unspoken taboo among many others.
“So fuckin grody.” Blitzo made a sharp, derisive sound. “I bet he’ll dump her as soon as she turns 21.”
“Or maybe they were really in loooove,” Fizz said, sing-songy.
“If they were, they wouldn’t need to immediately get married.” said Blitzo. “Marriage is just an exchange of goods and services.”
“Yeah.”
“And weddings,” he went on, clearly gearing up for one of his epic rants. “They’re so obviously just an excuse to show off how much money you have. Like, if I was pissing gold like some of these bluebloods, I sure as fuck wouldn’t waste it on, I don’t know, a seafood tower the size of Mount Everest or a dress bedazzled in blood diamonds.”
“No, just on a 2 billion dollar ranch and dozens of exotic horses.”
“I never said that.”
“I just think the idea is kinda nice,” said Fizz, nuzzling against Blitzo’s chest. “I mean, I’d want someone to be proud of bagging me, ya know, I’d want everyone to see it. That’s what flashy weddings and rings are for, guess.”
“You can announce who you’re fucking without jewelry .”
“It’s symbolic , you meat head.”
Blitzo stirred, looking down at Fizz seriously for a moment. Then he picked up Fizz’s slender wrist—Fizz could still remember how it felt, Blitzo’s warmth clasping him, filling him with simple happiness. He smiled up at him, pleased and a little confused, but Blitzo wasn’t trying to hold hands—instead, he bent his head and took Fizz’s ring finger into his mouth. Fizz inhaled sharply as he felt the points of Blitzo’s teeth press down, gently but firmly, to leave a ring of little indents in his skin.
Back in the present, Blitzo was just as deliberately leaving a necklace of bites around his neck.
Fizz didn’t even bother protesting such obvious marks—he was going to tell Ozzie about this immediately, anyway. Yes, now that he’d had finally gotten his 15-years-coming post-estrangement fuck, he just knew he was going to collapse into a puddle of tears the second he got home. He’d need to be pried off the floor with a goddamn spatula, and Ozzie would handle it with levity and boundless acceptance as always, so for now, he tried to enjoy the catharsis and save the meltdown for later.
So far, this catharsis was frenetic, animalistic, almost as chaotic as their sidewalk scuffle and several times more sweaty. They couldn’t seem to commit to a position for longer than a minute or two, determined to draw this out as long as possible, edging themselves against each other. Presently, Blitzo had Fizz on his side, pounding into him in a way that had his eyes crossing. The bed rattled and squeaked and thumped against the wall. Fizz had never appreciated this kind of frantic pace, but now he craved it, wanting to be sanded down into nothingness. He'd almost forgotten what it felt to be wrapped up with someone his own size, his own kind, nothing exotic or uncertain here-–just the symmetry of their bodies.
“God I missed you so much,” Blitzo said suddenly. Fizz very nearly came on the spot just from hearing it.
“Me too, fuck—I kept hoping to run into you—”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, yes, I’ve put up with dreams about you for fucking years, it’s been torture—”
“Dreams or nightmares?” Blitzo asked, only a little sarcastically.
Fizz twisted his body, making Blitzo slide in at a new angle that left them both gasping and incapable of responding for a moment. “B-both,” he got out.
“Same.”
“D’you think this will fix it?”
“Fix it?” Blitzo snorted. “My dick’s good, but not that good.”
Fizz snickered at that, reaching down to feel where Blitzo’s cock was pistoning into him, enjoying the contrast of cool metal on his own overheated, wet skin. “And me? Am I living up to your dreams?”
“Yes, Lucifer. How are you so fucking tight? After taking monster dick on a regular basis?”
This position, which had at first seemed appealing because it spared Fizz the emotional strain of having to watch Blitzo’s face, suddenly felt stifling. Shoving him onto his back, Fizz straddled his hips—an update that Blitzo must have been in favor of, judging by the way he immediately clamped his hands around Fizz’s waist.
“I told you not to talk about him,” said Fizz, and began to ride Blitzo’s cock like the professional sex symbol he was.
“Then talk to me,” Blitzo hissed. He was staring up at Fizz like he was the most captivating thing he’d ever seen. “Tell me how it feels.”
Fizz arched deliciously, hat-tails jinging as he threw his head back. “So full, so good, god …”
It was good, so good it verged on agony, with the agony sublimating into pleasure again, the soul-deep satisfaction of having the persistent, hollow yearning deep inside him finally filled. Maybe Blitzo felt the same, because he could only groan in response, strung out on the feeling of Fizz twitching, clenching around him. There was a feral edge to his gaze now that scared Fizz a little, although not enough to stop.
“Feels like your body remembers me, huh?” said Blitzo, apparently now in that pre-orgasm headspace that made sentimental nonsense seem like a good idea.
That sentimental nonsense had always worked on Fizz. “Oh, fuck…”
“You never forget your first, right? God you were so fucking cute, I was so in love with you—”
It seemed to come out of nowhere—at the same time, Fizz had been hoping for it and dreading it all night, since the moment they’d kissed, he’d known it, but it still left him blindsided like a back-handed slap.
“Blitzo, no,” he gasped out.
Teeth clenched, Blitzo ground his hips up into Fizz hard. “I never stopped .”
“Asshole, are you trying to make me cum or make me cry?!”
“Aw, Fizz.” Blitzo quirked a bitter smile up at him. ”You were always a light touch for both.”
Fizz absolutely refused to cry during sex. It was not only embarrassing, but cliché. With a shaky inhale, he steeled himself against the stinging in his eyes, but it was too late—one fat, hot tear streaked down his cheek and then the floodgates were open, a steady trickle of them plopping down to dampen Blitzo’s chest.
“I loved you too,” he whispered. “I loved you more than fuckin anything.”
The past tense seemed to make Blitzo falter, then, and he let out a wrecked sort of keen as he pulled Fizz in tight.
After it was over, Fizz only let Blitzo hold him for a little while.
Guilt cast a heavy cloud over their afterglow, although Fizz wasn’t sure why—they hadn’t broken any rules, after all. But somehow, what just happened felt transgressive, the violation of an unspoken promise to himself, and he felt raw all over like the bloody skin beneath a peeled-off scab.
Blitzo, meanwhile, was spooned up behind Fizz, one tense arm thrown over his waist to keep him clamped in place. The rhythm of his breaths against Fizz’s back seemed awkward, overly measured. Soon the tension, combined with the unpleasant sensation of lying on a cum puddle on a tiny bed, became unbearable and Fizz dragged himself up to pull his clothes back on. He began to layer each piece mechanically; pants, undershirt, tunic, collar. Behind him, he could hear Blitzo shifting around to light a cigarette.
“We’re never doing this again, are we?” said Blitzo after a moment.
Fizz didn’t hesitate. “No.”
Blitzo exhaled a lungful of smoke, staring at the wall with a haggard, defeated calm. “Got me outta your system, huh?”
The answer to that was definitely no as well, for entirely different reasons. Blitzo was inextricably wired into Fizz’s system in a way he couldn’t even explain, memories and resentment and love all knotted up into a gnarled mess at the root of his mind. Giving in to their impulses had relieved the suspense, but Fizz knew somehow that a sexual relationship would not improve this weird, fragile reconciliation, and would in fact only make matters more confusing. Still, his guilt was steadily expanding to include Blitzo in its scope.
“Nah, pretty sure you’re still in there. Like a really persistent yeast infection,” said Fizz with forced levity.
Blitzo snorted.
“Like the bad case of bedbugs you’re gonna get if you lay there any longer. C’mon.”
“Nah, I already paid for this room,” said Blitzo, aggressively lounging with one leg hanging out of the rumpled sheets. “Gotta get my money’s worth of bedbugs.”
There was now a small cloud of cigarette smoke hovering over the bed, and Fizz feared that if it was allowed to remain any longer, it might start to gather rain. Sighing, he went over to the window to crack it open.
“You’re doing that thing where you shut down,” he told Blitzo.
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“You’re doing that thing where you won’t let it go.”
“Well I’m not leaving my not-sleazy, not-apology fuck with agita.”
Blitzo said nothing for a moment, wallowing in said agita, or resentment, or whatever broody Blitzo-feelings Fizz was never allowed access to.
“Maybe I’m just a little sick of being the other woman, that’s all,” he grumbled.
Fizz bit down on a protest. Of course, he understood why Blitzo would react this way. But it was also almost a relief to hear, since the statement suggested a larger problem beyond Fizz’s responsibility. Cringing inwardly, he remembered that eventful night at Ozzie’s again—ok, maybe he was a little responsible.
“You’ve got another thing going on with that Stolas guy,” he said, treading carefully. “I can tell it’s a big deal.”
Blitzo pinned him with a long, exasperated look, a look that might’ve said: bigger than you? Bigger than us?
“You mean my sex-acquaintance who’s been using me to get back at his wife?” was what Blitzo actually said. “Oh, yeah, it’s a romance for the ages. Real soulmate shit right there.”
“Sometimes you gotta work for that soulmate shit,” said Fizz, taking a seat next to Blitzo on the bed. He plucked the cigarette from between his friend’s fingers and took a drag. They smoked in moody silence for a moment.
“Have you ever thought about where we’d be?” said Blitzo, his voice quieter than before. “If the fire never happened?”
Of course I’ve fucking thought about it, Fizz wanted to say. For the first year after the accident, he thought about nothing else, practically living in the fantasies of what-if because reality was too grim and painful to bear. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he was still ambushed by that devastating sense of loss; his phantom limbs, and Blitzo’s phantom presence. What if he wasn’t a quadruple-amputee? What if he’d never met Mammon? What if he and Blitzo could have had some kind of happy, normal life together?
But then the logical part of his mind would kick in. Happy and normal had never defined their relationship or their lives, even before the fire—Blitzo had broken his heart way before that, slowly, incrementally. But Fizz didn’t feel broken anymore, now. He’d meant that when he’d said it. If it hadn’t been for all his pain and suffering, he would never have met Ozzie.
“Yeah, what if the fire had never happened?” he said wryly. “What if the sky was green and the grass was blue?”
Shaking his head, Blitzo forced out a bitter breath of a laugh. “Damn. Ya know, I thought you might’ve gotten soft living the pampered celebrity life...but no, you’ve actually gotten harder.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Eyy.”
“Blitzo, I…” Fizz trailed off. “Yeah, we probably fucked up. Or maybe we needed the closure, I don’t know…but…”
His heart ached with what he was about to say. It felt more dangerous than everything he’d done so far, more dangerous than trying to outwit a bunch of armed gangsters or escaping a rabid assassin via explosion, more dangerous even than revealing his body to Blitzo and accepting his touch for the first time in 15 years.
“I just wanna be in your life again somehow,” he said.
Sharp red eyes finally met his, warily trusting. “You mean that, Fizz?”
“Yeah. I really do.”
Blitzo smiled at him.