Plotted starter for @birdcagxd
Fizz got to the motel first. A run-down little building with cracked paint and rooms so far out of date he wonders if they’re clean. The kind with bleached sheets and stains in the carpet that don’t quite come out; curtains that don’t open and windows that looked out onto a parking lot or an alley as the world sprang up around it.
Charged by the hour, Fizz booked the night–who knew how long this would take. A sad, sick profession of a love that was long since dead. Burned alive in the fire but unlike Fizz, it hadn’t survived–at least that’s what he told himself every time this anniversary rolled around. Stupid kids making stupid decisions not knowing how much it would hurt them later.
Mated to the person who tried to kill you; A+ punchline right there.
Cash had certainly made sure to remind him of that several times over the years. In hospital beds without limbs when he couldn’t push him away. Through locked bathroom doors as Fizz laid curled up and sick on the tile because it was the only thing that made him feel better when the fever set in. Telling him they’re in the same boat now, why not help each other out after picking the lock on Fizz’s bedroom door–so many nights sleeping on the fire escape because going inside was a slow suffocation in so many ways.
He hadn’t even reached out to Blitz for the first four years. Not until he’d WON Mammon’s pageant and had been fitted for better prosthetics. Thought about it. Wondered what he’d do if he knew what Cash had done–but even when he had reached out, he hadn’t been able to tell him. It’d gotten stuck in his throat like some barbed thing tearing through soft flesh the more he forced it forward.
What had Blitz done all this time? Had he suffered through it the way Fizz had with fevers and nausea and deep-rooted aching that didn’t go away even with someone else because it wasn’t him?
Maybe he hadn’t even noticed–didn’t like that thought.
Stepping into the room, he breathed in the stale air–some kind of fabric spray and an underlying funk from years of use–closing the door behind him. Didn’t bring much with him–a bag of clothes, shower supplies, condoms–just enough to pack into the small backpack he dropped onto the dresser. Magenta eyes catching himself in the mirror.
White, scarred face, broken horns hidden beneath a jester hat that was as much a prosthesis as the rest of his limbs. Splotches of red danced along what was left of him in uneven patterns–one red breast, one white–and his gaze snagged on his arms. On new prosthetics built by Asmodeus himself per Mammon’s request, and the small sad teenager still inside him wonders if Blitz will like them. If he’ll even want to touch him like this.
Time to find out, it seems.
A knock to the door has anxiety rising in a sharp spike up his throat and down his spine. Fear and excitement twisting together in a sickening way before he left the mirror and made his way to the door. Peering out the peep hole first, because he’s not a moron, he pulled on the best rendition of boredom he could manage before opening it. Swallowing to stop the shake in his voice before–
“You’re late.” Even though it was a matter of minutes.
