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Blitzø finds out three days before Valentine’s Day.
It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
That’s the annoying part.
That’s the humiliating part.
Stolas mentions it offhandedly - like it’s nothing. Like he’s talking about the weather, or a meeting, or one of those stupid, glittering galas Blitzø pretends not to care about. He doesn’t even look at Blitzø when he says it, which somehow makes it worse.
“I have… plans that evening,” Stolas says, voice light. Careful. Casual. “A dinner reservation.”
Blitzø laughs.
It hits him all at once - sharp and cold, like ice water flooding his veins. Like missing a step and realizing too late there’s nothing underneath you. His insides seize, his stomach dropping hard enough that for a second he thinks he might actually throw up.
The laugh comes out wrong. Too loud. Too fast. The kind of laugh he perfected years ago - the one meant to drown out everything else.
“Yeah? Cool,” he says. “Same.”
The lie is there before he even realizes he’s telling it.
His claws curl instinctively, squeezing the card still hidden in his pocket until the paper buckles and his claws bite into his palm. The sting barely registers. He welcomes it. It’s something solid. Something real.
The stupid card.
The stupid flower.
The stupid idea that maybe - just maybe - this year would be different.
He’d already booked the restaurant. A few days ago. Told himself it was no big deal, that Stolas probably already had plans anyway, but still - he’d booked it. Chosen it carefully. One Stolas had mentioned once, in passing, with that soft, distant smile that always meant something mattered to him.
Blitzø had let himself imagine it.
Stolas finally looks at him.
Blitzø catches it - the flicker in his eyes. Surprise, first. Then something gentler. Something warm.
Blitzø hates himself for noticing.
His brain immediately turns traitor, twisting it into something ugly. He wonders if the surprise is because Stolas is trying to figure out who would be desperate enough to go out with him. Wonders if the softness is pity - the kind adults give children who try so hard and still fall short.
It reminds him, painfully, of his mother’s face when he talked about becoming the best acrobat in Hell. The way she’d smiled like she believed in him, even though she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth.
That he was never going to be enough.
That he’d never live up to whatever impossible standards his father carved into them all.
“Oh,” Stolas says. “You do?”
“Yeah,” Blitzø replies immediately, snapping back to the present before it can swallow him whole. Too fast. Too eager. “Hot date. Super hot. Ridiculously hot. Like, ‘why am I even allowed in the same room’ hot.”
He grins wide, teeth bared, because if he doesn’t sell it now it’ll sound like what it is: a lie stitched together from panic, pride, and a lifetime of pretending rejection doesn’t hurt.
Stolas smiles back.
It’s polite. Controlled. The kind of smile Blitzø knows too well - the one that keeps everything safely locked behind it.
“I’m… glad,” Stolas says. “Truly.”
And that’s it.
That’s all it takes.
Blitzø nods. Cracks a joke he doesn’t remember making. His ears are ringing too loud for him to hear himself think. He leaves before he can do something stupid - like ask who the date is. Or worse, why it feels like someone just reached into his chest and twisted.
By the time he makes it outside, his heart is hammering so hard it hurts. His breath comes shallow and fast, like his body is trying to outrun something it can’t escape.
He doesn’t stop walking until he’s far enough away that it doesn’t matter anymore.
Then he throws the card into the trash.
The flower follows.
He doesn’t let himself look at them when they land, crushed and bent and ruined. He doesn’t let himself think about how familiar it feels - standing there with something broken in his hands, realizing too late that it never had a chance.
Because apparently, that’s all he’s ever been good at.
Burning bridges before anyone can push him off them.
The thing about Blitzø is that he’s very good at losing before anyone tells him he’s lost.
By the time Valentine’s Day rolls around, he’s already convinced himself this is how it was always going to go. Stolas is royalty. Stolas is beautiful. Stolas deserves someone who isn’t… this.
He stands in front of his mirror longer than he means to, staring at the burn scars etched into his skin. Wonders if he ever really had a chance at anything good, or if his cards were stacked against him from the start - if trying was always just another way to set himself up to fail.
He changes his shirt.
Then changes it again.
That pisses him off.
He tells himself he’s only going out because staying home would be pathetic. Because sitting alone in his office on Valentine’s Day would feel like confirmation. Like proof that everyone else was right about him.
He tries to get a mission. Tries to do the one thing he knows he’s good at - shooting, killing, burning things down.
Even that doesn’t work out.
Apparently on Valentine’s Day, the world gets stupid and soft, and no one wants anything ruined because they’re too busy shoving their tongues down someone else’s throat.
So he goes anyway.
To the restaurant.
The one he booked three days ago.
The one Stolas once mentioned without even realizing how much that meant.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter why he chose it.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter at all.
It matters.
Blitzø realizes that the second he walks in.
The restaurant hums softly - low voices, muted laughter, the clink of glasses. Candlelight glows warm against polished wood and white tablecloths, painting everything in gold. Couples sit too close together, knees brushing, hands resting over hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He hates it immediately.
It feels like walking into someone else’s dream.
He’s already turning, already halfway back toward the door, when he sees him.
Stolas.
The world narrows in on him like a cruel joke.
Stolas looks… devastating.
He’s dressed beautifully - of course he is. Something dark and elegant that hugs him just right, feathers smooth and immaculate, posture perfect even when he’s seated. The candlelight catches in his eyes and along the curve of his face, making him look soft and unreal, like something out of a story Blitzø was never meant to touch.
For a stupid, traitorous second, Blitzø can’t breathe.
And then the familiar thought slams into him, heavy and unforgiving.
What the fuck did you think was going to happen when you asked him out? Did you truly think he would go out with you?
The answer comes easily.
He thinks of himself - his scars, his burns, the way he never quite fits anywhere that matters. He thinks of the lie he told, the hope he let rot in his chest, the reservation he made like he ever belonged in a place like this.
And knows from his heart, that the answer had always been no.
How could he have been so stupid?
How could someone like him ever think he had a chance with someone like that?
His gaze drops to the table in front of Stolas.
A table set for two.
The other chair is empty.
Blitzø’s stomach twists.
So there is a date. Of course there is. Just late, apparently. Someone worth waiting for. Someone who fits here, who fits Stolas, who doesn’t have to fake confidence or laugh too loud to hide the cracks.
Blitzø feels something ugly and sharp coil in his chest.
He doesn’t want to know who it is.
The thought hits him suddenly, decisively. He doesn’t want to see them walk in. Doesn’t want to watch Stolas’s face light up for someone else. Doesn’t want to measure himself against another reminder of everything he isn’t.
He starts to step back.
Just one step. He can still leave. He can pretend he was never here, that this was just another bad idea he wisely abandoned before it could hurt him any worse.
And then Stolas looks up.
Their eyes meet.
Stolas freezes.
His eyes widen, feathers ruffling almost imperceptibly, like he’s been caught off guard by something fragile and unexpected. For a heartbeat, neither of them move.
Then Stolas lifts one hand.
Not a wave - not really.
His arm rises halfway, hesitates, fingers curling like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to finish the motion. The gesture falters, losing strength before it ever becomes anything confident.
Blitzø’s chest tightens painfully.
Because Stolas looks… sad.
Not polite-sad. Not distant-sad.
Just - sad.
And that’s wrong.
It hits Blitzø all at once, sharp and disorienting. Sadness doesn’t belong on Stolas. Not here. Not tonight. Not dressed like this, sitting at a candlelit table meant for romance and happiness and things Blitzø has already written himself out of.
Stolas should be smiling.
He should be glowing.
He should be waiting eagerly for whoever Blitzø is about to lose to.
The fact that he isn’t makes something hot and irrational flare in Blitzø’s chest.
Why does he look like that?
The question gnaws at him, uncomfortable and insistent. His gaze flicks back to the empty chair, then to the door, searching for answers he doesn’t want.
Is the date late?
Did they stand him up?
Is that why Stolas looks like someone just took something precious from him?
The thought makes Blitzø’s jaw clench.
A bitter, misplaced anger bubbles up, ugly and unearned. Anger at the invisible person who made Stolas look like this. Anger at the idea that someone could hurt him, could leave him sitting alone on Valentine’s Day, could make that soft, aching expression cross his face.
Who the hell would do that?
Who the hell would be lucky enough to have Stolas and still screw it up?
Blitzø doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing until his lungs start to burn.
He’s still standing there, caught in Stolas’s gaze, heart pounding hard enough to hurt.
And for the first time since he walked in, he forgets to leave.
Blitzø doesn’t remember deciding to move.
One moment he’s frozen near the entrance, heart stuttering in his chest, and the next his feet are carrying him forward like muscle memory has taken over. Each step feels wrong. Too loud. Too deliberate. Like the entire restaurant can hear him walking toward something he doesn’t deserve.
He keeps his grin locked in place.
It’s the same one he uses for clients, enemies, strangers - sharp and easy and carefully empty. The kind that says I’m fine so convincingly that no one ever thinks to ask twice.
Stolas watches him approach.
He doesn’t look away.
That somehow hurts worse.
Blitzø becomes painfully aware of everything about himself - the scuffed boots on polished floors, the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact, the faint smell of smoke and gun oil that never really leaves him. He sticks out here. A stain in a place built for softer things.
Stolas, on the other hand, fits perfectly.
Even sitting down, even with that sad crease between his eyes, he looks like he belongs in candlelight and quiet music. Like this was always meant to be his world.
Blitzø reaches the table.
Stops.
For half a second, neither of them speaks.
Up close, Stolas looks even worse - better. His eyes are too bright, his expression carefully composed in a way Blitzø recognizes instantly. That same tight control Blitzø uses when things are about to hurt.
Blitzø’s chest tightens.
Say something, idiot.
Anything.
“Well,” he says, the word tumbling out too loud, too casual. “This is… awkward.”
There it is.
The joke.
The instant, burning regret.
Stolas blinks, startled, like he hadn’t quite expected Blitzø to speak first. His feathery tail twitches faintly at his back before he stills them, posture straightening.
“Blitzø,” he says softly.
Hearing his name like that - gentle, almost unsure - hits Blitzø harder than any insult ever could.
He huffs out a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Relax, feathers. I’m not crashing your fancy date or anything. Just - uh. Wrong place, wrong time.” He gestures vaguely behind himself with a thumb, already half-turning away. “I was just leaving.”
Stolas’s eyes flick, briefly, to the empty chair across from him.
Then back to Blitzø.
“Your… date?” Stolas asks.
The question is quiet. Careful. Like he’s afraid of the answer.
Blitzø feels the lie coil up again, reflexive and ugly. His mouth opens -
And closes.
Something about the way Stolas is looking at him - hopeful and braced for disappointment at the same time - makes the words stick in his throat.
“Yeah,” Blitzø says instead, weaker than he means it to sound. “They’re - uh. Late.”
Stolas’s expression shifts.
It’s subtle. A flicker of something Blitzø can’t quite name passes over his face - relief, maybe, tangled with something sharper. His fingers tighten briefly around the stem of his glass before relaxing again.
“I see,” Stolas murmurs.
Another pause stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable. The music hums softly around them. A couple nearby laughs quietly, leaning in close.
Blitzø swallows.
“So,” he says, because silence has always scared him more than saying the wrong thing. “Guess congratulations are in order, huh? You look… uh.” He gestures helplessly at Stolas’s outfit. “Very date-y.”
He hates himself the moment the words leave his mouth.
Stolas’s gaze drops.
Not all the way - just enough.
“I don’t have a date,” he says.
The sentence lands between them like a dropped glass.
Blitzø stares at him.
“…What?”
Stolas exhales, slow and measured, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “I said I had plans,” he corrects quietly. “I didn’t say I had someone.”
Blitzø’s brain short-circuits.
“But -” He gestures sharply at the table. “You said - You told me - I thought -”
“I was embarrassed,” Stolas admits, voice barely above the murmur of the room. “It seemed… foolish, to say I would be spending Valentine’s Day alone.”
The words hit Blitzø square in the chest.
Embarrassed.
Alone.
He thinks of the card in the trash. The flower. The reservation confirmation still sitting in his inbox. The lie he told because he couldn’t stand the idea of being the only one left behind.
“Oh,” Blitzø says.
It comes out small.
Stolas looks up at him again, eyes searching his face. “You said you had a date,” he says, gently. “I guess they will be coming soon then?”
Blitzø laughs again, sharp and brittle. “Yeah. About that.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, gaze darting anywhere but Stolas’s face. “That was… not exactly true.”
Stolas’s brows knit together. “It wasn’t?”
“Nope.” Blitzø lets out a shaky breath. “Turns out we are both … uh liars … with a talent for making things worse… I guess...”
For a moment, Stolas just looks at him.
Then, slowly, he gestures to the chair across from him.
“If that is the case,” Stolas says carefully, “would you… like to sit?”
Blitzø freezes.
The chair waits.
So does Stolas.
For a moment, Blitzø’s brain supplies a dozen reasons to say no.
This is a bad idea. This is pity. This ends badly.
It always does.
His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s about to bolt. Like sitting down would mean admitting he wants this - that he wanted it all along.
Stolas doesn’t rush him.
He just waits, hand still gesturing towards the chair, expression open in a way that makes Blitzø’s chest ache.
Not expectant.
Just… hopeful.
And that’s worse.
Because hope is fragile. Because Blitzø has broken enough of it to recognize the shape.
“…Yeah,” Blitzø hears himself say.
The word feels small. Dangerous.
He pulls the chair out before he can change his mind and drops into it like committing to something irreversible.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
A server appears, asks polite questions, pours water. Blitzø answers automatically, barely hearing himself. His attention keeps drifting back to Stolas - the way his shoulders slowly relax, the way the sadness in his eyes softens into something quieter.
Relief.
The realization lands slowly, almost painfully.
Stolas hadn’t wanted to be here alone either.
The thought settles somewhere deep in Blitzø’s chest, warm and unfamiliar.
“So,” Blitzø mutters eventually, staring at the table instead of at him. “Guess we’re both kinda pathetic, huh?”
Stolas lets out a soft huff of laughter. Not mocking. Not cruel.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Or perhaps we were both afraid of being the only one who cared more.”
Blitzø’s throat tightens.
He picks at the edge of his napkin. “Didn’t think you’d… want that,” he admits before he can stop himself. “I mean. Me.”
The words hang there, raw and unguarded.
Stolas goes very still.
His face scrunches up as if pained.
“Blitzø,” he says quietly, and there’s something firm in it now, something certain. And something raw. Something that wasn't pity but also hurt. Hurt that Blitzø would think so low of himself. Would ever question that Stolas didn't want him. “I would not be here - stay here with you - if I did not.”
Blitzø looks up despite himself.
Stolas is watching him like the answer should be obvious. Like it has always been obvious.
And Blitzø doesn’t know what to do with that.
"Then why did you lie to me, when I asked if you had a date?" Blitzø asks desperately.
"Because I didn't want you to think I am pathetic," Stolas answers.
"I -," Blitzø's sharp tongue fails him. Maybe for the better. "I was going to ask you! I hoped you would say no, so I could take the chance. I didn't because you told me you had a date!"
Stolas eyes widen. It would have been comically, if the situation wouldn't be so frustratingly stupid.
Blitzø looks at him in open frustration.
"Well," Stolas says. "That's … inconvenient."
"No shit, Stoles."
Silence reigns for a second.
Then:
"You were going to ask… me?", Stolas asks hopefully.
"Yes," Blitzø huffs. "Had a stupid card prepared and stupid flowers and booked this stupid place."
Stolas goes very still.
Not shocked - not exactly. Just… quiet, like something fragile has just been placed in his hands and he’s afraid to move too quickly and break it.
“You did all that… for me?” he asks softly.
Blitzø immediately grimaces. “Yeah, well, don’t make it weird.”
But his voice lacks bite. The defensiveness comes late, half-hearted.
Stolas’s expression shifts, something warm and aching threading through it. “Blitzø,” he says, and there’s a softness there that makes Blitzø want to look anywhere else. “I did not realize you would want that.”
“Yeah, well. Hard to want something when you already know the answer’s gonna be no.”
Stolas flinches.
The reaction is small, but unmistakable.
“Is that truly what you thought?” he asks quietly.
Blitzø lets out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Yes and it was… Because you’re -” He gestures vaguely at Stolas, at the restaurant, at everything. “You. And I’m… me.”
The words fall flat between them.
Stolas’s feathers ruffle faintly, hurt flashing across his face before he smooths it away. “You say that as though it explains everything.”
“It does,” Blitzø mutters.
Silence stretches again, heavier this time. Not awkward - just honest.
“I thought,” Stolas says slowly, choosing each word with care, “that you did not want anything more from me. That our time together was merely… convenient for you.”
Blitzø’s head snaps up. “What? No. I mean -” He falters, expression twisting. “I mean, yeah, at first, maybe, but - that’s not -”
He stops, jaw tightening.
Talking has never been his strong suit. Joking, deflecting, running - those he understands. This feels like standing unarmed in the middle of something important.
“I didn’t think you’d want it,” he finishes roughly. “Not with me.”
The confession hangs there, raw and unpolished.
Stolas exhales shakily, like he’s been holding that breath for far too long. “And I did not think you would want it with me,” he admits. “You always seemed so eager to leave.”
Blitzø huffs out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. That’s kinda my thing.”
“I know,” Stolas says gently.
There’s no accusation in it. Just understanding.
And somehow that hurts more.
For a moment they just look at each other, the absurdity of it settling in - two idiots sitting across from each other after days of misery because neither of them had been brave enough to say what they wanted.
Blitzø snorts first, the sound escaping before he can stop it.
“This is stupid,” he mutters.
Stolas’s mouth twitches. “Immensely.”
A beat passes.
Then, quietly, Stolas adds, “I would have said yes.”
Blitzø blinks. “What?”
“If you had asked,” Stolas says, meeting his eyes. “I would have said yes.”
Something in Blitzø’s chest loosens so suddenly it almost hurts.
“Oh,” he says again, softer this time.
And then, before Blitzø can overthink it too much: "Well then Stolas. Would you want to be my valentine for tonight?"
Blitzø swallows thickly. His heart beating in his throat, like a war drum. His cheeks burning. He says it fast. Nearly too fast. Barely managing to sound out every word. Afraid he would chicken out if he says it too slow.
And Stolas… Stolas lightens up like a christmas tree at those words. His eyes glitter, his feathers puff.
"Yes…", he breathes. Fast. There was not even a millisecond taken to think about the answer. "Yes I would like that very much."
Relief crashes so hard into Blitzø he thinks he might get whiplash from it.
He has exactly two seconds of warmth in his chest before panic makes him do what it always does: grab the nearest joke and swing it like a weapon.
“So, uh -,” Blitzø says, leaning in with a grin that was 90% mouth and 10% self-defense, “Does my Valentine come with, like… benefits? Or do I have to earn those?”
Stolas choks, eyes going wide, feathers visibly puffing as his cheeks lit up.
“Blitzø!” he hisses, scandalized - but he doesn't pull his hand away.
Blitzø’s grin softens at the edges, just a fraction. “What?” he says, too casual. “I’m asking important romantic questions.”
Stolas blinks rapidly, trying to regain composure. “You are impossible.”
“Yeah,” Blitzø says, and for once the word doesn't sound like an insult he’d aimed at himself. “But you just said yes anyway.”
With that the tension that is coiled between them finally unwinds, replaced by something lighter. Not perfect. Not fixed. Just… easier.
Dinner comes. The evening continues.
They fell into old rhythms, teasing and talking and laughing in a way that feels less like pretending and more like remembering something they almost lost.
At some point, Blitzø realizes he’s stopped waiting for it to go wrong.
That realization scares him more than anything else.
“You know,” he says later, quieter now, pushing his empty plate aside, “I almost didn’t come.”
Stolas tilts his head. “I am glad you did.”
“Yeah,” Blitzø says, voice rough. “Me too.”
The words surprise both of them.
The restaurant begins to empty around them, candles burning lower, conversations fading into soft background noise. Outside, the night stretches quiet and warm.
Neither of them moves to leave.
Eventually, Stolas reaches across the table, hesitates - then lets his hand rest there, open, an invitation rather than a demand.
Blitzø stares at it.
At the long fingers. The small, vulnerable gesture.
At the choice being offered to him.
Slowly, like approaching something fragile, he places his hand over Stolas’s.
Stolas’s grip tightens, just slightly.
Not enough to trap him.
Just enough to say I’m here.
Blitzø exhales, tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying finally loosening in his chest.
For once, he doesn’t pull away first.
When they finally stand to leave, neither of them mentions going separate ways.
Outside, the night air is cool. Stolas’s shoulder brushes his as they walk, tentative at first, then easier.
“Blitzø,” Stolas says softly.
“Yeah?”
“…Would you like to continue this evening elsewhere?”
Blitzø snorts, but there’s no bite in it this time. He is nearly compelled to say something stupid like are these the beneifts we talked about? - Before he stops himself and just says: “Yeah,” he looks at Stolas, softly. “I think I would.”
And this time, when Stolas smiles, it isn’t careful at all.
Blitzø had spent a long time believing he ruined everything he touched.
But when Stolas’s hand finds his again, gentle and certain, nothing breaks at all.