Chapter Text
Blitzø rarely goes to Sloth. Well... to be honest, he goes to Sloth just like everyone else in Hell : when he’s so sick he can no longer function. And also that time his Looney needed her shot. To be honest, he’d made the appointment for himself a few years before adopting her, for the doctor to check his chronic back pain. But his precious daughter needed a doctor's visit more.
(He does his best not to think about that day though. It hurts. And not only because afterwards Loona was snarky with him for weeks. But because he wasn’t there for Stolas when the stupid beautiful bird needed him most. Stolas could have died. He almost did. And Blitzø would never have told him he…
Well, he didn’t anyway. And now it’s too late, so there’s no point.)
It’s the first time he’s in Sloth for no other reason that he knows absolutely no-one there, which means he won’t risk a nasty encounter with another person who hates his gut.
(He doesn’t need them. He hates himself just fine.)
Sloth is as pink as ever and the streets are surprisingly crowded. Actually, it's not all that surprising, since Sloth specializes in sickness and injury, and it's not as if Hell is in short supply of those. The thing it misses, though, is a sleazy dive bar, where Blitzø could drown his sorrows in alcohol and maintain those sorrows under even more alcohol to make absolutely sure they’re dead. He's aware it’s counterproductive to have bars in a place designed for health, but he doesn’t care. He wants to stop feeling that way, even for a brief moment. And aren’t those f*cking Sloth doctors supposed to make pain go away ?
As it turns out, there are dive bars in Sloth. Dive bars. As in plural. And they’re just as bleak as in any other Hell Ring. Which shouldn’t surprise him. Despair feels exactly the same in Pride as in Sloth, if you think about it. Blitzø orders the strongest spirit available, something truly vile made in Greed. If there is one place in Hell where they can distill a spirit so strong you forget everything, it’s Greed. The stuff isn’t exactly cheap, the taste truly disgusting, but it does the job like no other.
As he finishes his first glass, Blitzø orders another one. And another. He wants to forget everything that’s happened this past two weeks. Hell, everything that’s happened this past two decades. Then he’d only remember the circus, way back when he was a little boy and he was happy with his Mom and Fizzarolli, his best friend in the whole world.
(His only friend ever, really. Before he lost him like all the others.)
Blitzø cries in his drink.
He doesn’t know how long he stays at the bar, how many glasses he downs. What he knows, for a fact, is that his head, stomach and probably his everything else are going to kill him in the morning. But at this very moment, he doesn’t care. He’s lost in a pleasant haze of alcohol that keeps the sad at bay.
***
Blitzø wakes up in an alley. It’s dark outside. Night has fallen. He’s not sure how he went from the bar to this place, but his arms and legs hurt and he can see bruises, so he assumes someone « helped » him.
Wait a minute…
He frantically searches his pockets, only to realize he doesn’t have his phone, wallet, or even his f*cking gun. Those assholes stole from him. f*ck them ! f*ck everyone ! He’s going to go back to Pride, raid I.M.P. closets for more weapons, then he’s going to track those bastards and tear them to pieces.
Except…
No ! NO ! He doesn’t have the f*cking crystal anymore ! The f*cking robbers took it too, leaving him stranded in Sloth with no money, no transportation, not even a way to call anyone. And who would he call anyway ? Who would go all the way to Sloth for Blitzø after all the sh*t he put them through ? M&M ? Loona ? Stol…
Blitzø curls in on himself and sobs like a f*cking infant. He thought he’d hit rock bottom ? Turns out there's still room for him to sink even deeper.
« Honey, are you alright ? »
Blitzø hasn’t realized the person was talking to him until they poke his shoulder, not unkindly so. The contact is so sudden and so unexpected that he just raises his head in silence, instead of hurling the intruder away and insulting his entire family over several generations. Said intruder happens to be a female imp, maybe a couple years older than him. She’s wearing a nurse outfit, has a tired face and a brat glued on each arm. On the left is a tiny girl sucking on her thumb and on the right an older boy. With his short stature, head of white hair and wary expression, he reminds Blitzø of Moxxie. In response, Blitzø eyes him balefully.
« You look like something a hellhound found in a week-old garbage can », says the nasty little brat, looking even more like Moxxie.
« That's not very nice », reproaches his mother.
« f*ck you », says Blitzø.
« That's not very nice either. »
« He started it », growls Blitzø.
(Yes, he knows that the brat is a child and that him, the adult, should be the bigger man. But he never was. And he’s not going to start now, when his very life is crumbling all around him. What's more, the alcohol haze has dissipated and he's aching all over. Even in places he never knew existed.)
« He did, and he's going to say he's sorry. »
« No, I'm not ! »
« Aedin ! »
« Okay ! I'm sorry », says the little brat, seeming as sorry as Blitzø feels.
Which means not f*cking at all.
« Now it's your turn », says the mother to Blitzø.
Who’s so shocked by the request that he just gapes at her. A fly could fly by and he'd probably swallow it.
« Are you f*cking serious? » he asks when he finally regains the ability to speak.
Instead of getting angry, she smiles and waits patiently for him to comply.
The thing is, Blitzø knows he’s an asshole. A good-for-nothing. A pathetic clown. He’s driven away more people than he can remember and every single one of those he loved. He hurt them. All of them. Sometimes physically. Sometimes mentally. Sometimes even both. So he has no reason to give in to this unknown imp nurse.
But there are her eyes. They’re soft. They’re kind. They remind him of his Mom. The one person who loved him unconditionally. The one he hurt the most. So he lowers his head and says, reluctantly :
« Fine. I’m sorry, you brat. »
Said brat blows him a silent raspberry behind his mom back. In other circ*mstances, Blitzø could even like the little f*cker.
« Good. Now let's get going! We’re already late for diner ! » says the mother.
Of course they’re going. They’ve somewhere to go. Blitzø is just going to stay here and wait until morning. Maybe then he can go to the police station to report his theft.
(He’s not actually thinking that the cops will help him. He’s no fool. But they might help him to go back to Pride. Or even put him in jail. Sloth jails have to be more comfy than a smelly back alley. And it's not as if Blitzø has never been in prison before…)
He's debating whether to say goodbye (probably, but will he?) when the mother asks:
« What are you waiting for, honey ? »
It’s when she pokes him again, with her tail this time, that Blitzø realizes she’s talking to him. In his defense, this is the first time in his life that someone has called him honey. He’s probably the most un-honey person in all of Hell. His own mother used to call him her little lava pepper.
« You want… me to come with you ? »
As he utters the words, he can’t help but wince. Of course she doesn’t want him to come with them. Nobody wants him.
« Of course ! You look like you could use a good hot meal. And a shower. You don't smell so good. »
« Not again ! » whines the boy.
His mother's tail thumps him in the shoulder, but she smiles anyway. The boy rolls his eyes and falls silent. She turns back to Blitzø.
« I’ve nothing to give you. I’ve been robbed », he says begrudgingly.
« You can say thank you. And help with the dishes. »
The little girl stops sucking her thumb and hold out a grimy hand.
« No way », says Blitzø. « I don't want your disgusting germs. »
But he follows them home nevertheless.
