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Blitzø could feel himself spiraling hard, but with a ruthless efficiency born from years of practice he shoved his breakdown away for later. He wasn’t about to drive across half of Pride looking like some bitch ass puss. It could wait until he got back to reality in his shitty little apartment and his shitty little life. It was what he deserved. This was always what he deserved, and it always had been, and it always would be-
Numbness, thick and muffling and awful, had started to settle over him by the time he got back to his upstairs apartment. He fumbled out his keys to unlock the door and wondered if Loona would scream at him for everything he’d done tonight. She hated him, made that crystal clear all the time, but he couldn’t blame her for it. He hated him too. A part of him hoped that she would; he deserved it. He deserved to hurt. He didn’t deserve to feel so… so nothing. One good thing about being an assassin: even though he was good at his job, even though he didn’t try to make it happen, he still had plenty of opportunities to get what he deserved.
He could barely think and it felt like his thoughts were flicking too quickly to settle down and become anything. He was full of buzzing emptiness.
The apartment was dark and silent as he stumbled in, and the note taped to Loona’s door for him explained why. She was out, got invited to a party–and even if Blitzø was happy for her, his little girl getting out there and making friends, he wished he….
He didn’t know.
But Loona was not here to hurt him, and Blitzø was suffocating as he flopped down onto the ratty couch that had been his bed for the last five years. That self harm compulsion was fluttering in his chest, daring him to feel something, to acknowledge how worthless he was.
He pulled out his phone.
The movement of his claws was smooth and automatic as he traced his passcode and navigated to his gallery, and it was barely even a decision as he tapped on the first photo, picking at the bleeding scabs laid across his heart, tearing them open again to ooze.
There was the first photo in his special gallery, the one he’d only added maybe a month or two ago. Stolas. Stolas, who despite knowing what this was the whole time, he'd let himself-
Flick.
Millie and Moxxie. They had each other; they didn't need him. Want him.
Flick.
Moxxie and him. He didn’t know why the little imp had agreed to go into business with him; he made it clear all the time that he knew Blitzø was useless.
Flick.
Loona. He'd fished her out of the pound at least, so maybe he'd done that much right, but even if he was stupid it didn't mean he was dumb. He couldn't help her. He’d never been what she needed, would never be what she needed. She knew it too, and he knew she knew every time he saw her look at him with disdain. She was right, she was right, she was right.
Flick.
Verosika. She’d been so much fun then, all shine and dazzle, a party girl who was up for anything, any time, and he’d been so sure that was all it would ever be, a distraction for the both of them. But that couldn’t last. He ruined everything eventually. He’d made her as miserable as he was.
Flick.
Fizz. Does anybody love you, Blitz-O?
Flick.
Fizz had been so talented, so good, so kind, so much better than he had ever been–it was no wonder that Dad had wanted him to be his son instead–and Blitzø had blown him up about it. He’d blown his limbs off. He’d ruined his life.
Flick.
Finally there it was, the worst photo. The one he’d been looking for. Mom, and him, and Barb, and he couldn’t even see it anymore through his tears, which good, he didn’t deserve to.
Blitzø curled up and finally let himself sob. Mama would hate him for what he'd done. Barbie did hate him for it. Alone, alone, alone, and it was only what he’d always deserved.