Blitz groans, rolling over on his shitty little couch. He shifts his weight off of the spring that’s poking at his ribs and scrubs at his eyes aggressively, snatching his phone from the table with the other hand. Blinding light immediately singes his eyeballs and he hisses, scrambling to lower the screen’s brightness. He squints at the time.
2:46am. Fucking fantastic.
He tosses the phone back onto the table and buries his face in his pillow. He’d been trying unsuccessfully to knock himself out since 10pm. He’d like to place the blame on insomnia—the usual culprit—but his mind is fucking zooming and he can’t keep ignoring the thing that’s actually keeping him awake. As determined as that Thing seems to be to ignore Blitz.
“Goddamn stupid mother fucking shitass bird.” He presses his face into the pillow so hard it hurts. He shouldn’t care. He has absolutely no business giving a singular flying fuck. Yet here he is, up until ass o’clock in the morning, bitching and moaning and tossing and turning… because Stolas is giving him the silent treatment. And has been… for months.
It’s hilarious, really. He used to have the opposite problem: the Prince would be blowing up his phone all day, bombarding him with ”Blitzy” this and ”Blitzy” that. ”Oh Blitzy, I can’t wait for the next Full Moon!” ”Oh Blitzy, do you want to come over tonight?” ”Oh Blitzy, how was your day?” Pretending to think Blitz is funny. Pretending to want to “hang out” with Blitz. Pretending to care.
Blitz grinds his teeth. He should be happy. He should be singing from the fucking rooftops because the owl had finally, finally gotten bored of pretending Blitz was anything but a cheap lay to him. But the worst part was that Stolas wasn’t even asking for that. It was radio silence from the bird, outside of the monthly excuses as to why he had to cancel their meetings, usually claiming to be busy or sick.
Blitz sighs, digging his claws into his arm. He misses Stolas. Obscenely pathetic. Fuck.
His phone vibrates loudly on the table, jolting him out of his thoughts. He fumbles for it agitatedly. Who in the unholy fuck is texting him at 3 in the morning?
