[ it would be just blitzø's fucking luck that tonight, of all fucking nights, everything goes wrong.
it starts with the van. after spending half the afternoon trying to convince himself that fizz doesn't actually (rightfully) hate the shit out of him anymore (they're fine, right? they made up. maybe not under the best of circumstances, and maybe with very little time for a proper apology, but - they hugged, which seems like a lot) - after spending an hour talking himself into and out of canceling (honestly, it's loona who talks him out of it, and tells him he'd just be even more of a shithead than he already is if he doesn't show up, but that no one would be surprised), he resigns himself to his fate, and when it comes time for him to leave, he heads down to the parking lot outside of his apartment, only to be met with... a flat tire.
a flat fucking tire. like, practically-resting-on-the-rim flat, otherwise he'd have just thrown caution to the wind and driven it anyway. but a flat's not a big deal, he can fucking change a tire. he's still got enough time. the flat's not really even the problem, it's the fact that somewhere in the process he locks his fucking keys in the van, and his phone, and truthfully, all if it sounds like a fucking sign.
he should stay home. he should stay out of fizz's life, because he'll just find a way to ruin it again, because that's just what he does now.
in the end, loona tells him to just fucking go already, that she'll stay home and take care of the van - so he does, because whatever loona wants loona gets, and he suspects what she wants most is for him to get out of her hair.
it's not a far walk to the elevators, but it's not exactly a short one, either. blitzø hustles anyway, and finds one sliver of luck in the fact that the bar isn't too much of a trek away once he makes it to the lust ring.
just short of an hour later than the time they agreed upon, blitzø hesitates outside of the bar for a few seconds, just staring up at the neon sign. fuck it, he thinks. if this turns out to be a disaster, well. that's just one more trainwreck to add to the list of many that make up his shitty life, so what the hell.
with far more confidence than he actually possesses at the moment, blitzø waltzes into the bar, his hands sliding into his jacket pockets. his eyes dart around as he pushes through the loose crowd of patrons, but fizz is relatively easy to spot. he always has been, for blitzø, even before fizz got big, even before his face was plastered on every billboard, on the sides of buses, made into a godawful robot at a shitty amusement park.
blitzø approaches like he hasn't left fizz waiting for nearly an hour, flicking one of the little pompoms on the end of his hat as he plops into the stool beside him. ]
no subject
it starts with the van. after spending half the afternoon trying to convince himself that fizz doesn't actually (rightfully) hate the shit out of him anymore (they're fine, right? they made up. maybe not under the best of circumstances, and maybe with very little time for a proper apology, but - they hugged, which seems like a lot) - after spending an hour talking himself into and out of canceling (honestly, it's loona who talks him out of it, and tells him he'd just be even more of a shithead than he already is if he doesn't show up, but that no one would be surprised), he resigns himself to his fate, and when it comes time for him to leave, he heads down to the parking lot outside of his apartment, only to be met with... a flat tire.
a flat fucking tire. like, practically-resting-on-the-rim flat, otherwise he'd have just thrown caution to the wind and driven it anyway. but a flat's not a big deal, he can fucking change a tire. he's still got enough time. the flat's not really even the problem, it's the fact that somewhere in the process he locks his fucking keys in the van, and his phone, and truthfully, all if it sounds like a fucking sign.
he should stay home. he should stay out of fizz's life, because he'll just find a way to ruin it again, because that's just what he does now.
in the end, loona tells him to just fucking go already, that she'll stay home and take care of the van - so he does, because whatever loona wants loona gets, and he suspects what she wants most is for him to get out of her hair.
it's not a far walk to the elevators, but it's not exactly a short one, either. blitzø hustles anyway, and finds one sliver of luck in the fact that the bar isn't too much of a trek away once he makes it to the lust ring.
just short of an hour later than the time they agreed upon, blitzø hesitates outside of the bar for a few seconds, just staring up at the neon sign. fuck it, he thinks. if this turns out to be a disaster, well. that's just one more trainwreck to add to the list of many that make up his shitty life, so what the hell.
with far more confidence than he actually possesses at the moment, blitzø waltzes into the bar, his hands sliding into his jacket pockets. his eyes dart around as he pushes through the loose crowd of patrons, but fizz is relatively easy to spot. he always has been, for blitzø, even before fizz got big, even before his face was plastered on every billboard, on the sides of buses, made into a godawful robot at a shitty amusement park.
blitzø approaches like he hasn't left fizz waiting for nearly an hour, flicking one of the little pompoms on the end of his hat as he plops into the stool beside him. ]
Heyyy, bitch.