[This is already aggressively fucking awkward, and Blitzo-- shit, Blitzø, got to remember the o is silent now-- isn't even there yet.
It's one thing to reconnect in a high pressure situation like a kidnapping, where imminent danger and adrenaline kept things from being stilted and awkward, or to be in a work environment like with Mammon, but just hanging out? What the fuck would they even say to one another?
Blitzø used to be his best friend in the world, they spent every day together and shared everything. Now? Were they even friends? Tentative not-enemies? Fuck, why is he so nervous about this stupid hang-out he's agreed to? It's not like he's a blushing virgin on a first date, he's just a guy having drinks with an old pal. An old pal who blew all his fucking limbs off. Noooooo problem.
Fizz is sat at the bar nursing a brightly coloured cocktail as he waits. He's already had to fend off a couple of fans, and he's pretty sure there's only so much longer he can hold onto the spare stool next to him before someone just takes it by force. Checking his phone again, impatient-- come on, Blitzø. Maybe this is a bad idea, maybe he should just go?]
[ 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. ]
Fifteen minutes after the agreed time and Fizz sends a text, which gets no reply (because of the phone locked inside the van). Thirty minutes after and he calls... and still gets no reply (because of the aforementioned phone in van incident), and after his third call just rings to voicemail, he's a confusing mix of humiliated, sad, and furious.
Why hasn't he come?
Doesn't he want to reconnect? Is he angry that Fizz held a grudge all this time? Fuck, he doesn't even know if he doesn't still hold a grudge-- accident or not, he still lost more than he could put into words that day. Shit, this was the stupidest idea ever. He should just go home, cry into Ozzie's chest about it, and go back to a life that doesn't include Blitzo fucking Buckzo, silent o or not.
And then all of a sudden there he is.]
You're nowhere near hot enough to get away with being this late.
[It's more of a grumble than a real insult, more relieved than he wants to admit that he hasn't actually been stood up.]
Okay, [ he says, a doubtful little laugh tacked onto the end of it. he swivels in his stool a little so he's facing fizz more than he is the bar, and leans his elbow on the bar top, a shitty little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he reaches to pick up what he assumes is fizz's drink. he takes a sip, makes a face that's honestly kind of hard to read - is it good, is it bad? who can say - and then sets the drink back down in front of fizz. ] Let's not start by telling lies.
[ honestly, the confidence, the nonchalance, it's all false. in truth, blitzø's insides feel like loose static, a low buzz of anxiety tucked uncomfortably under his ribcage. there's no reason for him to feel nervous about hanging out with fizzarolli, about catching up, because - they made up. hugged it out, and let go of old hate, so why does blitzø feel like he could crawl out of his skin? they used to be best friends, attached at the fucking hip. this should be easy.
blitzø turns away from fizz and reaches across the bar top with both hands, hoisting himself up a little so he's more noticeable. he flags down the bartender with a subtle lift of one of his hands, and then sits back in his seat again while he waits for his turn. ]
Besides - [ again, super casual, but there's a different kind of doubt in his town this time, like he already doesn't buy his own bullshit. ] - I'm not that late.
Yeah, whatever. You're lucky I'm still here, but the bartender is hot and this is my third free drink.
[He shrugs his shoulders as if he ever would have actually left. It's sort of true, the bartender has been giving him free drinks, but Fizz would still have been here even if he'd been paying double. He might not want to admit it to himself because it's pathetic, but he would have waited until fucking closing time before he had to admit Blitzø stood him up.
Taking another long sip of his drink, he offers a smile sideways that's at least half genuine.]
Better late than never, I guess.
[Is he talking about Blitzø showing up tonight, or the repairing of their friendship at all? Who knows?]
I see you still have zero fashion sense for going out, you know there are colours other than red and black, right?
[ is the bartender hot? blitzø hadn't really noticed before, but he takes a beat to have a second look, turning away from fizz to glance down toward the end of the bar. unfortunately, they have their back turned, so he's just going to have to wait until it's his turn to order a drink to oogle them.
he turns back to fizz and rolls his eyes. ]
Please, like you don't get people throwing free shit at you everywhere you go.
[ he doesn't say it like it's meant to be a dig, just - a fact. fizzarolli probably has one of the most recognizable faces in all of hell, beloved by fucking everyone in the way he always dreamed of being. well, maybe not exactly how he'd imagined it, but - blitzø's proud of him either way. even if it does mean he gets to brag about getting free drinks.
speaking of - blitzø shifts his attention away from his friend again to order a drink (and hey, the bartender is kind of hot), seemingly unfazed by the comment about his fashion sense. he swivels back around on his stool and reaches out to flick one of his fingers against fizz's shoulder. ]
Listen. I make red and black look good, bitch. Talk to me when you don't look like you got raw dogged by like - six fuckin' rainbows, alright?
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reconnecting over drinks | blitzø and fizz
It's one thing to reconnect in a high pressure situation like a kidnapping, where imminent danger and adrenaline kept things from being stilted and awkward, or to be in a work environment like with Mammon, but just hanging out? What the fuck would they even say to one another?
Blitzø used to be his best friend in the world, they spent every day together and shared everything. Now? Were they even friends? Tentative not-enemies? Fuck, why is he so nervous about this stupid hang-out he's agreed to? It's not like he's a blushing virgin on a first date, he's just a guy having drinks with an old pal. An old pal who blew all his fucking limbs off. Noooooo problem.
Fizz is sat at the bar nursing a brightly coloured cocktail as he waits. He's already had to fend off a couple of fans, and he's pretty sure there's only so much longer he can hold onto the spare stool next to him before someone just takes it by force. Checking his phone again, impatient-- come on, Blitzø. Maybe this is a bad idea, maybe he should just go?]
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.
no subject
Fifteen minutes after the agreed time and Fizz sends a text, which gets no reply (because of the phone locked inside the van). Thirty minutes after and he calls... and still gets no reply (because of the aforementioned phone in van incident), and after his third call just rings to voicemail, he's a confusing mix of humiliated, sad, and furious.
Why hasn't he come?
Doesn't he want to reconnect? Is he angry that Fizz held a grudge all this time? Fuck, he doesn't even know if he doesn't still hold a grudge-- accident or not, he still lost more than he could put into words that day. Shit, this was the stupidest idea ever. He should just go home, cry into Ozzie's chest about it, and go back to a life that doesn't include Blitzo fucking Buckzo, silent o or not.
And then all of a sudden there he is.]
You're nowhere near hot enough to get away with being this late.
[It's more of a grumble than a real insult, more relieved than he wants to admit that he hasn't actually been stood up.]
no subject
[ honestly, the confidence, the nonchalance, it's all false. in truth, blitzø's insides feel like loose static, a low buzz of anxiety tucked uncomfortably under his ribcage. there's no reason for him to feel nervous about hanging out with fizzarolli, about catching up, because - they made up. hugged it out, and let go of old hate, so why does blitzø feel like he could crawl out of his skin? they used to be best friends, attached at the fucking hip. this should be easy.
blitzø turns away from fizz and reaches across the bar top with both hands, hoisting himself up a little so he's more noticeable. he flags down the bartender with a subtle lift of one of his hands, and then sits back in his seat again while he waits for his turn. ]
Besides - [ again, super casual, but there's a different kind of doubt in his town this time, like he already doesn't buy his own bullshit. ] - I'm not that late.
no subject
[He shrugs his shoulders as if he ever would have actually left. It's sort of true, the bartender has been giving him free drinks, but Fizz would still have been here even if he'd been paying double. He might not want to admit it to himself because it's pathetic, but he would have waited until fucking closing time before he had to admit Blitzø stood him up.
Taking another long sip of his drink, he offers a smile sideways that's at least half genuine.]
Better late than never, I guess.
[Is he talking about Blitzø showing up tonight, or the repairing of their friendship at all? Who knows?]
I see you still have zero fashion sense for going out, you know there are colours other than red and black, right?
no subject
he turns back to fizz and rolls his eyes. ]
Please, like you don't get people throwing free shit at you everywhere you go.
[ he doesn't say it like it's meant to be a dig, just - a fact. fizzarolli probably has one of the most recognizable faces in all of hell, beloved by fucking everyone in the way he always dreamed of being. well, maybe not exactly how he'd imagined it, but - blitzø's proud of him either way. even if it does mean he gets to brag about getting free drinks.
speaking of - blitzø shifts his attention away from his friend again to order a drink (and hey, the bartender is kind of hot), seemingly unfazed by the comment about his fashion sense. he swivels back around on his stool and reaches out to flick one of his fingers against fizz's shoulder. ]
Listen. I make red and black look good, bitch. Talk to me when you don't look like you got raw dogged by like - six fuckin' rainbows, alright?