then who the fuck is flying the plane
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Summary
Stolas can see the future so clearly:
Blitzø’s drunk. Or high. Or on some ineffable combination of the two Stolas could never think up. Chemicals he’s never heard of with proofs higher than Heaven. Blitzø breathes in, and silently steps off the ledge without a hint of hesitation. Just a quiet drop, and a quieter crack as he hits the pavement. He doesn’t leave a note. Just an apartment with framed pictures and his face furiously scribbled out with black marker in every single one, like a vampire with a stake through the heart.
The thought propels Stolas off of the couch for the first time in three days, and he leaves without any idea as to where the fuck he is even going, just the uneasy certainty that Blitzø is somewhere, contemplating the irreversible.
(Or: the Blitzø Bender Power Hour! feat. Stolas Trying His Best)