Music To My Ears

Listen To My Siren Song

Why hadn't Blitzø stopped him? Stolas had teleported away from Blitzø’s office, likely for the last time ever. Now, he sat in a dimly lit bar, one hand resting on his chin while the other shook his drink, watching the green absinthe swirl in its glass. His thoughts churned endlessly, replaying the scene where he had walked away, leaving Blitzø with a simple conversation, yet hiding the depth of his true feelings. But would it have mattered? Would Blitzø ever reciprocate those feelings, or will he have to suffer alone?

A deep groan escaped him, and he rubbed his temples with weary fingers. He was exhausted—physically, emotionally, and utterly heartbroken. Stella had been right about him all along. He was nothing but a pathetic excuse for a man, a prince, and a husband. His relationship with Blitzø was supposed to be purely transactional, but somewhere along the way, he had fallen hopelessly in love with the imp. Instead of drowning his sorrows at home like a pathetic person, he found himself in this bar, now nursing his third bottle of absinthe.

He wanted to go home, but it wouldn't change how tired and miserable he felt right now. Usually, he'd drown his problems in alcohol, but that's exactly what he was doing at the moment. Sometimes he'd sing about his troubles, but that used to anger Stella. But Stella wasn't here anymore; they were no longer together. He could express his feelings through a song.

Glancing at the karaoke stage, empty with the machine sitting there, he stood up, swaying a little, and stumbled towards it. Flipping through the songs, he chose one that truly expressed his emotions. The machine started playing the music, the sound echoing through the bar, catching a few people's attention. Stolas took the microphone in his hands, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

"I know I ended it, but why won't you chase after me?" he sang, his voice trembling with emotion. He wished Blitzø would drag him back to the office, stop him from leaving. He yearned to stay with Blitzø forever, yet he knew Blitzø didn't want him, or else he wouldn't be here. "You know me better than I do." It was true; Blitzø understood him better than he understood himself. He never knew his own desires or needs, but Blitzø always did. Blitzø knew exactly what to do in any situation, how to soothe him, how to take control.

"Why didn't you stop me?" Why didn't Blitzø try to stop him from leaving? Did Blitzø want him to be gone forever, to not be in his life? Did the imp hate him that much? He repeated the lyrics and then said, "And paint it over." He tapped his foot on the floor, swaying his hips around as the song continued to play, waiting for the next part of the song.

"I look for a picture of you,” he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking, “to keep in my pocket.” He sang, knowing he had many pictures of Blitzø, but each one seemed to express annoyance whenever Blitzø was around Stolas. “But I can't seem to find one,” he sang with a heavy heart, “where you look how I remember.” There was a time when Stolas would gaze at Blitzø as if he were a star, a cosmos—something beyond this world. But now, he couldn't look at him the same way. Blitzø had become a distant star, far beyond his reach. He missed the times when he could look at Blitzø and see the Blitzø he remembered—the days before disaster struck between the owl and the imp.

“Look how I remember.” He sang repeating the lyrics again, he felt tears welled in his eyes, and his voice cracked, garnering the attention of the bar patrons, who cheered him to continue singing. He sang the final lines, “Paint it over,” with pain in his heart. Mascara ran down his cheeks as he looked around the bar, the music blasting. As he examined the crowd, his sight fell on someone at a table, holding a Beelzejuice and looking back at him. His eyesight dimmed, and dizziness came in. Among the cheers, his ears were ringing, and suddenly everything went black.

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When he awoke, a piercing ache surged through his skull. He grumbled, rubbed his eyes, and absorbed in his new surroundings. This was not his room. Glancing down, he noticed he was still in yesterday's clothes. He studied the room more, rising to inspect a window, concluding that he was in a hotel room. A note was on a nearby stand, alongside a glass of water and a pill. He eagerly accepted the pill and drank the water.