Planes and soup
Stolas
Stolas wished he could forget.
Not everything, of course—just the clutter, the noise, the details that didn’t matter. The numbers on the back of the Mamo’s Flakes cereal box when he was seven. The exact angle of light filtering through his bedroom window at 5:42 a.m. The intricate, swirling patterns on Stella’s floor that had driven him to madness. None of it meant anything. None of it should matter.
Yet his mind refused to discard a single thing.
Every word ever spoken to him, every flickering bulb in a room, every insignificant freckle on a stranger’s face—his memory hoarded it all, stacking detail upon detail in a relentless, unyielding catalog. It was a gift. It was a curse.
And it made arguing with him an actual bitch.
That had at least been useful. No one could challenge him on his recollection. He aced his classes without effort, corrected teachers without hesitation, and had tried—often in vain—to impress his father with his endless repository of knowledge. It was something to do. Something to cling to.
So when his father, Paimon, loomed over him one evening, his presence cold and shadowed, and suggested—no, dictated—that Stolas would be attending college in America, Stolas was ready. Every argument was locked and loaded. Every reason why this was a waste of time, a pointless endeavor, a blatant insult. Plainly, why it was bullshit.
“I already have more than enough knowledge to take your place as duke—” Stolas began, his voice firm, unwavering.
Paimon’s sea-blue eyes narrowed, their sharpness enough to cleave his words in half.
“If, gods forbid, something were to happen—” he tried again, but the moment the words left his lips, Paimon lifted a gloved hand. The movement was slight, but its meaning was absolute.
Stolas swallowed his protests.
“Lower yourself in my presence, boy,” Paimon’s voice thundered, each syllable striking like the crack of a gunshot. It echoed through the cavernous room, reverberating in Stolas’s chest. “You will be going. I will not hear another word about it.”
The duke rose from his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. The conversation was over.
Stolas’s shoulders slumped in reluctant defeat. His gaze dropped to the floor, its dark polish reflecting the dim glow of the chandelier above. The only sound was the rhythmic patter of rain against the windowpane. He did not look up, not even as he heard Paimon’s measured footsteps moving toward the door.
But they stopped.
“Lamina agrees this is a good idea, too.”
The words were delivered with detached finality. As if his mother’s opinion was merely a footnote, an afterthought.
Then the door slammed shut.
The noise echoed like a gunshot in the silence, making Stolas flinch. A cold weight settled in his chest.
Lamina?
His mother hadn’t spoken to him in months. The last time he had heard from her was on his seventeenth birthday—if it could even be called that. A letter, addressed incorrectly, wishing him a “Happy 16th.” A photo tucked inside, a smiling family that did not include him. The image had burned itself into his mind: his mother, beaming, surrounded by a life she had chosen that did not involve her son.
---
Packing was mechanical.
Half of his suitcase was filled with books—gardening guides, astronomy charts, economic theory. The things that made sense. The things that wouldn’t abandon him.
Astaroth, his little sister, had insisted he bring her stuffed owl, her tiny hands clutching it to her chest like it was some holy relic. Stolas had relented, stuffing it carefully between his clothes, feeling the soft, worn fabric beneath his fingers.
As he zipped up the bag, a faint creak from the doorway caught his ear.
Stolas turned, catching the hesitant figures lingering in the threshold. Astaroth stood there, arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes wide with unspoken worry. Ipos, his younger brother, loomed beside her, arms crossed but gaze unsure.
His expression softened. “Come here.”
Astaroth wasted no time, dashing forward and throwing herself at him, her small arms wrapping around his long waist in a fierce grip.
Stolas hesitated only a second before returning the embrace, his hand smoothing over her dark curls. When he glanced up, Ipos was still rooted to the spot.
With a tilt of his head, Stolas motioned him forward.
Ipos scoffed—hesitated—then followed his sister’s lead, gripping onto Stolas in an unspoken admission. No words were needed.
A gentle throat-clearing interrupted the moment.
“Sir Stolas, the cab is here for you.”
Graham, a long-time butler, stood in the doorway, his posture rigid, his voice polished and precise.
“Thank you, Graham,” the siblings said in unison, their voices blending as naturally as breathing. The butler allowed himself the smallest of smiles before giving a slight bow and exiting.
Stolas grabbed his suitcase.
“You promise to visit?” Ipos’s voice was quiet, his usual guarded tone absent.
Stolas arched a brow. “Of course. Always.”
He reached out, ruffling his brother’s neatly combed hair. Ipos scowled, batting his hand away, but didn’t step back.
Stolas pulled him in anyway. Ipos stiffened but eventually relented, gripping the fabric of Stolas’s cardigan in an awkward, reluctant hug.
“Love you, Ippy.”
Ipos made a vague, dismissive hum against his shoulder. But he didn’t pull away.
---
The entire fucking plane ride was torture. Genuinely torture.
Stolas has only been on planes for his father’s business, always in first class.
Now, though, he was not. He was by some screaming child by eyes so blue it made goosebumps ride up his arm. Gods, he was never having kids. The space was packed full, not one inch unoccupied by a stray bag or leg. Eventually, the fight attendants gave up on trying to get people to put their things into carry on and, “Die! All of you!” a attendant had screamed as she was dragged off the plane for attacking a passenger.
After that, people had mostly calmed down, silently watching television on a screen or snoring loudly so Stolas could not focus. Light turbulence shook the plane as Stolas looked out the window.
”Stolas, what are you doing?” His fathers voice rang out in his head.
”Looking outside of the window, father.” Ten year old Stolas responded.
His father had scoffed, reaching over the young boy and closing the airplane window. “You don’t do that.”
His father never explained why. Didn’t need to. If Stolas questioned his father for even a second, he’d be met with a firm hand to the face.
Stolas’s eyebrows furrowed at the memory, and he stared more intently out the window, as if he was wining a fight with his father by doing so.
After the flight, Stolas dragged himself through lobby and waited atleast a half hour for his bag to arrive on the conveyer belt.
He didn’t have time— that’s a lie, he didn’t have the energy— to pick up food once he had found the college. After strolling around like a lost puppy for thirty minutes, he gathered up the courage to ask someone for directions.
”Hello, Ma’am. I was wondering if you are aware of where the dorm hall is?”
He saw the woman’s blue eyes wander along his body. He suddenly felt the strong urge to bolt.
”Ofcoursesugar!” Holy shit she spoke quick. Stolas is just about dragged to an elevator, the woman latching onto his arm like a magnet. After a few moments of silence, she spoke.
”So, what’s your name?” She traced over the soft fabric on his arm.
”It is Stolas.” He gave a polite smile as he gently stole his arm back.
The elevator dinged, and the two stepped out onto unevenly carpeted floor. The two walked down the hallway, the woman talking his ear off about something, but he was busy wondering when the fuck she’d stop talking. He tuned in just in time to catch her asking him a question.
”Cutie, wheredya say your room is?”
Oh shit.
Whats the number?
He gently pulled his arm away— again, when would she get the hint?—
“Oh, it’s four o’ three.” He thought another moment. “You know, you really didn’t have to walk me all the way—“
”Oh, nonsense Stolas!” She just about screamed into his ear.
The two stopped at a door label ‘403’.
“And thhhiiiisssss would be your dorm. Have fun, ya tall drink o’ water.”
The blonde-haired woman slithered a paper into his hand and sauntered away, swaying her hips with exaggerated flair.
Stolas blinked. He was never asking anyone for directions ever again. Good lords, he’d just asked for directions to the dorm hall, not an entire escort.
The room itself was modest. Two beds—one lofted, one low to the ground. Both empty, their mattresses unwelcoming and stiff. A single door, presumably leading to the bathroom. No kitchen, which meant he’d be relying on a dining hall.
With a sigh, he propped his suitcase against the wall and collapsed onto the unmade mattress. The springs groaned beneath his weight.
God fucking damn it.
He needed blankets. Pillows. Something to make the space feel less like a holding cell.
For now, though, he buried his face into the mattress, letting exhaustion settle over him.
The last thing he heard before sleep took him over was: “FUCK YOU MOXXIE!” and the slamming of a door.
Blitzo
This time, it wasn’t a stupid argument over the color of some dumb fucking dress that got him kicked out.
No.
It was a can of goddamn soup.
Sure, Izzi had said it was off-limits, but seriously—it's soup. Who cares?
A-fucking-parently, Izzi did.
“BLITZO!!” she screamed from the kitchen.
Blitzo groaned, pressing a pillow over his exposed ear while the other was mashed against the rough fabric of the couch. Could she not yell? He was nursing the worst fucking hangover, genuinely wanting to dissolve into hell itself.
“Whhhhaaaaatttt,” he groaned, cracking one eye open to the glow of a Ghostbusters rerun playing on the cheap cable TV.
Izzi stomped into the living room, planting herself in front of the screen. “Did you eat my fucking soup?”
Blitzo craned his neck, trying to see past her. He cast a quick glance at her face.
Uh oh.
She was pissed.
“Uuuuhhhmm. No. I did not. Couldya move a little?”
In response, Izzi spun around and knocked the TV off the stand, yanking the plug out in the process. The screen hit the floor with a sickening thud.
Blitzo didn’t have to be a genius to know it was broken.
Oh hell no.
“Fucking what, Izzi?! I paid good money for that!” He pushed himself up with one hand, voice rising.
“No, you didn’t! And if you don’t apologize for eating my food, I’m calling the cops!” she shot back, hand on her hip, eyes blazing with completely unnecessary fury.
“I ain’t eat your soup!”
They locked eyes, a tense, silent stand-off. Izzi scanned his face like some kind of goddamn lie-detecting robot.
Just as Blitzo opened his mouth—definitely not to deflect, because he was such a great fucking person—she cut him off.
“Get the hell out of my house.”
“Over soup?!”
“Yes, over soup! Get the fuck out!” she screeched, jabbing a manicured finger toward the door.
Blitzo’s mouth flapped open and closed. Well. Fine. He scoffed, making a dramatic show of grabbing his phone, purely out of spite.
At the doorway, they faced off one last time.
“Good fucking riddance,” Izzi sneered, yanking the door open.
“Whatever. By the way, everyone and their mom can hear you fucking that bastard every weekend!”
He barely got the words out before the door slammed in his face.
Fucking fine. Great.
Blitzo stalked down the sidewalk, debating whether to A) sell a kidney for cash or B) fuck his way into a place to crash.
A flyer flapping against a brick wall caught his eye, shifting his decision away from organ donation:
ROOMMATE WANTED
CONTACT: [email protected]
Aw, fuck yes.
He ripped the flyer off the wall and stuffed it into his pocket, strutting down the street with a little extra pep in his step.
---
Later, at a McDonald's, Blitzo leaned against the counter, side-eyeing a suspicious-looking child staring at him from the play place.
“Heeeeyyy, this Roxxie?”
A confused voice answered, “Uhm… it’s Moxxie, but yes! Why are you—”
“Uh huh. Yeah, I’m callin’ about that flyer. The roommate thing still up?”
“The roommate offer? Yeah, it is.”
A pause.
“Sooo… where’s it at?”
“Crumbs, yeah. Here, I’ll text you the address. We can talk when you get here.”
Moxxie turned out to be a pretty chill guy.
Sure, his rules were… specific.
No walnuts—he was allergic.
No “company” over when he was home.
No waking up at five in the afternoon just to ask Moxxie “what’s the male name for a horse” because Blitzo had dreamed about it.
(Maybe that last one had to be added after several incidents, but that’s unrelated.)
They negotiated rent—30/70 until Blitzo secured a job—and Moxxie leaned against the counter, welcoming Blitzo to the apartment.
---
“Hey, Blitzo, can we talk?” A few months later, Moxxie called from in the kitchen to Blitzo who was sitting on the couch stuffing his face with Chex mix.
Every fucking alarm bell was going off in Blitzo’s head.
Shit!
Where did he fuck up? He’d done some of the laundry, wasn’t really ever too loud, and only broke Moxxie’s rules when he met this really hot girl at the bar.
He’d been the best fucking roommate!
“Uuuuhhhh.. sure, Mox.” He tested. Surely, Moxxie wouldn’t just kick him out without notice. Blitzo would probably have atleast a week to figure his shit out.
“I’ve been thinking of going to college,” Blitzo’s head just about did a 180, whipping around to look at the short man. When Moxxie saw the utterly confused look in his eyes, he said, “It’s school. Like, after high school school. The one down the street?”
“I know what the fuck college is, Mox,” Blitzo deadpanned, rolling his eyes. “What’s that gotta do with me?”
“I was thinking of moving into a dorm.”
Blitzo stared at him.
Alright, what the fuck.
“What’s that mean for the apartment?” Like the amazing roommate-friend he was, he chose not to rip into Moxxie for this bullshit just yet. Yet.
“Well, I thought of it, and there’s really only two options—“
Blitzo’s head kind of blocked out what Moxxie said, but he got the gist of it. Blitzo could either take the entire rent of the apartment (in what fucking world would he even start to have the money for that?), or he could apply for a scholarship and get a dorm— for fucking free!
So two days later, he hauled his ass to that fancy ass office with someone staring at him as he preached his sob story. A choir of, “My parents never quite had enough money to put on the table.” and “Yeah, had to run away right after high school.” secured him the scholarship by some goddamn miracle! Although those weren’t exactly lies, Blitzo still walked out of that office feeling like he cheated their asses.
Less than three months later, Blitzo and Moxxie were strutting into that dorm hall like he owned the damned place— Moxxie was kind of shrinking into himself. It was early September, so the duo had a few days to figure their shit out before classes started.
As Blitzo stood in the doorway, he turned around when he heard a woman’s voice.
“Cutie, wheredya say your dorm is?” A blonde, tanned woman walked beside a fucking tall dude, her fingers dancing across the guy’s arm. He couldn’t see their faces, as their backs were turned to him.
And what nice backs they were.
“Oh,” The dude— Blitzo heard a british accent. A brit in fucking New York? Not the point. The dude not so subtlety brushed her touch off, an awkward twinge in his voice. “It’s four o’ three. You know, you really didn’t need to walk me all the way-“
“Oh, nonsense Stolas,” Stolas? What a weird fucking name- wait, he can’t be talking. His name is fucking Blitzo. The blonde lady turned to a door labeled ‘403’, grabbing the man’s shoulders to spin him towards the door as well.
“And tttthhhiissss would be your room! Have fun, ya y’all drink o’ water.” He saw the woman sneak a piece of paper into the man’s- no, Stolas’s hand, sashaying away after doing so.
Once the woman had walked away, Stolas fumbled with his keys. From this angle, Blitzo could partially see his face.
He had stark blue eyes, pale skin, and a mole by his eye. His nose was hooked, giving him a bird like quality.
…what’s that that Doja Cat said ‘bout noses?
His hair was dark gray, but he didn’t look old. Maybe it was dyed? There was a lighter streak of hair, but Blitzo didn’t get to ogle more as he entered the room and shut the door behind him.
That was a fucking shame.
“Hey, Blitzo, if you’re done staring at our neighbor, you’ve got a suitcase to unpack.
Blitzo practically felt his entire face on fire, and he whipped around to face Moxxie.
“FUCK YOU MOXXIE!” He prayed to whatever god had probably already abandoned him that Moxxie didn’t hear the crack at the end of his sentence.
Evidently, he did. The bastard just about died of laughter as Blitzo slammed the dorm door shut.
As he fell asleep, he started to think that no god has abandoned him.
He’s been rewarded with a tall piece of ass right across the hall.