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Above Elliott’s desk is a large corkboard; unlike the one in his public drop ship pod, this one is covered in more personal effects. What Bloth knows is his first fan letter hangs in the top right corner, a simple piece of torn notebook paper with childish, colored-pencil scrawl. Aside from that there are official letters and statements from the Games, a handful of receipts that are meaningless to Bloth, and an absolutely overwhelming amount of photos. It’s interesting- most people have holos, these days, rather than printed pictures. Here is one of Wraith, glaring at the camera; there is one of Elliott, slightly younger, clean-shaven, arm around an older woman with a familiar slant to her mouth. Below that: a cluster of the same men, all in Militia uniforms, throwing up peace signs, holding MREs. In one photo, one of them is holding a pan, the indistinct beige disc of a half-cooked pancake hanging over the rim. Bloth can see flecks of batter on his bare forearm, and he’s cutting his eyes at the camera, teeth bared in a smile.
For some reason, this is their favorite. Though below it is a close second, a picture of Elliott with all three of his brothers, looking distinctly gangly with a spray of facial hair, it is this candid of the eldest Witt sibling that Bloth always finds catches their eye. That pan is in the cabinet, they know, have even watched Elliott cook with it. In the photo there is a little notch in the rim, close to the handle, and whenever Elliott sees it, he says he needs to throw it away.
“Sorry for making you wait.” Their partner says as he sidles up behind them. They feel a hum from him vibrate from his chest against their back. “You look like you made yourself at home, though.” He says it as if the two of them don’t spend a ridiculous amount of time in one another’s apartments, these days.
Bloth is still focused on the picture. They never ask- not because they think he wouldn’t answer; they’re sure, given the right encouragement, that he would talk endlessly on the subject. He shies from the topic, for the most part, though. They only ever hear him mention his siblings off hand. They know the pain of missing someone that acutely. Sometimes, the forgetting is easier, and no matter how Bloth feels about the dead, they would never force their own beliefs upon him.
“Do you ever wish you had a picture of me?” They ask. On their stomach his hands still, and his voice sounds quiet and confused.
“I… don’t know.”
They turn in his arms. “It is okay if you do.” He’s chewing his lip guiltily. His eyes don’t meet theirs, instead looking over their shoulder at the board.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Sometimes.”
“I suppose it would not be the same with the mask?” Bloth plays with the hem of his shirt. He’s freshly showered, dressed down to join them on the couch. Their ankle is in a cast, and they’ll be down and out for another few weeks. They have been going unbearably stir crazy, especially when he’s in the games. It’s not so much him being gone than knowing they are missing out.
“Better than nothing.” Elliott says, in a tone that’s so sincere it makes Bloth smile.
“Ah, elskan, you could have told me.” They kiss him then, a dry pass of their lips. His hands loosen on their waist and he laughs.
“I never thought… well…” He cups their face, and looks at them. The full, unadulterated weight of his gaze on them always makes them take pause. There is something in the way he always looks part thankful, part hungry. “I didn’t want to assume… or-or overstep.”
“I admit, I do not want you to take a picture of me without my mask. But I can give you one.”
He blinks. “You have pictures of yourself?”
“Very few. And they are from when I was younger.” Bloth laughs at the incredulous look on Elliott’s face. “Is that so hard for you to believe?”
“No-no, I-” Suddenly he sweeps them into a kiss, a failure of one really because he’s smiling so big. “You’ll give one to me?”
“Yes. It is very unlikely anyone would recognize me.”
“You could say the same of a picture of you now!” He teases.
“I have many more, ah,” Bloth pauses, then smiles. “-distinctive markings.”
“Hard to imagine you didn’t just pop into existence like this.” Elliott muses, thumbing one of the scars on their face.
“I will give you one that is before I got this,” they point to the jagged marks on their face. “-but after this.” Bloth dabs at the dark swath of ink that starts below their bottom lip.
Eyes brightening, his hand moves to the tattoo. His knuckles trace down the line of their throat, stopping where the ink disappears under their collar. There his fingers rest, and he presses the weight of his palm to their chest.
“You’re really going to give me one? Be-be-because you don’t have to, y’know? I know- I know-”
He falls silent when they press their fingers to his lips. “I would normally remind you to breathe, but you do not need to clarify. I want you to have this. I know how much it would mean to you, ástin mín. And at this point…” Underneath their hand he looks pleasantly shell-shocked. Oh, but they love him. “At this point, I do not intend to share myself with anyone else.”
His grin turns soppy, his eyes a little watery, but he ruins the effect by purring out, “Oh, yeah?”
“Always a question with you.” They pinch his bottom lip. “Can you not be sincere a moment of your life?”
“Hound?”
“What?” They snap, still holding his lip.
Something hits him, then, something that sweeps across his face, flicking his eyes side to side and dragging his brow down. He leans forward, ducks his face until his forehead presses to their wrist. “I want to ask you something, an-an-an-and I need you to know it’s okay with me, whatever you say.”
Frowning, Bloth says, “Okay.”
“Do you…” He takes a deep breath. “Hype-puh-hyper-hypothetically… want to get married? Someday.” He’s still not looking at them, and they stare at the top of his scalp. “Not, uh, not to me, could be anyone! Um. Not that you’re, y’know, well not that I can judge because I’m- I’m just seeing where you’re at, adult conversations on l-life, and all that.”
Bloth lets the silence stretch too long, because Elliott looks up and mumbles, “Yikes, you’re only this quiet in the ring.”
“Yes.” They blurt, surprising even themself. They draw their hands away from his face, blinking,
His eyes go wide, and they watch him reign in a monster of a smile, biting down on his bottom lip so hard it must hurt. “Really? I mean- cool! Great! Great to know where you’re… at.” His hands are shaking on the small of their back. Bloth sets their own unsteady hand on his shoulder.
“Just… promise me it will not be a public proposal.” They attempt to jest, but their voice comes out a little breathless. Elliott kisses their cheek with a smile.
“I think I can manage that.” For a moment the two of them share the tremulous embrace. Eventually, Bloth pushes him away gently, and he asks, “About that photo?”
“I will grab it in the morning, when I go to feed Artur.”
“Alright.” They don’t miss the way his eyes drag over their face, toward the board behind them. Something in his gaze is distant and sad, so they squeeze his shoulder.
“Let’s finish that movie, dear. You fell asleep last night.”
“Oh, no, someone distracted me.” His eyes fall back on them, attempting to look annoyed. They scoff.
“I do not know what you are talking about.” Bloth prods him, and he goes easily toward the living area, collapsing on the couch. They take up their place at the end, and he gets comfortable with his head on their lap. “See? It is like you want me to play with your hair.”
“Nah. Dunno what you’re talking about.” But he’s wiggling his shoulders until his head is propped just so, and the TV comes on, and Bloth notices the pillow for their ankle is still on the table from last night. Their hand comes to rest in his still-damp curls and they realize… perhaps saying yes wasn’t such a surprise after all.