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“Why do you still insist on owning this photograph?” Barok grumbles, eyes fixed on the framed photograph in the exact centre of the mantlepiece.
Albert glances at the photograph—a picture on him and Barok at university over ten years ago, Albert holding a trophy and beaming at the camera whilst Barok gives a broad smile, a strange sight compared to modern Barok’s constant scowl, his hand resting on Albert’s shoulder—and says, “Because it’s one of my favourite memories of you—of us.”
“Fool,” Barok says, but his frown fades, and Albert spies a rare, tiny smile twitching on his partner’s lips.