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They know that there is a certain art found in the body just as it is found in other mediums. In art, in music, in writing, in lifestyle⎼ there is art, but Bloodhound’s eye is not trained to find it.
Obi’s eyes are.
Obi finds art in everything, no matter if he looks for it or not. He finds beauty in everything.
Even in them.
- hands
Obi’s hands are exceedingly gentle. Even after the long, persistent work of today’s match, where both of them had been taken out on separate teams in the top five, he is gentle and careful.
He has a routine for the hours after the match. Bloodhound has watched him do it dozens of times. They have their own routine, the slow removal of each piece of their gear, but with Obi, they are⎼
Something in them still hesitates, at letting him see them. Entirely.
They have given him pieces. They have let him see their hands, ungloved, let him see a hint of their chin and the brunt of their gaze. Obi is more open to them, in a manner that’s particularly his: there is a certain orchestra that he uses for the eyes of the public, for people who want to see the man that turned his fate into a legend, who turned his curse into a fairy tale.
They watch him now, where he stands at his dresser across the room.
He had been taken out with a kraber to the spine. The injury had been severe enough that they had healed it all the way rather than letting their technology mend the fatal injuries and time off do the rest.
So, he is clear of any bandages as he carefully peels back his outermost jacket and slips it over a hook on the wall. Bloodhound is not the same, as their shoulder and ribcage had been torn through with a scatter of bullets from a devotion. The Syndicate had given them enough of their healing nano-technology to save them from the worst of it, but their torso is covered in bandages.
He had discarded his hat when he had entered. Now, he carefully goes with removing the rest of his gear. He had removed his earpiece already, laying it down against the desk, and now moves on to removing the fingertip coverings.
They are all gold, with the glowing technology Obi and his father had built into the fingertip area.
He has his own case to place them in, and it’s only when the box clicks shut that he⎼ Obi, not Seer, now⎼ turns around.
“I am… surprised you have not gone to your own residence yet, my darling.”
They tilt their head to indicate that they heard. Obi takes a seat next to them, the bed barely bending underneath him.
“Do you not wish to unwind? Perhaps you should bathe before Mr. Witt dedicates himself to using up all the hot water.”
“Mm. That is not something that I have not dealt with before.”
Obi laughs. It is warm, and it is delightful.
He is the one that reaches for their hands. They are still gloved, with freckles of blood spatter against the red fabric where they hunted down Horizon.
“If you are willing,” he says with a tug on the corner of their pinky. “May I?”
It is a private routine, typically. How Bloodhound goes through the act of taking off their gear little by little. Sometimes after a game, they go on a hunt, other times to the Syndicate-issued housing and in the privacy of their own room.
For the first few weeks of their relationship with Obi, they had done that.
One instance, where they had been the one to shoot him, they had visited him afterward. Somehow, from there, it became a habit to watch Seer become Obi in the after hours.
They realize with a start that they have not answered him. His fingertips are gentle in where they hover right over the fabric of their gloves, resting against where the red on the back of their palms fuses with the grey.
Something in them wants to tell him no. He would understand. He would pull away, and he would not judge them for it.
Bloodhound has spent so much of their years guarded, not letting anyone grow close because⎼
Móður. Faðir. Artur. Boone.
They cannot curl their hands into fists. Not here, not in front of him, so they try for an inhale, to try and shake the guilt that they are working to shed, little by little.
The breath clears their head, and before they can bring themselves to doubt it, they nod.
He tugs one off in one effortless, elegant motion. The other in something similar. It is not the first time he has seen their hands ungloved, but it is enough to make Bloodhound stiffen.
Obi reaches his arm around them with his free hand, resting it against the small of their back.
He sets both of their gloves down next to his thigh, then carefully slides his hand into their own.
Their hands could not be so different⎼ Obi’s, long, elegant, made deft for the creatives, whereas Bloodhound’s are strong, scarred, roughened by their years of hunting.
“Why do you hide?”
It is not meant to be rude; he explained to them that there are instances where he is a little more forward than people would expect, where he doesn’t understand people properly.
Bloodhound understands. But it does not make them want to answer the question. The word hide makes them sound like a coward.
“I prefer my privacy.”
They don’t want questions about the scars that go across their skin. Black tendrils, like spider webbing or cracked glass.
“You should not feel like you have to hide,” Obi says, tracing a thumb against the side of their skin. “Is that what this is about?”
“I am not hiding. I do not want questions about them.”
Already, they are a private person. The scars on their hands⎼ the ones that are not from the cut of a blade or the teeth of an animal⎼ would invite people to dig into their past.
Bloodhound turns their head in the slightest to focus on his hands.
His fingers are long and slender. He is clean of scars, despite his work in the Arenas. Obi thrives there; he has made it his stage as much as it is a battlefield, but there is no sign of damage. Instead, the only thing there is the callus on the side of his finger from working on his art.
He is perfect, they think. And so dedicated with them.
“There are so many stories here,” Obi murmurs, bringing their attention back to him.
He is studying their hands, a clever little furrow to his brow that makes them want to reach out and smooth it over with their thumb. It speaks to his concentration.
“Will you indulge me one day, and tell me of them? Not these, if you do not wish,” his thumb grazes against a dark, spiderweb-like scar. “But these.”
Gently, he turns their hand around in his own, and traces a finger across the scar that cuts across their palm.
Bloodhound’s body is littered with them.
Would Obi find a story in each of them?
They don’t doubt it.
“Yes, elskan. Another time, I will tell you.”
He raises their conjoined hands, pressing a kiss right against their knuckle.
“Until then, I will wait.”
2. neck
Originally, Bloodhound had thought the golden pieces set into Obi’s skin were decorations that he would take off, as he did with his golden fingernails and earpiece.
They are not. He has several tabs of gold set into his biceps, right against his shoulder. He has pulled a chair up right next to the hammock they have hung in their own room, bent over the book he has his head in.
“ Fiðrildið mitt ,” they say as a way to get his attention, and Obi glances up. He has always had such perfect posture, but there is no denying how he perks up. “Is that the book I had given you?”
“Yes,” Obi says, and it is wonderful how he brightens. “It is fascinating.”
They sweep to kiss him against his temple.
Their hand falls to the sweep of his neck, right underneath his hair, and they feel the tabs of gold he has embedded into the back of his neck. There are six in total, divided into two columns.
The skin is raised around them, and they curiously run their fingers over the tabs as they draw back.
The neck is one of the most vulnerable spots of the body. Same with the throat, the places where Bloodhound has learned to cut to kill and to spare suffering.
And here Obi is, exposing himself so openly. With so much trust.
“What are these?” They murmur at last, letting their fingers touch the golden pieces again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with these modifications.”
Obi raises his own hand, and they help by guiding it into place. “Ah. These. I had gotten these on… Psamathe, I believe.”
“I am surprised that you had gotten these before any piercings.”
“Ah, that is why I came back,” he taps his lip with a finger, where his lip rings are. “I had gotten this previously. When I returned, I had gotten these.”
A beat of silence passes. They are both comfortable in it, they have both discovered, but there is something particular about this silence.
“They are to cover up scars.”
That causes them to pause.
They had seen his body next to his, where their skin is fruitful with scars and his is clear.
Bloodhound does not vocalize the question; they know their individual thoughts on privacy. But still, Obi continues.
“Many people at my home did not like me,” he admits. “When I was born, the moon had broken and fractured. At first, people thought to blame my mother. But once I opened my eyes… all the blame fell onto me.”
The words start to shift an uncoiling emotion in Bloodhound’s gut.
“And their attitude towards me maintained as I grew up, despite doing little to warrant it. I attempted to make friends, but alas, they were still cold to me. My parents eventually had me pulled from those schools and educated me themselves. I am very thankful to them for it.”
He takes a long, winding breath before he speaks again.
“After my entrance into the Arenas, I had thought that maybe they would be more open to me. That was not the case. Instead, I had dozens blaming me for Boreas’ atmosphere, for the phenomenons occurring. Our planet is falling apart, and they thought that perhaps, through blaming me, they would right it all.”
Someone⎼ multiple people had placed the blame of their planet’s destruction on Obi’s shoulders. Obi’s broad, wonderful shoulders when he has been nothing but kind and amicable.
Bloodhound thinks of Talos. Thinks of Hammond, digging its claws into the heart of their home and ruining it, breaking it and its life and its wonders⎼
Hammond is to blame for Talos. They are destroying everything. But Obi is not doing that to his home.
“Do you blame yourself for it?”
Their voice is surprisingly steady.
Bloodhound thinks of Talos. How, originally, they had told themselves that they are a plague, that they did not do enough, that they did not stop Hammond, and for that perhaps the gods are telling them this is your home, and you are the one who made it a grave ⎼
“For Boreas’ state?” Obi sounds surprised, and his expression matches his voice as he glances back at them. “Why should I?”
Because you did not do enough to stop them, you let them hurt your home and for that, you should ⎼
“I have nothing to do with Boreas’ changing climate. Do I wish to change it, ensure that my home is kept safe, where I had learned to grow into myself? Yes. But I will not put that on my shoulders and my shoulders alone. It is not something for one person to fix.”
Bloodhound says nothing, passing their fingers over the embedded golden pieces again, just to do something besides think.
“People blamed me for the moon’s fracturing and the slow destruction of Boreas. As the temperatures started to rise, so did their anger, and they thought everything would be resolved if they struck me down.”
Their blood turns to ice.
“Strike you down?” Bloodhound repeats, their voice extremely steady despite the cold flood of anger through them.
Obi nods.
They have always prided themselves on controlling their emotions. But right then and there, Bloodhound wants nothing but to find those cruel people who thought killing Obi would solve all their problems, and perhaps deliver justice.
They turn their attention to the golden pieces again. The skin around them is raised, and as they look closer, it almost looks like scar tissue. They drag their eyes down to Obi’s shoulders, and the scar tissue is more evident there.
Someone, hating Obi enough to blame him for everything wrong when he has done nothing, trying to slice into the back of his neck. Cutting him on the shoulder.
Bloodhound brings their fingers to his shoulder, tracing over one.
“I am thankful to have lived,” Obi says, considering the golden bits on his shoulder and where their hand lies. “I do not know what it would have done if I had died.”
Obi⎼ creative, honest Obi, with his eye for art and his endless pool of kindness⎼ had been blamed for his planet’s destruction when he had nothing to do with it.
“They are lucky that I do not know them,” Bloodhound murmurs, still staring at the scar tissue. “Or else I will make sure they understand the unfairness of coming after an innocent man.”
They think about Talos; they think about their home, how they had blamed themself for it falling apart. How now, they understand that a planet’s destruction is not down to the actions of one person, not when the greater enemy is right in front of them.
3. chest
It is the first night they have asked Obi to stay.
They have already made the arrangements. They are not staying inside of the residential room in the legends’ area, but rather the home Bloodhound has built from their own hands up in the trees.
It has never been something they were ever bashful of, beforehand. It had been their home, and Bloodhound is forever thankful to the world for letting them occupy that space.
Obi looks upon it and breathes a simple ‘It’s beautiful’, and that’s enough to make Bloodhound duck their head.
They have already laid out the bed how he prefers it. Obi is sensitive to certain fabrics, enough that it makes him toss and turn, so they have prepared wool and furs beforehand that would be more suitable to him. The candles are lit beside his bed, casting a slow glow over the fabrics.
“You did not need to do this for me,” Obi says when he spots the set-up.
“I wanted to make sure you were comfortable, fiðrildið mitt. ”
(They know that Obi hardly does things for himself, not like this.)
Bloodhound is the one to cook him dinner. Obi doesn’t eat red meat, and hardly eats meat overall, but he happily enjoys the fish they had speared from the river. They read their own books afterward, although Bloodhound leans their head a little bit on his shoulder during it.
He tends to go to bed earlier, so they are not surprised when a yawn breaks from his mouth. When he does, they squeeze his hand.
“I did not prepare that bed for you just for you to fall asleep here.”
“I would be comfortable anywhere, as long as it is beside you.”
Bloodhound’s lip twitches in a smile, even though it is hidden underneath a scarf. He pulls himself from their arms, although he seemingly does it unwillingly, and starts to make his way up the stairs. Bloodhound is not soon after.
He perches himself at the edge of the bed first, hands resting over the cups of his knees, seemingly at pause. Then, he reaches up and sheds his shirt, folding it on his lap and setting his shirt to the side.
Typically, there is nothing wrong with staring, but Bloodhound cocks their head and looks for another reason.
Past the identical scars that run across his chest and dip into the side of his ribcage, they hadn’t been expecting for his heart chamber to be built into his chest.
They had always assumed that it is a part of his gear, the same way their sonar scan is linked to their goggles and their device on their wrist, and they hadn’t seen the chamber visible through his shirt.
He catches them staring and only smiles.
“My father had designed it for me.”
He does not have the fingertip guards that allow him to control the drones, but he still touches a finger to the peak of the chamber. For a moment, Obi is silent, running his finger over the point of it.
“I was born early,” he says after a debate with himself. He raises his eyes to theirs, and the striking sight is enough for Bloodhound’s breath to still in their chest, but still they look at him. “My mother hadn’t been expecting me for several more weeks. When I was born, it was painful for her, and it, unfortunately, caused multiple issues with my lungs and heart.”
“Many people thought that it was a sign regarding the moon’s destruction. But my father and mother did not think so, and instead did their best to ensure that I was healthy and that I am healthy still. Hence, this.”
Obi taps the chamber once.
“It is just to ensure that my lungs and my heart remain active, that is all. My drones stimulate them both just in case.”
Bloodhound nods. They are not sure what else to say, but on an inhale, they feel the scratches of their throat catching, their body reminding him of the scarred lines of their lungs.
Obi has given them another piece of him.
They decide to do it before they linger too long inside of their own head.
Bloodhound peels off their shirt, setting it to the side. Their skin crawls, fiery, knowing that Obi’s gaze must be suddenly on them⎼ that he is seeing every story on their body.
They wonder what he might ask about first.
Instead, what comes first is:
“You are so beautiful,” Obi says, his voice barely a breath.
He shifts on the bed, nodding to the spot next to him. It’s a clear invitation for them to sit, and Bloodhound makes themself move, robotically.
Their torso is an archive of scars. The most noticeable is the one that spans across the entirety of their side, scar tissue opening in a gaping, twisted mouth from their belly button up their ribs. Then there’s others, bite marks and claw marks and everything else.
They feel a singular tap, right against their side. They like his fingers more like this, without the fingertip coverings so they can feel the warmth of his fingertips. Bloodhound tries to relax as they feel his arm wind carefully around them, settling right against their hip.
“Blóðhundur,” Obi says. His breath brushes over their shoulders, where he has tilted his head over. “Daalu.”
They sit like that, for a while. It is only after several minutes of silence that Bloodhound finally seeks out his hands, finds a way to link them together.
“Shall I tell you of this?” They ask, bringing their conjoined hands to the claw mark that draws up above the helm of their pants.
“Of whatever you would like. Whatever you will give me.”
Everything, if I could.
But for now, Bloodhound just tells him of the story behind that claw mark. And the scar tissue on their ribcage, the mark on the soft flesh of their shoulder.
They think about the times when they did not want to tell Obi about the scars, where it would open too many stitches. But with Obi’s earnest nods and how attentively he listens, they wonder why it has taken them so long.
- face
There are so many things that Bloodhound could love about Obi’s face.
He is beautiful. There is no need to deny that, with the beauty of his eyes that glitter like stars. He is beautiful with the slope of his nose, the shadows of his jaw, the furrow of his brow that he gets whenever there is something he cannot wrap his head around.
And gods, his lips. If they had to choose a favorite feature of Obi’s, it would be his lips and that delightful tilt of his mouth he has when he is content.
Bloodhound has not kissed him there, yet.
They have kissed elsewhere; Obi’s lips had glanced over their hands, their shoulders, their collarbone. They remember the brief touch of his snake bites clearly, but they have yet to kiss him on the lips.
They do not know why.
It is not as if they don’t want to. They have felt the desire before, in every corner of their body. But it is as if someone is whispering in their ear, ghosts of the pasts reminding them that everything they have touched has fallen.
“Blóðhundur?”
There is the desire, already. Just in the way Obi says their name, like it is the most natural thing to say.
They realize they have stopped carving the wooden figurine in their hands. Looking down at it, they realize that they have started carving one of the moths that Obi’s drones like to create, the polygon line of the wing starting to take form.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, I am fine.”
The blade is a bit dull, they notice. They rock it between their fingers, thinking that they should head elsewhere to sharpen it before they go out to hunt.
“Something is bothering you, ezigbo’m.”
His eyes are so persistent. They are kind, yes, but they are burning, and Bloodhound looks away before they can be swept up in them.
“I will be fine, Obi,” they say, and they reach out to touch his hand. “There is nothing bothering me. I am just reflecting.”
He is the one to take their hand, threading their fingers together. He considers their hands, then drops a kiss firmly against their knuckles. “I have a gift for you if it would make you happier.”
Bloodhound cocks their head. Obi has always told them that he likes that little mannerism of theirs, a way of showing their curiosity. He had found it particularly endearing when he had seen both Bloodhound and Artur, who had been on their arm, do it at the same time.
“May I?” Obi asks, tugging at their hand.
They allow him to pull them gently to their feet. Still they keep their hands conjoined, and Obi leads them down one of the hallways of their home. By now, he has taken up near-permanent residence there, and they have given him a room to make his own if he sees it fit.
They enter it, now. Bloodhound has not been here for weeks to respect his space.
“Wait for just a moment,” Obi murmurs, pulling his hand from theirs.
Obeying, Bloodhound watches him walk to the side of the room, where he retrieves his fingertip coverings. Sliding them on, he now positions himself in the middle of the room, then raises his hands.
The entire room is dim, dark with only light from the hallway, and Bloodhound’s breath catches as his drones fly out of his heart chamber. They float, like shooting stars, around the room before they settle at Bloodhound’s feet and dim.
And then they start moving.
Obi makes them move with flicks of his fingers. They dance around the room, taking the form of birds flying over the sky, of rabbits darting over the ground. Obi creates trees out of his drones, running rivers, a waterfall.
Bloodhound watches as a particular bird swoops over their head. The motion and the shape of the bird are familiar, and as it flies closer to them, they realize why: the shape of the beak, the shape of the body.
Artur; Obi has created Artur.
And then they keep watching as Obi’s hands, clever things, motion trees to grow from the ground, all speckled with blue and white from the drones’ glow. They watch as it forms hills and plains, dotted with flowers and rocks.
It hits them in one singular blow: he is making their home.
He has only seen what is left of it with where the Games take place, and Bloodhound has told him stories otherwise. They told him of the towering ash trees they used to have around their home, the peppering snowfall, the sloping hills and valleys that Bloodhound had tracked animals through.
All places they cannot go to anymore without thinking of what Hammond is doing.
And he is making it come to life again, in front of their eyes.
The final touch is the bird⎼ Artur⎼ flying down. Bloodhound, instinctively, holds up an arm, and it flutters down to their forearm. It tilts its head before it disappears in small blue glows, the drones sweeping back to Obi.
His gaze is expectantly hopeful as he guides them back into the chamber on his chest. They know that he is trying to hold back the expression, but still it shines through.
The first thought that Bloodhound thinks is that Obi Edolasim is the most thoughtful man they have ever met, and they do not know what they have done to deserve him in their life.
The second thought is that they are so glad to have him in their life. Honored past words.
They take two steps forward, hand reaching up to tug down the scarf they prefer to have around their neck and lower half of their mouth. Obi is watching them, undeniably attentive.
“You are the most wonderful man,” is what Bloodhound finally settles on. They are still taking steps towards him, their own gaze trained on his face.
His face. That wonderful, darling face that they are lucky to have both in their dreams and their life. He is a little taller than them, so they have to tilt their head up to look up at him when they step into their space.
“I pale in comparison to you,” Obi murmurs with a small glimmer in his eyes.
His hands have come to fall against their waist, a careful weight right on their hips. He is looking down at them with immense fondness in his eyes, and Obi has always looked at them in such a way.
His lips are so gentle when they kiss him. Soft, without doubt, and Bloodhound can feel the shape of his snakebites. It is sure and careful, and their heart swells for the man so close to them.
When they break apart, Obi’s eyes are glittering. He dips his head to press his forehead to Bloodhound’s, a smile on those delightful features.
They love each and every part of him. And he theirs.