Robert finds a certain appeal in normality. Probably because it’s always been the hardest thing for him to be.
He can handle iron mantles.
But give him a boyfriend who rubs warm fingers into his back during flare ups, tests the latest recipes on him every day, insists on spoiling his dog with bubble baths and handmade bathrobes, and he doesn’t know how to pilot that.
Except maybe just take pictures of Flambae in the morning.
When his smile lines relax and his hair inks every inch of the pillow.
When he has Beef snuggled under his chin, and his eyes screwed shut, unhappy with sunlight breaching the blinds of his apartment. Their apartment.
“Bob-Bob, don’t take my picture. My hair isn’t done.”
Robert loves his voice in the morning. The way it’s soft and smoked out and crackling with good rest. He squeezes Beef to his chest and half heartedly tries swatting Robert’s phone.
“Yeah, cause you woke up 5 minutes ago. Also, you’re using Beef as a pillow. I AM taking a picture. Let me look at you.”
He likes those pictures the best.
When Flambae finds out about them, confusion knits his brows together
It’s just him.
Singing while getting ready in the bathroom, making shaving cream beards on Beef.
Snoring on Robert’s patchy sofa with drool slipping from his mouth.
Him with the team, mid cackle, mouth smeared with burrito sauce.
Or him in the morning, with his hair an absolute mess and free and getting his smiling face lapped at by that sentient baked potato.
“Why do you only have bad pictures of me?”
He’s playful about it, when he asks Robert. Whiny. Because it kinda scares him. Because he remembers how comfortable he felt in those moments.
And Robert will shrug. And he’ll do what he’s good at. Tell it like it is.
“I don’t know. I like it when you look like you.”
Robert can’t outrightly say ‘I think you’re beautiful and my hands don’t know how to hold beautiful things.’
And Flambae can’t say ‘I think you’re the only person I ever want to look at me’.
But Flambae can make food. And Robert can take pictures. And they’ll know.
