His Blitzø.
Stolas will say that sometimes, just in his head, and he knows how it sounds. He's a Prince, a royal, used to getting his way. Everything he could ever want at his fingertips, with nothing to stop him. He called Blitzø his plaything, once, and he will never be able to take that back, to explain himself, to ease the hurt, so he won't ever say it aloud. He lost that right, abused it terribly.
But how it sounded wasn't exactly how he meant it.
Stolas has never thought of Blitzø as a thing that could be owned, by him or anyone else. Blitzø is a force of nature, has a will that can't be tamed or contained or corralled. Blitzø is a blazing inferno, a tempest, a stampede, and sometimes he leaves destruction in his wake. He could never be small enough to be as mundane as someone's possession.
And Stolas would never want him to be that, for anyone to think he could ever be that, especially not to him. Stolas has felt trapped, felt shackled by another person, by family, by a marriage, by obligation. He would die before asking someone to succumb to that. To be that, for him. Never.
No, when Stolas thinks my Blitzø, what he means isn't that Blitzø could ever be owned. Blitzø was the first person to show Stolas freedom, and fun, to make him laugh and teach him how to play. Blitzø is the opposite of gilded bars to a cell. Blitzø is a tiny, misshapen key that fits perfectly in the lock that kept Stolas trapped for most of his life. Blitzø opened the jail cell, and led Stolas out, starting with a game of pirates.
No one can take that away from him, not even Blitzø. The memories, the first taste of freedom, of actually expressing himself in a way he never could before. Of laughing. Of being wanted.
That's his, and his alone.
When he thinks his Blitzø, he remembers, sometimes, their date at Ozzie's. Hiding behind a menu, ashamed of his own actions, his choices. The guilt and fear and masks he carried with him, then, to cover it all up and allow him to pretend he wasn't slowly withering and fading, crumbling into nothing. A shell, an empty husk of a person. About expectations and big, fancy parties where he drank himself into a stupor so he could make it to the end without screaming. About shaping himself, contorting himself, shrinking and bending and mangling himself to fit into the shape set out for him. A rigid shape, a box. A prison.
The fact that Blitzø will still speak to him after that, frankly, is a miracle. His miracle. Blitzø put aside the hurt and damage Stolas caused that day (unknowingly or not does not matter, the damage was immense, and it was at his hand, at his actions, at his failure to take the freedom Blitzø tried so hard to show him how to embrace) and found a way past it, found a way to allow what they went on to build to be bigger than it.
He gave Stolas a chance to fix it, and Stolas owes Blitzø everything for that chance. For being willing to take it, after all he's been through. His beautiful, strong, courageous, deeply caring Blitzø.
Blitzø has given him so many second—third, fourth, fifth—chances. He's not sure he deserves them, sometimes, but he knows that Blitzø deserves the effort, the dedication, the care. He will always keep trying, and doing better, because Blitzø deserves that and so much more. And as long as he can do that for Stolas, can keep finding chances to give him, finding ways to forgive him, Stolas will always do better for him.
Because more than this thing with Blitzø could ever be his, Blitzø will always have a part of him. He gave it to him a long time ago, traded it for that little taste of freedom, and doesn't want it back.
If Blitzø will take the rest of him, too, well...
Stolas couldn't possibly be any happier about that if he tried.