Chapter Text
Pereshati continues to walk around the archive as they lapse into a comfortable silence.
It’s strange. At the beginning of their relationship, she was aching to be rid of the dreadful silence that arrived every time she and Therdeo were somewhere alone together. For that she can blame the fact that he was so difficult to read for so long. It took months for her to figure out what each of his microexpressions meant, and there seemed to be more and more the longer that they were together.
Now, she is a master in Therdeo Lapileon, speech and face, and greatly appreciates how little the man talks sometimes. It’s comforting, because she never feels like she needs to perform to him or entertain him; instead of rushing to be alone to unwind, she can just go to him—and that feels like a privilege in itself.
At the same time, Theo circles the large table in the middle of the room that she has yet to explore. Seriously, how much stuff does this family have? Pereshati supposes that she has to leave it up to their Grand Dukedom, and is somehow completely grateful that her family was never this significant in the Empire because she cannot imagine doing this twice.
This darkened room, found past the vast library, holds some of the most important records and papers of the family. Upon first glance, it looks nearly abandoned, the walls are dark and the paper appears to be falling off of them. Clutters of covered-up paintings line walls, and papers are shoved in crevices and shelves everywhere. Despite the lack of ventilation, the air doesn’t feel stifled at all; instead it flows freely in the room, inviting a sense of cold and unwelcomeness. Therdeo explained that this is done to make sure that it is not too damp or breezy, because otherwise the papers may degrade too fast and not be usable. Pereshati supposes that this is efficient and productive, but she shivers through her thick sleeves nevertheless.
Less than halfway through, Therdeo offered her his jacket and she gratefully took it without hesitation. Early into their relationship, she might have smiled at him gingerly before begrudgingly accepting but now she’s too tired for pretenses. He’d know if she was just pretending to be bashful anyway.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him grimace at whatever paper he’s holding. He shakes his head and works his way through the pack.
Intrigued, she tiptoes over to him, watching over his shoulder as he sorts through the files. Getting closer, she notices that in his hands are records from some sort of artist signed with several dates and names: Duke Lapileon∙XX14, First Grand Duke Lapileon∙XX35, Grand Duke Lapileon∙XX58 until Grand Duke Therdeo Lapileon XX64.
“What are those?” She asks curiously, settling against his arm.
“Hm, birth painting records, I believe.”
“What,” she positions herself in front of him, “birth paintings?”
“Mhm. Paintings of every heir after their birth.”
“Wait, they painted one of you? Even if you weren’t the heir?” Pereshati recalls that he only became the Grand Duke after his older brother died and his sister was deemed unfit for the role following her mental decline.
He glances at the paper again. “I’m guessing that they just painted every male baby. I don’t know why they’d—”
“Can I see it?” She interrupts. “Ah, sorry. Just.. Can I— can I see it?”
“Uh,” he blinks and nods sharply. “I’ll go… find it.”
She smiles in thanks and follows him to the back wall where the majority of old paintings sit. Some of them are displayed on the walls—most paintings are in the manor itself—if they’re more current ones, like the one of Therdeo in his late teens (when he was first appointed Grand Duke).
He rifles through the inventory, uncovering various artworks before finding it. Brushing it lightly, he holds up the painting, showing a rather young, plushy baby Theo wrapped in an intricately embroidered red cloth. True to his word, it appears to be Theo as an infant, as described in the inscription at the bottom: ‘Therdeo Lapileon∙XX64, painted by …’.
She can’t stop staring.
It really is him, she just… never expected him to be so… adorable. Well, obviously, she knew he’d be cute—all babies are cute—just not this cute. Of course, he still has his beautiful red eyes and soft obsidian hair that she loves and adores – he’s just so soft. It's almost shocking how much he looks like Celphi here but then again, he is his uncle.
Looking at his picture now, she recalls her previous conversation with Lady Saoirse. If this is what her mini-theos would look like, she wouldn’t mind it at all. She was right when she said that little versions of him would be adorable.
“If we had children, would they look like you or me?” She says before she can stop herself. It might be an odd topic of conversation while they’re sorting through an archive, but Therdeo won’t mind. Probably.
He turns to face her. “Is this about what Celphi said at dinner?”
“Well ye—no. No, not really. I just— I’ve been thinking…”
“Hn.”
“And, you know, now that it’s safe to have our own biological children… I don’t know. I guess it’s been on my mind. A bit.”
“Yeah?” His eyes soften.
“Yeah,” she smiles faintly up at him. “About what they’d look like… whether they’d be reserved like you or stubborn like me…”
He smiles back. “Honestly,” he steps forward, taking her forearms into his hands, “I want them to look like you.”
Pereshati bites back a grin. “Really?”
“If I could choose, I’d want them to have your eyes. And your hair. But if their hair is black but their eyes are golden, that’s alright I guess.”
“You guess?”
She giggles, relishing in the feeling of his arms around her as he wraps her in for a hug. She nestles her nose into his chest and breathes in, fully content. His chest rumbles and she comes to realize that he is laughing too. Looking up, she catches sight of him smiling down at her; his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are curved into small crescents. He looks so handsome.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she assures, hugging him tighter. “I’m still not ready to have another child yet.”
“Hm,” he hums. “We can still try for one though, right?”
“What?” She starts before realizing what he means. It’s too late, for he leans in—
—and that is the only warning she gets before he tilts her jaw and kisses her.