Chapter Text
“Hurry up, Leo! We’re running late!”
Fuegoleon’s booming voice sent his younger brother scrambling down the hall, chattering half-formed apologies as he went. Fuegoleon was only a few paces behind him, jaw set, fists clenched in frustration. They reached their bedchambers and their doors slammed closed in synch.
Fuegoleon whipped off his Crimson Lion robe and tossed it onto its dedicated hook. He shimmied out of his tunic and undershirt and rushed to the bathroom. All the while the same frustrated mantra played in his head again and again: Nozel is going to be so angry.
He ran the water and splashed his face. It didn’t run as brown like he’d feared, but it didn’t run clear either. If he was this dirty, he’d have to take a full shower. Cursing under his breath, he turned the water off, started the shower, and stripped. Of all days for Leopold and the Crimson Lions to lose track of the time, it had to be today.
The shower water was too hot, but he didn’t adjust it as he stepped under the stream. He could hear his rival’s scathing voice, see his glare locked on him from across the room. Fuegoleon couldn’t remember the last time he’d been late to an event, and it was going to be this one? He’d never hear the end of it. Nozel would be chewing him out for the next year. All because no one had been watching the clock, and he’d let the sparring matches go on for too long…
He marched out of the bathroom,rivulets of water still dripping down his perfectly sculpted chest and stomach with a towel around his waist. They had ten minutes before they were late. He’d never make it in time. He hadn’t even completely dried off, and Leopold always took longer getting ready than he did. Hissing new curses under his breath, he pulled open his closet and searched for something appropriate to wear.
That was when he first heard it: a soft, gurgling, murmur.
The hairs on his neck stood on end. He whirled around, fists raised. His senses scanned the room for strange mana, and he found it. There was something tucked among his pillows.
What is that? He internally groaned. Some kind of prank? Is Meoroleona home? It wouldn’t be the first time she left a wild animal in his room. But this didn’t seem like a wild animal. It was too… human. Completely foreign but distinctly familiar.
Poised to strike, he crept forward. The sound continued to rise from his pillows, growing louder and softer in random spurts. Whatever this thing was, it was… babbling? He didn’t know what else to call it.
The gentle shift among the pillows told him exactly where it had settled before he was on top of it. One of the decorative pillows seemed to have fallen over it, and it was trying to dislodge it with a pitiful effort. Still ready to strike, Fuegoleon extended his flame hand, clutched the pillow, and lifted it.
He thought he’d braced for anything. He’d been prepared to defend; to strike; to call an exterminator. Even to run. A lifetime of being ready at a moment’s notice to defend against political enemies, wild animals, combative adversaries, even his own sister, had prepared him for a lot of things.
It had not prepared him to be staring into the face of a baby.
He dropped the pillow on the bed, wide-eyed. The infant laying in front of him had big purple eyes, outlined in the telltale Vermillion red. Its skin was a creamy white, and its hair a soft gold. It blinked until it adjusted to the light, and then locked eyes with him. Recognition-- unmistakable, even on the face of a baby --shined in its eyes, and a smile stretched across its round little face. It stretched its arms toward him, throwing back the sleeves of the blue and white dress it wore. A dress that was unmistakably Silva.
Of three things, Fuegoleon was direly sure. One: This child was not in his room before he had entered the bathroom. Two: It did not belong to anyone else in House Vermillion. Three: He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was his child. His son. His beloved baby boy.
Slowly, like he was afraid that the baby would disappear if he moved too fast, he scooped him out of the pillows and brought him to his chest. The baby’s grin persisted, and he stuck his hand in his mouth and babbled at him, perfectly at home in his arms. Warmth blossomed in the Vermillion’s broad chest easily, as if it had always been there. He couldn’t comprehend why, but he loved this child with all his heart. And he always had.
A fist pounded against his door. Leo. “I’m ready! Are you coming? Let’s go!”
Shifting the baby to one arm, he stepped to the door and pulled it open. Leopold’s eyes widened at the sight of him; first in disbelief at his undressed form, and then in baffled surprise at his unexpected guest.
Fuegoleon cleared his throat, but his words still came out sticky. “I don’t think I’ll be making it tonight.”