Work Text:
I once believed love would be black and white, but it’s golden.
"Daylight" by Taylor Swift
“Orange or blue?”
“Orange.”
There was a rustle of the sheet, followed by a pull of the drawer. Brandon leaned back, relaxed, seated against the foot of the bed where his wife was perched above him. He could idly make out the sounds of her rummaging through the bedside drawer until she found what she had been searching for: a bottle of orange nail polish. The mattress dipped when she scooted closer to the edge of the bed, stretching her legs forward and over his shoulders.
It had become a habit in their everyday lives: her painting her nails on their four-poster canopy bed, clad in a silk negligée; him sitting on the floor below her in comfortable sweats, one hand cupping her ankle while the other held a nail polish bottle. They had made it a routine event, a nightly tradition that had always been theirs. It was for no other reason than to spend time with each other, to talk through their days, to discuss their plans and future because the sad reality of life was that they didn’t always get to see each other as often as they would have liked to.
Between juggling royal palace duties and caring for their two children, they often only got to see each other in glimpses and flashes. There were times she would find him sprawled on the couch in their living room, both kids sound asleep and tucked under either of his arms, and like clockwork, she'd quietly set her crown aside and smile at the sight despite her languid exhaustion after a long day. There were days he would find her diligently working on her design patterns at her study desk, and he’d wordlessly set a water bottle on the table, a reminder for her to stay hydrated for she tended to get lost in her work.
More often than not, they had to get up in the middle of the night to fulfill their parental duties. She'd usually complain at being woken up at a preposterously early hour, while he'd insist that he had everything under control with a peck to her chin. Despite his noble intentions to let his wife get her beauty sleep—or any sleep, for that matter—his efforts would usually fall dramatically short because the children would demand their mother to come and tuck them in, which ultimately resulted in her getting up, too.
It wasn’t always easy, not by a long shot, but with adulthood came responsibilities, and with responsibilities came compromises. That was the way life worked. But the couple had long since adapted to the changes and learned to embrace the moments in which they could relax and unwind, making the most use of what little they had.
“How’s the dress for the gala coming along?” Brandon asked, conversational.
Stella twisted the bottle cap open and pulled out the nail polish brush. “It’s not.”
The response caught his attention. “What do you mean?”
“It means I’m not going.” Her reply was unusually curt for someone who tended to speak her mind, but her disappointment was too fresh on her mind to properly vocalize it. She placed the bottle on his waiting palm, then dipped the brush in bright orange liquid before bending forward to paint her nails.
Every year around springtime, a fashion-themed fundraising gala was held in Lynphea. As usual, she had talked his ear off about the guests and the fashion, how she planned to make her entrance, and what she was going to wear. Not only did the event provide her an opportunity to showcase her spring line, but it was also organized to raise awareness to help underprivileged youth everywhere, a cause she had been passionate about since her freshman year of high school.
“Why not?” he asked, a mixture of concern and confusion laced in his voice.
Stella sighed, not bothering to hide her disappointment this time. “Daniel has a baseball game on the same day, and I've already missed one of his games this month. I can’t miss another one again.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Brandon said. “I will be at the game with Elle. I promise we’ll videotape the whole game for you. In fact, we can use the four-dimensional video recorder Timmy and Tecna gifted us last year. Timmy says it features a phase-detection autofocus system and a synchronized array of sensors surrounding the—”
“It’s not the same, Bran,” she said, cutting him off. If she'd been in a better mood, she would've made an effort to listen to his ramblings about gadgets and gizmos; after all, she knew he had a keen interest in the latest tech devices and spaceship engines, much to her initial surprise, and even though she didn't understand most of the things he explained to her, she had always found his childlike fascination with electronics endearing.
Instead, she continued applying a coat of nail polish to one of her nails, turning his words over in her mind once more. Then paused, frowning. “Wait, you think I should go to the gala?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s not a big deal if you miss a game or two.”
It's not a big deal, she repeated his words in her head, feeling them out. It's not a big deal.
Her throat was tight. “Are you sure?”
Brandon understood what she meant, and what she avoided, having long since learned that it was the unspoken that rang the loudest with her. It came with the territory of knowing her for as long as he had, and he, if anyone, knew the ins and outs of her heart like the back of his hand.
He carefully took her legs off his shoulders and gently lowered them on the carpeted floor before turning to face her. “You’re not neglecting him,” he said, answering her unvoiced question. “Trust me, you're not. It’s all right to take a break every once in a while. I mean, it's only a couple of games. He will understand.”
But she wasn't sure if he would. He was her baby boy. He was her first child. Not that she favored one child over the other, but she tended to fuss over her eldest one more because he had needed constant around-the-clock care and attention for the first two years of his life. He had been a colicky infant, a poor sleeper, and a chronic crier if she’d ever seen one. He had grown to be a healthy toddler, to be sure, but she would never forget the sleepless nights, the endless stress, and the struggles of teaching him to take a bottle.
Her five-year-old daughter, Elle, was the complete opposite of her two years older brother. A charming brunette with cerulean blue eyes as bright as the daylit sky, she was low-maintenance and easy to care for. She was easy to entertain, too; as a baby, she was content with just being in the bouncer or playing with a stuffed toy. Their close friends and family often called her “little moon,” an endearment dubbed by her grandfather who spoiled his niece with dolls and dresses from time to time. Her grandmother, on the other hand, liked to regularly visit her niece to teach her all about her favorite subject: astronomy, and in particular, selenography. Elle could talk about the moon for hours on end without ever getting bored.
Her son was a lot harder to please. His deflated posture and downturned lips had cut her deep when she'd told him she couldn't make it to one of his games, but most of all, what had hurt her the most, was that he had said nothing. He had only nodded, understanding, and she had never felt more of a failure as a parent. It almost made her wish that he would’ve yelled at her instead, or thrown a hissy fit like he did whenever he saw the tiniest piece of brussels sprouts on his plate.
“Stella.”
The mention of her name startled her out of her thoughts. Brandon rarely used her full name in conversation unless something important was at stake. He placed a warm, comforting hand on her thigh, looking as though he could see right through her. “You’re overthinking.”
Stella swallowed thickly, unsure. “I don't know. I still think I should cancel—”
“Stella,” he interrupted her as gently as he could, clutching her hand as he held her gaze. “You can’t coddle him all his life.”
Her excuses were at the tip of her tongue without her even meaning to form them. “No, you don't understand. You should’ve seen the look on his face when I told him I might miss another one of his games. You should've been there.”
His expression softened. He didn’t have to imagine it because he had already witnessed how their son would cling to her, how his cries would only subside when she was the one holding him, or how he'd look up to her, gazing up at her as if she held all the stars in the universe. Brandon couldn’t blame him. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit, Stel.”
“Mm-hm. I’m sure all good mothers routinely miss their children’s games,” she muttered under her breath, bending forward to dip the brush again, but he held the bottle out of her reach. Her brow arched.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Undermine yourself like that.”
When she didn’t answer for a long while, he snatched the brush from her hand. Stella made a sound of protest, launching forward to grab the brush back—a terrible miscalculation on her part for she ended up knocking the nail polish bottle out of his other hand and spilling the liquid on her arm. She cried out, jerking her arm away. The next thing she knew, his hand shot out to grab a hold of her ankle, yanking her down, and she slid off the bed with a tumble and a squeal, collapsing right into his lap.
“Stop, stop,” she burst into peals of giggles, ticklish spasms rippling through her body when she felt his fingers on her neck. She kicked him, or tried to, but he had come prepared, dodging every attempted swing, relentless in his pursuit to chase her blues away. Her laughter was infectious and soon he found himself laughing, too. His fingers traced every pulse point, every sweet spot, and she squirmed in response, yelling at him to stop between bouts of breathless laughter, tangled deep in his embrace. "You're—"
"Yeah?"
"—going to—"
"What?"
“—wake up—everyone,” she giggled, struggling to get the words out, “or worse, our children.”
Brandon was still chuckling to himself, but he did stop tickling her. “Says the one screaming at the top of her lungs.”
It took several seconds for her breath to shudder back into her lungs, and when it finally did, she straightened in his lap. His gaze was steady, and the teasing humor was gone from his eyes, replaced by something inexplicably heartfelt that made her chest tighten with affection.
He smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. The gesture brought her attention back to her disheveled state: her hair, untamed with strands of blonde hair sticking out from her braided bun; her midnight blue nightgown, wrinkled and askew on her slim frame; and finally, her arm, which was now sporting a glob of dried orange nail polish. She sighed.
“Look what you've done. I look ridiculous,” she complained as she smoothed out the creases, open palms pressed against the fabric of her nightwear.
“Ridiculously hot,” Brandon said, winking at her.
Stella rolled her eyes. “How romantic.”
“Hey, I got rid of the wrinkle—” and he grinned, trying for a bit of humor as he brought his right hand up to swipe a thumb across the space between her brows, “—right here. Didn't I?”
She just about squeaked, astonished by his brazen-faced audacity. “How dare you.”
He only grinned wider at the face she made. “You make it too easy, princess.”
Stella poked a warning finger into the side of his leg, ready to snap a witty retort, but he didn't let her have the chance to rebut.
“Real talk." He took her hand in his, threading his fingers between hers. There was a hint of seriousness in his voice, something which she took note of, and she straightened herself up, squeezing his hand so that he knew she was listening. “I don’t expect you not to stress or worry, but just know that you’ve been nothing short of amazing with Daniel and Elle. You always make sure they’re being heard and cared for. You always ask about their day and listen to their stories, no matter how absurd or silly the subject is, and not a day goes by when you don't prioritize them. But Stel, you also deserve to prioritize yourself every once in a while. That doesn’t make you a bad parent.”
It was warm and weightless, this feeling, this overwhelming rush of tenderness, and for a moment, she just stared at him, too stunned to speak. He always knew how to make her heart feel a little less heavy.
Her voice was hesitant. “Mean it?”
His smile was sincere. “You know I do.”
With an undisguised sigh of contentment, she leaned into his embrace and slipped her arms around his neck, herself again. “I knew I did something right when I married you.”
Brandon chuckled, a deep, husky sound that went straight to her core. “Should’ve known flattery was the only reason you stayed with me for all these years.”
“I’m surprised it took you this long to figure it out,” she teased back, matching him wit for wit.
His arms tightened around her, squeezing her just tight enough to make her squeal but not enough to hurt. “Anything else I should know?”
“Well,” she said, finger to her bottom lip as she pretended to think. “My lips kind of hurt.”
Brandon didn't miss the unsubtle reference to the words he'd used in Wildlands, way back when they were still freshly dating, nor had he forgotten about all the times they would stop to make out in the middle of a mission. Which, in hindsight, may not have been the best course of action given the severity of their battles, but he smiled in nostalgic reflection all the same. It felt like yesterday when they were just teenagers fighting for justice and peace in the world. Now here they were, several years later, sitting on their bedroom floor under a streak of silvery moonlight, with two beautiful children and one on the way. He could not have asked for a better outcome.
He took her face in between his hands, the pad of his thumb absentmindedly tracing the bow of her lower lip. Then, slowly, his eyes closed to half-mast as he began to dip his head down to bridge the distance between them. She met him halfway, felt just the barest hint of his lips against hers before their lips met in a kiss. It started soft, featherlight. No rush. No urgency. It was slow and sweet, like spring drizzle after a harsh winter.
They had just begun to get into the kiss when they got interrupted.
“Yuck, cooties,” spoke a young voice in disgust from the doorway.
“Be quiet, you dummy,” said another in a hushed, harsh tone.
“I’m not a dummy. You are a dummy.”
The couple stopped, distracted, breaking apart to witness their children heatedly squabbling at the entrance of their bedroom. The older of the two spoke with wild animated hand gestures, while the younger one remained calm in her place, arms folded before her in a stance of disdain.
“—you said it was gross, too!”
“I did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not.”
“Did—”
Brandon cleared his throat, causing both their children to stand ramrod straight and fall silent at once. It was comical, the way the kids warily peeked around the doorway, guilt written all over their faces. They weren’t supposed to be up so late, but both Brandon and Stella found the situation too hilarious to admonish them.
Unable to pace her amusement, Stella settled on saying, “It’s very late. Shouldn’t you two be in bed?”
“No,” Daniel said at the same time that Elle squeaked out, “Yes.”
“You woke us up,” Daniel reasoned, turning the tables on them, while Elle twisted a strand of chestnut brown hair around her forefinger, nervous. “We heard noises and thought something bad had happened. We didn’t know you were doing gross stuff.”
“I didn’t think it was gross,” protested Elle at once, crumbling under pressure. “It was just Daniel.”
“Liar,” said Daniel.
Elle stuck her tongue out at her brother before running to Brandon who welcomed his daughter with open arms. Daniel rolled his eyes, arms crossed.
“Well, don’t be a stranger. C'mere,” Stella said, patting the empty spot beside her and gesturing for her grumbling son to come and join them.
But he said nothing, as though mulling over the offer.
His pause made her smile, a trait she was convinced he had inherited from his father because she had never been known to think through her actions. After a few moments, she got up from the floor and walked over to him. His amber eyes followed her every movement, curious. She crouched down to his level and opened her arms to him, and to her surprise, he stopped sulking and allowed her to enfold him, resting his small head under her chin. She wrapped her arms around him, cupping the back of his head and smoothing back his hair, grateful. It was only then that her thumb got caught in his hair, and she pulled back to inspect it.
“What happened to your hair, baby?” she asked in horrified shock, tugging at a wisp of light brown hair. “Oh, my stars, when was the last time you ran a comb through this bird nest?”
“Mom—hey. Stop,” he cried, swatting her hand away when she attempted to tame his unruly locks. Huffing, he vigorously fluffed his hair with both hands, mussing it back into its messy state. It took a lot of willpower for her not to fix the disaster that was the mop of his hair, but one look at his serious little face told her he would not have appreciated anyone touching his hair. “This is how the cool kids wear their hair, okay? Uncle Riv said so. You almost ruined it.”
This time, she fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“Trust me, you would've been fine. If there’s anyone who knows fashion, it’s your mother,” she said, making a mental note to have a word with a certain redhead later—but then, a cursory glance at the wall clock behind him reminded her of the late hour, and with a small start, she got up from the floor and extended a hand out to him. “But we can discuss hair later. Now, come on, let’s get you two back to bed, okay?”
“Fine,” he said, surprising her once again with the readiness with which he complied and took her hand. A moment later, a slight furrow developed between his eyebrows. “Why is your arm covered in paint?”
Stella followed the path of his gaze to the dried streak of orange on her arm and subtly turned to glare at her husband. Brandon, who was now cradling a sleeping Elle in his arms, only gave her a shameless grin in return. The petty side of her was tempted to pin the blame on her husband for his ability to rile her just for a laugh, but the better part of her moral compass swayed her in the other direction.
And so, she turned her attention back to her son and smiled down at him. “That’s a story for another day, honey.”