Chapter Text
Pela doesn’t know why she’s so irritable these days. But if she had to hazard a guess, it’s because of the “Officer Sergeyevna”, “Officer Pela”, “Officer” treatment all throughout these past days. It feels like she doesn’t have a husband. She’s starting to think that maybe Gepard is seeing someone, but quickly opts to dispel the thought. For a person favored by IX, she sure had a lot of emotion to spare.
Work had its place. Of course Pela enjoyed work. Why else would she take up the job? They agreed that work should be separate from their personal lives as well, but now it seemed like the existence of a personal life was suddenly void. She also enjoyed music, playing with the ever-fickle older Landau, and retreating to the Tale of the Winterlands fanclub, writing till noon the next day. Yet somehow these couldn’t distract her from the fact that her own husband is suddenly too busy to tend to her.
Of course, he never said so. He would never say that. (So then why was he away so much of the time?, Pela thinks and finds no answer for herself.) He also isn’t coming by the workshop to see his flowers more often in case he doesn’t trust her with handling them, and although he might as well be neglecting her, she doesn’t neglect his flowers. She hasn’t in years of being in love with him and probably never will.
Today is a holiday and yet she wakes to a silent phone yet again. Instead, it’s Serval who calls her up one day to say that another flower has gone missing. It’s frustrating, how she jumped, her heart racing in anticipation, and purposefully let the phone ring for a few moments to practice enough distance and coyness— only for it to be the sister instead.
“When I opened up the workshop, there were one less flower again.” The singer says, proof punctuated in the familiar echo of her workshop.
Pela sighs and slides her jacket on. “I’m on my way.”
“‘Kay. Safe travels, Pela.”
Pela hums dismissively as she slips into her shoes and pauses at the gleam of her wedding ring. She raises the hand that’s holding the phone and notices that Serval forgot to hang up.
“You must be getting old.” She jabs.
Serval must’ve startled at her phone making a sound but quickly realized her mistake. She recovers with a snort. “And you must be really lonely.”
Pela has no witty retort to this. Serval is cruel, one jokingly teases her and then she suddenly real talks you. So instead of bothering to comment, she braces for the shattering of her pride and forces the words out of her mouth. “Has he— have you… heard anything from him? Anything at all?”
There is a pause that makes her anxious.
“Nada.”
Pela sighs. “His feelings must be disappearing along with the flowers.”
Serval seems to find amusement at this and laughs heartily. Honestly, Pela would’ve had the same reaction too if it was happening to someone else and she had to watch it happen, instead of it happening to her . “The drummer I knew in college would’ve *never* said that. Guess love does things to people, hm?”
Pela is mortified she said that. She’s never going to hear the end of it. During visits to the workshop, during patrol, during rehearsals… she grimaces.
“I feel like I’m some immature teen again.” She chides herself. “Sulking all day and getting nothing done.”
“Don’t worry, Geppie’ll come around.” Serval tells her. She sounds sincere and comforting for a second and then she snickers shortly afterward. “After all, you’re the only one who can warm his heart.”
Pela groans, heat rising to her ears at the pointed memory. “Please let that go. He’s so embarrassing.”
“Stop lying, Pela.” Serval says and Pela can hear the roll of her eyes. “You liked it. Public confessions are a staple in the romance community.”
“When it’s in writing!” She cried. “Not when he says it in public in front of Eversummer Florist!”
Serval laughs and brushes her off. Soon after, she hangs up. It’s after snide remarks and teasing that she realizes that she actually is unhappy. It’s… weirdly profound. Pela hates it. It’s like she’s some sappy girl lamenting something trivial like a late text reply.
On the way to the workshop, she drops by the bookstore to check for any update on the latest edition of the Tale of the Winterlands artbook and Fizz looks at her like there's something to be said, something she needs to hear. She doesn’t even know what she wants him to say, or if she even wants him to say anything. Pela loved Belobog, but it had traces of him all over it, reminding her of his absence.
Here they bought and read the books, and a little further southwest is where he would join the fanclub’s meetings as its first male member— she remembers that he used to only escort her to their meetings and then one day found him reading the novel itself, more invested than he (and she) thought he’d be, and a little later he admits that he just wanted to indulge in her interests but then started to admire the story by itself.
She remembers being skeptical, asking if he also agreed that she put on too high a level of gravitas normally for this to be believable. She remembers him smiling under the street lights, telling her she’s incorrigible and she asks what’s that supposed to mean, and he says it means he’s liked her from the start.
Pela sighs. She knows she’ll be sighing the whole day away.