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Nyx giggled and pulled his leg back, making it very difficult for Feyre to paint her current canvas: his foot. Squealing with delight, he spread his wings, getting a grin out of her.
“Can’t I have one foot? Please?” she asked, playfully reaching for it. Nyx watched her. One wing drooped while the other lifted. Feyre pursed her lips and darted her hand forward, squeezing his toes.
Nyx laughed and wiggled his foot away from her.
“No? Come on, I only want it for a little bit,” she pretended to plead. “I’ll give it right back. I swear.”
His gray-blue eyes gleamed in anticipation, mouth open in that exact moment before a laugh. When she waved her fingers toward his toes but didn’t grab them, he stuck his foot back out, testing to see if she would keep playing. She was never going to get over how clever he was. While he was only ten months old, he was smart and curious and she didn’t think she could ever become tired of the way he looked at everything new with wonder. Sometimes she tried to capture that look in her paintings, but she couldn’t get it quite right. Maybe eventually in the next century she would be able to study the memories of this time in his life and set it on canvas.
Feyre pretended to look away and examine the rest of her studio in the River House. It was well-lit and spacious. There were spots and smudges of paint everywhere. Her outfit right now was stained with oils in all different shades. Nyx, too, had paint all over him. She had been trying to only get it on the soles of his feet, but he kept touching his feet and then his clothes. It was even in his soft black hair.
Turning suddenly back toward where he was sitting safely on a work table, she grasped his right foot up by his chubby ankle. “Give it!”
His wings went wide as he burst into new giggles.
“Big wings,” she said, tickling his foot. While he stretched his wings, Feyre picked up her paintbrush and swiped white and silver paint over the sole of his foot. Now it matched the other one.
Feyre swept him up, holding him close and trying not to let his feet touch anything yet. Near the same big wooden worktable, she had taken a large canvas off its frame and laid it on the floor, anchoring it with paint pots. It was already painted black. Maybe this wouldn’t look awful? It wasn’t really for anyone besides herself and Rhys anyways, even if he had no idea what she was doing. Her mate was off at a meeting with the harbor master. He would fill her in on the details later.
She set Nyx down on his feet on the edge of the canvas. Holding him by the hands, she stood awkwardly beside the canvas then realized she was being silly. She wasn’t wearing shoes. It wouldn’t hurt anything. She stepped onto the canvas with him, still grasping his hands. Nyx lifted a foot. It left a sticky silvery white footprint.
“Look at you, that’s perfect, just like you,” she sing-songed to her son. She walked him across the canvas, leaving painted footprints across the expanse of black.
Nyx stamped his feet, one two, one two. He grinned up at her, the expression gummy and sweet.
“I can’t handle you being that adorable,” she said, “It makes my heart ache, in a good way.”
“I feel like mine might explode. Not to outdo you, of course, Feyre darling. But what are you doing with Nyx?”
Feyre looked back over her shoulder to find Rhys standing in the doorway, which she thought she had closed the door. Sneaky. He must have winnowed in. She smirked and picked up Nyx, settling him on her hip.
“What happened to your meeting?” she asked, walking his way. “And please tell your heart not to explode in its efforts to one-up me.” She was sure they had used up all their second chances by then.
“It couldn’t because your love holds it together,” he said in a melodramatic way, putting his hand to his chest. His violet eyes were merry and teasing but also holding a hint of the truth. “So you can tell it what to do.”
Feyre reached him. She put her hand over his, gentle, loving. “Oh, that’s so…” She half-closed her eyes, looking softly smitten, then she smacked his hand once and grinned. “Good, because I want you to do something. And you didn’t explain the meeting.”
“It was canceled. You haven’t explained what you’re doing to our child.” He made as if to take Nyx.
Feyre whisked him away. “It’s important.”
Nyx babbled at Rhys, opening and closing a hand at him. Rhys waved back, following them as Feyre walked back to the table. He lifted an eyebrow at her. “How so? In the way all art is important or…?”
Feyre looked down at Nyx. He nuzzled against her shoulder, one hand wrapping her tunic and apron. Her heart ached again but in a bittersweet way this time. “His feet are getting bigger.”
Rhys rested a hip against the worktable. His fingers touched her hip. “I should hope so.”
“No, I mean—” Feyre sighed, the smile on her face wavering. “I love watching him grow, but it’s happening so fast. He’s going to be actually walking soon and then running and then he’ll be wandering off on his own.”
Tears pricked her eyes, a mix of happiness and a loss that hadn’t even happened yet and excitement for the future. For all the things Nyx would do. After everything that had happened to bring him into this world, it seemed like fate loomed over him, for better or worse. She hoped for the best and would do everything in her powerful to give him the tools and knowledge he needed to navigate their world. She and Rhys both would.
But she loved the baby he was right now and part of her wished he could stay this size forever even if she looked forward to seeing the adult he would become.
Rhys’ hand moved to her arm. He drew her closer, pulling her against his chest. Nyx patted Feyre’ face.
“I just…I love him and his little hands and little feet,” Feyre said, “I want to always remember how tiny they were right now.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Rhys said, “And now the canvas on the floor makes more sense.” He kissed the side of her head, his wings curving around her and Nyx. “What do you need me to do?”
“Well. About that.” She glanced up at him. His truly ticklish spots were the soles of his feet. She used that information sparingly but to devastating effect when she needed it. Still, she wanted his feet and her on the canvas as well. When Nyx was older, she would have them do it all over again and it would be a cute family memory. “Do you think you can hold still while I paint your soles?”
Rhys grinned. “For you, of course, but I only have one."
Feyre stared at him. “You know, I think Mor is right, becoming a father really affected your sense of humor.”
“In the best way,” Rhys said proudly. He took Nyx and snuggled him for a moment before giving him a conspiratorial look. “Isn’t that right?”
Nyx burbled and grabbed a chunk of Rhys’ hair, tugging joyfully.
“See," Rhys said, "He agrees.”
“We’ll see if that holds true in about fifteen years.”
Rhys stole a quick kiss from her. “I’ll remember that.”