Work Text:
Turning your house into a home again is a bit of a project, in more ways than one. Surprisingly (or maybe not?), the two of you settle into a warm, familiar, domestic kind of rhythm long before renovations are complete.
There's... one thing that keeps pulling you out of that mood, though.
"My king, where should this go?"
Yes, this is on you for having readily accepted their praise in this king-servant context, once upon a time. When you were too lost in your own misery to realize there was still someone who needed you. This had become just what they called you, even now, when you lived together, and there was no crown on your head, and hopefully they knew you no longer expected their servitude like you once foolishly did.
But, well. It wears you down after a while.
"My king, about the roof color-"
"Purple, hey-" you finally speak up, when you become too uncomfortable to postpone the conversation. "Please, you... don't have to call me that."
They stop, looking confused. It's almost, you think back, with endearment tinted by nostalgia, like they used to look when you told them they couldn't have a candy they wanted; not even upset at first, just thinking back to why this denial might be.
...your own child, you mean. How your child used to look.
"Sssure. Ehh, sorry if it was annoying or something!" Purple quickly snaps out of it. You don't bother correcting them, because it frankly WAS getting... annoying isn't the right word, but still. "...Um, what... SHOULD I call you, then?"
You open your mouth. You catch yourself and close it a second later.
What you actually want the child to call you is, in all honesty, far too selfish of an ask. At least... not yet, so soon after you've gotten closer to each other. And not because you asked. "Just... erm, not that, I guess."
"Uhh... sure...?"
The two of you go back to your work, paint buckets and brushes carried from one room to the next, the sounds of carpentry tools as you fix what needs fixing.
You stop after a while and call out to them: "Maybe Orange?"
They don't look up from their painting, concentrating on getting the color even. "Oh, that's actually what I call one of my friends from alanspc."
It's kind of bizarre to you that they don't even hesitate to call those people 'friends' after having enthusiastically sold them out to you the day you met, but you've long decided to keep your nose out of that business. If that group accepts them even after all the two of you have done, good for Purple. "That one has an actual program name, though, doesn't he?" you ask, recalling the earliest of the videos you once poured over obsessively, back when those were your only lead.
"Mmm, probably? His friends call him something else. But it'd be weird to start calling him that after I've called him Orange for a while, maybe?"
Didn't you JUST say you're one of his friends? you think, but you don't push it. "Alright. You don't have to call me Orange, then."
The room falls to silence again, not counting the sounds of work.
You'll figure something out eventually.