Work Text:
November 1978
Svetlana wakes, as she has so many times during these last nine days, to the sound of a screaming baby.
It’s too much. In that moment, it is too much—the second her eyes open, she feels dread and despair overtake her at how exhausted she is. She wants to cry right along with her infant son. She wants to sleep, for the love of god, she just needs a little bit more sleep.
She does neither. Instead, she reaches out next to her and gropes blindly for Anatoly’s sleeping form.
Svetlana doesn’t understand how he can sleep through it. The crib is right there, just a meter away from their bed, and yet he only stirs when she makes contact with his shoulder and squeezes. He grunts to wakefulness, and Svetlana doesn’t say anything, just curls up in the blankets. He rolls out of bed to check on their child.
Exhaustion drags her eyes closed, but she doesn’t fall asleep. She can’t, until Andrei is settled again. Instead, she listens as Anatoly checks all the usual suspects. Most of the time, neither of them can find an obvious cause. Katya never screamed this much. Svetlana has taken him to the doctor twice, but each time they send her home again, assuring her this will pass. It breaks her heart, that her baby is having a problem she can’t understand or help with, but what can she do?
She listens to Anatoly pick him up and hold him to his chest, cradling and gently shushing him. This time, at least, Andrei responds quickly to being held and starts to settle down, making whimpering noises rather than outright cries—the threat is still there, but he hasn’t committed. Svetlana listens to Anatoly rub his little back, to the sound of Anatoly's slippers shuffling across the floor.
“You must go back to sleep, little one,” he says, his voice so incredibly quiet, and so incredibly tired. “Your mama has been working hard to feed you, and she needs rest, which means you need rest.”
He grunts, and in Svetlana’s delirious state, it almost sounds doubtful. Anatoly must think so, too. “It’s true. For someone so small, you are an awful lot of work,” he says. “I have to travel in two weeks. You should learn how to sleep through the night before then, for mama. Can you do that?”
Andrei is quiet now, which is clear progress. Svetlana shifts just slightly and cracks her eyes open for just a moment, just enough to see Anatoly and their son by the window, highlighted by the moon and streetlights. Andrei’s little head is lying against his shoulder, and Anatoly’s cheek is pressed to his head of wispy hair, and they rock from side to side together.
She keeps this moment locked away. She will look back on it when Anatoly is gone, when she is doing all of this on her own, with a 2-year-old to care for besides, and her heart will ache like it does now. Part of her had hoped maybe it would be different this time—maybe a son would change things somehow. Maybe he would stay home a little bit longer, maybe he would refocus, or at least try. Maybe he would see his family as something to enjoy, rather than something pulling him ever farther away from where he wants to be.
There is still time. Andrei is only a week old. But Svetlana doesn’t hope anymore.
Anatoly rocks the infant for a few more minutes, letting him fall deeper into sleep before taking the risk to put him back in his crib. The moment of truth—will he stay asleep? Or will he start to scream again, as soon as Anatoly lets him go?
This time, thank the heavens, it’s the former. Svetlana listens to Andrei’s tiny, even little breaths as Anatoly settles back in beside her. She falls back asleep the moment he’s still.