Chapter Text
“Oh….” Yuri sighed happily, his arms outstretched to receive a small bundle, quietly squirming in its confines, and held it close once he had it positioned properly. The Asian man’s face was flushed bright red, hair dampened with sweat and his chest still heaving with exertion as the baby was placed in his arms; he pulled the blanket back from his face tenderly, brushed his cheeks with the tips of his fingers so carefully that it looked like he was caressing a porcelain doll. His expression was wide-eyed, almost in disbelief as he bit down on his bottom lip, took a deep breath in. And then the tears started, just as his finger stroked across the infant’s mouth and he instinctively latched on to suckle at it. “Wow….”
Yuri was otherwise speechless watching the newborn as his eyes cracked open for the first time, still visually impaired as they tried to focus in the general vicinity of his mother’s face, and the tears came freely. They stained his cheeks, which burned hot as he tried to hold back. The baby’s eyes were a misty blue-grey, but they would change colour eventually, likely to Yuri’s own dark brown. The hair that fell over his son’s forehead was jet black, darker even than Yuri’s--and yes, there was a lot of it. He removed his finger from his son’s mouth, pushed the blanket back to run his fingers over the top of his head. Everything about him was so beautiful and so perfect…. He pulled his hand away to wipe his eyes.
Just before he could, his hand was clasped in a slightly larger one, the weight of another body shifting the bed. “Why are you crying, Yurachka?” Viktor leaned over, his head on Yuri’s shoulder as he reached up to wipe his lover’s tears for him. His eyes were concerned, but there was a smile on his face and he leaned up to press a kiss to his Japanese lover’s cheek. “He looks just like you.”
Honestly, Yuri didn’t know why he was crying. He’d spent thirty-seven weeks incubating the hyperactive little beast that refused to let him sleep, who twisted, spun, and bounced until his mother just about peed himself at the most inopportune moments. The couple made jokes about their child already practicing his quad flip, but the longer it went on, the more miserable Yuri became, and the less funny it was. Finally, at the beginning of the thirty-sixth week, Yuri had had enough and just wanted it over with. He expressed as much to his lover constantly over the course of two weeks, and now here they were, cuddled up together in bed with their son, their doula having already packed up and left once the infant’s health was assured.
He was just barely considered preterm, and there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with him. He was small, but his heart and lungs sounded fine, he had good reflexes, he was active, his eyes were open, and he had two responsible parents who knew to take him straight to the hospital if anything seemed suspicious. Yuri felt like he was going to burst with joy--he had no idea how he could have produced something so unimaginably beautiful, even if Viktor had helped. He’d always had this sinking feeling that something would be wrong with their son, or that after he was born Yuri wouldn’t be able to connect with him--he’d been told all about post-partum depression, had it drilled into him until he was physically afraid of it--but now that he was here, all of that washed away. He did feel guilty however. The distinct emptiness inside him where his child had rested just a little over an hour ago served to remind him how he’d wanted him out, how much in those weeks he’d hated the condition he was in and begged for it to be over.
He regretted that. He wasn’t unhappy, but… if something had gone wrong, he never would have been able to forgive himself. Yuri’s tears then were a combination of just that--his overlapping regret and his joy.
“Here.” Viktor nudged his partner’s arm, handed him a warm bottle of formula that he’d been taught by the doula to prepare. His smile was soft when Yuri finally looked up at him, eyes filled with emotion in a way Yuri hadn’t seen before. He had watched Viktor literally transform from the façade of a marble statue--cool, untouchable, awe-inspiring perfection--into a loving, empathetic, vulnerable, warm human being. He’d seen Viktor go from being an idol to an instructor to a lover… and to see him now as a father, filled with the purest form of unconditional love…. Yuri held his breath, took the bottle offered him for their child slowly. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, and before he knew it, he was pressing their lips to release an artesian spring of pent up emotion. Of course Viktor reciprocated with no hesitation at all, and that just served to steal Yuri’s breath completely.
How did he deserve something this perfect in his life? He hadn’t done anything great or special. He’d never been especially selfless or philanthropic or humanitarian. So why? Why was he so blessed with a beautiful partner and a beautiful child, and so much love that he couldn’t physically contain the bliss that overwhelmed his entire being?
Finally, they broke and Yuri traced the nipple of the bottle over his son’s lips, watched him latch on aggressively as he practically inhaled his very first meal. When Yuri looked up, his partner was biting down on his lip, and he just knew that behind that expression was a playful jab at Yuri’s own eating habits. So he matched it with a bittersweet expression of his own, daring Viktor even to breathe with that thought on his mind. “Yuri….” The Russian started, accent heavy on his mischievously lilting voice. He was grinning.
He would have bit back before Viktor had a chance to say anything, vastly far from in the mood for poking at his weight, but instead, Viktor pulled out his phone and took a quick picture of his still owlishly blinking lover. “Viktor, what did you do?” Yuri watched him swiping his thumb across the screen, eyes bright and a silly smile on his plush lips--Yuri knew better. He was up to something. With a final tap, Viktor nodded, his grin widening immensely.
Yuri’s phone went off on the nightstand beside him almost instantly--his Instagram notification tone. He eyed Viktor suspiciously as he shifted their son in his arms to retrieve the phone. All he had to do was look at the lit screen, read that he’d been tagged in a post shared by v-nikiforov and shot his partner a very irritated look. “Viktor,” he hissed, voice laden with as much venom as could possibly be mustered while he was this exhausted. “I haven’t even told my family yet! How could you?”
Viktor mostly seemed to be ignoring him, staring down at his phone as it vibrated with notifications almost constantly. “You called them when you went into labour. Isn’t that enough?”
“Honestly.”
Yuri sighed. It wasn’t worth the fighting, and he didn’t want to do it in front of their son, regardless. Instead, before word could get around that they’d put pictures up on Instagram before telling the proud grandparents, the new mother decided to call his family, let them know everything was alright, and that they could come by soon to visit. “Not just yet,” he requested as his mother excitedly began to get ready to leave. “I’m tired, and we want to make sure he’s perfectly healthy before we start passing him around.” Surprisingly, they understood. At thirty-seven weeks, there were still risks, and Yuri was just being protective. When they’d agreed to wait a few days, Yuri hung up, put his phone back on the nightstand and lay back with a heavy sigh. He was utterly exhausted.
“Want me to take him?” Viktor asked, finally looking up from his phone to see how his partner had sagged against his stack of pillows, and knew that Yuri was past the point where he could hold onto consciousness. This was confirmed when his partner willingly shifted to pass the fragile infant to him; Viktor set his buzzing phone aside to gather his son into his arms, holding him close for the first time. Yuri watched him, his dark eyes hooded, and Viktor glanced up only for a moment to flash his beloved a bright grin. “He really is beautiful, just like his mother,” the Russian purred lowly, lifting his free hand to cover his mouth--as his eyes began to heat and sting, he finally understood exactly what it was that Yuri had been feeling. Looking down on him, even seeing him in the arms of the man he loved more than anything else in the world, couldn’t compare at all to what it was to feel the weight of his body in his hands, to know that he was real and that this wasn’t a dream. His chest swelled. He was a father, and this was his son. He bowed his head, pressed his lips to his son’s forehead, murmured to him in his own native language, “Ya postarayus’ izo vsekh sil.” He stayed like that for a long while, weighing his own words carefully. I’ll try my best, he’d promised, and he knew that even if his son didn’t understand now, he would still carry those words with him forever.
“You’re going to be a good dad,” Yuri whispered, his finger finding the top of Viktor’s head, prompting the Russian to look up. To them, it was such a deep, meaningful, and intimate interaction, so Yuri was hardly surprised when he noticed that his partner’s eyes were filled to the brim with tears. He gave a soft smile, filled with empathy for the revelation his lover must have been overcome with. It was his turn. He swiped his thumb across Viktor’s cheeks, catching his tears before they could fall, and leaned over to kiss his forehead. “Why are you crying, Vityenka?”
“He’s perfect, Yuri; and you did an amazing job. I’m so proud.” Viktor dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, reached ahead and brushed his lover’s sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. “Go ahead and rest. I can take care of him.”
In response, Yuri nodded, settling himself down into the bed, rearranging the pillows to make himself more comfortable. He let out a soft groan. “I’m sore everywhere. I mean, I’ve been through intense training programs that didn’t hurt this bad afterward.” His eyes were closed and he was mumbling, so instead of responding directly, Viktor just smiled, fully intending to let his lover sleep.
He picked up his phone, opened Instagram to read all the comments on the picture of his clearly exerted but happy significant other, the mother of his son, and frowned. There seemed to be a common theme of congratulations on the safe delivery and the good health of the baby, people asking the baby’s gender, and curious about his name. Viktor blinked down at the screen owlishly. He and Yuri had agreed that their son would take a Russian patronymic and Viktor’s surname, but that he would be given a Japanese first name, as that would be the nation where he was born and raised. He glanced up slowly. Yuri’s eyes were closed, his breath coming deep and even. He stirred slightly, and Viktor decided to test his luck. “Yuri?”
There was a slight pause, and then, “I’m sleeping.”
“What are you going to name him?”
This time the pause was even longer and for a moment Viktor thought that Yuri actually had fallen asleep, as his statement had promised. But then he wet his lips, swallowed, his eyes cracked open, and he sat up just a little to examine the now dormant infant. He came close, kissed the top of his head, and then lay back again. “Shouri.”
“Shouri?” Viktor repeated, just to make sure he’d heard correctly.
And Yuri confirmed it. “Shouri.” It seemed good enough. Viktor took a picture of the sleeping infant, tagged his beloved, and then tapped to caption the photo. He stayed completely silent. “You don’t like it? We can change it.”
Viktor looked up quickly. “What? No. I love it. If that’s what you want to name him, then that’s his name.” He wouldn’t readily admit that he was having trouble figuring out the correct spelling. Finally, he just typed out the closest approximation--if it were wrong, Yuri would tell him and he could change it later, it wasn’t as if this was going on his birth certificate after all--and with that, he submitted it. Officially, his name would be Shouri Viktorevich Nikiforov, embracing both his Russian and Japanese heritage.
“It means victory,” Yuri added, his voice now laden with sleep as he closed his eyes once more.
And Viktor couldn’t help but laugh knowingly as his partner drifted off into the blissful ignorance of a fantastical dreamland. Victory. That would keep the shippers occupied for a while.