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Chapter Text

Chapter One: What Comes After Gold

The silence of a Russian winter wasn't something that frightened Yuuri anymore. In fact, there was a comfort in it—the hush of falling snow, the muted creak of old floorboards under socked feet, the whisper of water boiling on the stove.

Their apartment, tucked into a quiet corner of St. Petersburg, had become a sort of sanctuary. It smelled like bergamot and wool and occasionally, Viktor’s overly sweet cologne. The windows were fogged from the heater humming steadily, fighting off the chill that crept in through the ancient walls.

Yuuri stood by the window, sipping from a steaming mug of genmaicha, staring out over the snow-covered city.

Viktor watched him from the doorway for a moment, arms folded loosely across his chest. Yuuri's profile was calm, but Viktor knew him too well not to see the tiny tells: the way he chewed the inside of his cheek, the barely perceptible crease in his brow, the way his fingers tightened around the cup just a second too long before relaxing again.

“You’re doing it again,” Viktor said, padding into the room.

Yuuri turned, startled. “Doing what?”

“Staring out at nothing with that ‘I’m thinking myself into a coma’ look.”

Yuuri huffed a soft laugh, but it was quiet. “Just thinking.”

“Mm. Dangerous habit.” Viktor slid an arm around his waist and kissed his temple. “Want to tell me what it is this time?”

Yuuri hesitated. He was quiet long enough that Viktor felt the weight of his answer before he gave it.

“What comes after gold?” Yuuri asked softly.

Viktor leaned back to look at him, surprised.

Yuuri’s gaze flickered to Viktor’s face. “We’ve skated… We’ve coached… We’ve stood on every podium. I love our life. I do. But sometimes I wonder—what comes next?”

A beat passed. Then Viktor smiled. “Funny. I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

Yuuri blinked. “You have?”

“Of course. Especially lately. And you know what I keep thinking?” Viktor’s voice was gentle as he took Yuuri’s hand in his. “I want a family with you.”

Yuuri froze. His breath hitched like Viktor had just landed a quad right in the middle of his soul.

“I…” Yuuri started. “You mean… like… a baby?”

“Well, I wasn’t suggesting we adopt a houseplant,” Viktor teased, though his eyes were soft with sincerity.

Yuuri’s fingers curled into Viktor’s. He looked down, trying to keep his heartbeat from racing.

“I’m scared,” he admitted.

“I know.” Viktor kissed the back of his hand. “But you’ve always been brave. You just never give yourself credit for it.”

Yuuri looked up at him again, eyes wide, shimmering with uncertainty. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I mess it up?”

Viktor smiled, brushing a thumb under his eye. “Then we’ll mess it up together.”

That weekend, they sat across from a surrogacy counselor in a cozy office filled with pastel cushions, informational brochures, and the faint smell of lemon verbena.

Yuuri sat stiffly, his hand clenched around Viktor’s like a lifeline.

The counselor, a kind-faced woman named Galina, explained the process in slow, calm tones. Legal paperwork. Medical screenings. The difference between traditional and gestational surrogacy. Waiting lists. Emotional prep.

Yuuri tried to focus, but his thoughts kept folding in on themselves like collapsing origami.

He wasn’t ready.

Or maybe he was, and that was scarier.

Viktor nodded along, occasionally asking questions. He was calm, confident—dreamy even, like he could already see the baby in his arms.

Yuuri envied that clarity.

When the session ended, Galina smiled and handed them a binder. “No decisions today. Just talk. Dream a little. And then come back when you're ready.”

Outside, snow was falling in slow spirals. Yuuri paused on the steps, fingers still clutching the binder like it might slip from his grasp.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

Viktor looked at him. “For what?”

Yuuri stared at the snow collecting on his boots. “For not being as sure as you are.”

“Yuuri.” Viktor touched his face. “You’re here. That’s already more than I could ask for.”

They stood there in the cold until Viktor leaned in and kissed him—soft and slow, like melting frost.

And just like that, Yuuri felt the tiniest seed of hope press into the soil of his heart.

That night, Yuuri lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the man beside him.

He turned on his side, watching Viktor sleep. His silver hair spilled across the pillow. One hand was curled close to his chest, the other stretched halfway toward Yuuri’s side of the bed.

Yuuri took it gently, threading their fingers together in the dark.

“I’d name her Sora,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Viktor stirred but didn’t wake.

Yuuri smiled faintly. “If we have a daughter… I think I’d name her Sora.”

Two weeks later, they returned to Galina’s office. Yuuri’s fingers were steadier this time. His shoulders were still tense, but his heart didn’t quake as violently.

They said yes.

Yes to surrogacy. Yes to hope. Yes to the terrifying, beautiful unknown.

Later that evening, back in their apartment, Viktor poured two glasses of wine.

“To us,” he said, raising his glass.

Yuuri clinked his against Viktor’s. “To Sora. Or whatever her name ends up being.”

Viktor smiled. “You already decided on a name?”

Yuuri blushed. “Maybe.”

Viktor leaned forward, pressing their glasses aside and kissing him, slow and sweet.

“I love you,” he whispered. “More every day.”

Yuuri exhaled against his mouth. “I love you, too. Even when I’m terrified.”

“That’s okay,” Viktor murmured. “We’ll skate on this new ice together.”

And outside, the snow kept falling—quiet, endless, full of possibility.

Chapter Text

Yuuri had competed in front of millions, stood beneath spotlights that could blind, bowed before judges with hearts as cold as their scoring pens—but nothing, nothing, had prepared him for the overwhelming fear of page twenty-six.

He sat at the dining table, sleeves pushed up, a pen loosely dangling between his fingers as Viktor read over the latest packet from Galina’s office. It was the third time that week a courier had arrived at their apartment with a thick envelope labeled "URGENT" in a very friendly font that did nothing to ease Yuuri’s nerves.

He stared at the legal jargon—terms like “intent to parent,” “embryo ownership,” and “termination clause”—and felt a familiar tightness gather behind his sternum.

“Yuuri?” Viktor’s voice drifted from across the table, gentle, unsure. “You’ve been looking at the same page for ten minutes.”

Yuuri blinked, startled. “Sorry. I just... I don’t understand this part.”

Viktor scooted closer, their knees bumping. He leaned over the paper. “Which part?”

Yuuri hesitated, then tapped the clause he’d been staring at: In the event of unforeseen tragedy or separation, both parties agree...

He didn’t say it aloud, but Viktor read the rest.

Viktor’s smile softened, though there was something tight beneath it. “It’s just standard procedure. Legal coverage for every possible outcome.”

“But it’s so cold,” Yuuri whispered. “Like they’re already assuming something will go wrong.”

“They’re just protecting everyone involved.”

“I know.” Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck. “It just... makes it real.”

“It is real,” Viktor said, more gently this time. “That’s the good part, right?”

Yuuri didn’t answer. Instead, he set the pen down and stood abruptly, pacing toward the window.

The snow hadn’t fallen that morning. The city looked gray and wet and real in a way that made his stomach churn.

Viktor watched him in silence, letting Yuuri move like a storm cloud drifting through their home.

“I can’t do this,” Yuuri finally said, his back to Viktor.

The words hung like shattered glass in the quiet room.

Viktor rose slowly and approached him, barefoot, arms loose at his sides.

“I thought we decided—”

“We did!” Yuuri turned to face him, eyes wide, voice cracking. “But deciding and doing are different. It’s one thing to imagine holding a baby. It’s another to sign a piece of paper that legally promises you’ll be a parent no matter what.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“No! I mean—yes. I don’t know.” Yuuri dragged his hands through his hair, chest heaving. “What if I screw it up? What if I’m not strong enough? What if I can’t protect them? What if they hate me? What if I turn into my worst self again, and there’s no rink to save me this time?”

Viktor’s face softened, the tension slipping into something heartbreakingly gentle.

He crossed the space between them and cupped Yuuri’s face. “You’re not your worst self, Yuuri.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I watched you get up every time you fell. I watched you love harder even when you were scared. You are notbroken. You’re human. And that’s exactly what a child needs.”

Yuuri’s lip trembled. He looked away, ashamed. “You’d be the better father.”

“That’s not how this works.” Viktor’s voice was firmer now. “We’re doing this together. Every bottle, every bad diaper, every 3 a.m. scream. I’m not doing it without you.”

Yuuri’s eyes welled up, and he shook his head. “I don’t want to fail them, Viktor.”

“You won’t,” Viktor whispered, forehead pressing to his. “Because you already love them. You’re already trying so hard to be enough. That’s the most important thing.”

Yuuri’s knees gave out, and Viktor caught him as he slid to the floor, their arms tangled, the legal documents forgotten on the table behind them.

They stayed there for a long time, Viktor’s hand gently stroking Yuuri’s back while his breath evened out against his shoulder.

Later that night, after the storm inside Yuuri had calmed, they lay in bed in a hush so profound it seemed the city itself had gone to sleep.

Yuuri turned his head, voice hoarse. “Do you think they’ll like me?”

Viktor smiled faintly and touched his cheek. “They’re going to adore you.”

Yuuri stared at him. “How do you know?”

“Because you made me fall in love. And I’m much harder to impress.”

Yuuri snorted and rolled onto his side, tucking his head beneath Viktor’s chin.

They lay like that, quiet. Peaceful. Breathing as one.

Until Yuuri whispered, “Let’s sign the papers tomorrow.”

And Viktor, heart swelling, whispered back, “Okay.”

The following day was crisp and bright, the snow sparkling like powdered sugar across the rooftops. Galina welcomed them with warm tea and a stack of final documents.

Yuuri’s hand trembled as he picked up the pen. He glanced at Viktor, who offered a small nod and a squeeze of his knee beneath the table.

Yuuri signed.

And just like that, the world shifted.

They spent the next few weeks immersed in preparation—medical clearances, psychological evaluations, interviews with prospective surrogate agencies. It was exhausting and oddly intimate, like constructing a future from scratch.

Yuuri, always the meticulous planner, started keeping a folder. A blue one. Inside were baby name ideas, articles on newborn nutrition, adoption rights between Japan and Russia, and a printout titled “How to Swaddle Without Losing Your Mind.”

Viktor, on the other hand, kept a Pinterest board titled “Daddy Style: Glam Edition.”

Their differences amused and comforted them.

One evening, they sat side-by-side on the couch, Yuuri researching clinics, Viktor lazily sketching a nursery layout on a napkin.

“Neutral tones or soft pastels?” Viktor asked.

Yuuri looked up. “Pastels, I think. Soft yellows. Light lavender.”

“Lavender?” Viktor tilted his head. “I like that.”

He paused. “You’d be okay with a girl?”

Yuuri smiled. “I’d be okay with anyone. Boy, girl… doesn’t matter. As long as they’re healthy. As long as they’re ours.”

The call came on a rainy Tuesday.

Galina’s voice was light, excited. “We have someone. A potential match.”

Her name was Lena. She was thirty-three. A former ballet dancer. Warm, witty, kind. Russian, but fluent in Japanese thanks to years spent in Tokyo with a touring company.

She had the grace of a prima ballerina and the grounded humor of someone who’d known real pain.

They met at a quiet café three blocks from the rink.

Yuuri fidgeted with his mug the entire time. Viktor did most of the talking—charming and open and painfully earnest.

Lena laughed at his jokes, nodded at Yuuri’s quiet observations, and didn’t flinch when they mentioned their fears.

“I think we’d be good parents,” Viktor said. “But I think we’ll also be scared shitless most of the time.”

Lena grinned. “Good. That means you’ll care.”

Yuuri finally looked up, something easing in his shoulders.

And he thought: Maybe this could work.

The next weeks passed in a blur of signatures, blood tests, medical evaluations, and appointments. The embryo transfer was scheduled for early March.

Viktor insisted they go together, even though they weren’t needed at the procedure itself.

Yuuri sat beside him in the waiting room, their fingers intertwined.

They watched Lena disappear behind frosted glass doors.

“Does this feel real to you?” Yuuri asked, voice low.

Viktor nodded. “More every day.”

Yuuri’s grip tightened. “I think I’m finally ready.”

“You’ve been ready, love,” Viktor said, kissing the back of his hand. “You just needed to believe it.”

When Lena emerged, tired but smiling, they both stood.

“It went well,” she said. “Now we wait.”

Viktor hugged her gently. Yuuri bowed awkwardly, unsure if he should cry or breathe.

The car ride home was quiet.

Halfway across the bridge, Viktor said, “We could be parents by winter.”

Yuuri stared out the window. “That doesn’t feel real.”

“It will.”

Yuuri turned to him. “Do you ever think we’re doing this too late? That we should’ve done it sooner?”

Viktor shook his head. “No. We weren’t ready then. We are now. You are now.”

Yuuri rested his head against the window, fingers still warm from holding Viktor’s.

He whispered, “I hope they like music. I want to sing to them. Even if I’m bad at it.”

Viktor smiled softly. “Then they’ll love it.”

That night, Yuuri curled up beside Viktor on the couch, his head resting against his chest as soft classical music played in the background.

The fire crackled. The city lights blinked gently outside.

And for the first time in weeks, Yuuri let himself close his eyes and imagine a tiny heartbeat growing, somewhere out there, carried by a kind woman with a strong spine and a quiet smile.

A little heartbeat.

Their heartbeat.

Chapter Text

The wait was unbearable.

Yuuri thought he’d mastered patience after years of international competition—waiting for scores, results, rotations, replays. But nothing, nothing, compared to waiting for the call that might change their lives forever.

The embryo transfer had gone smoothly. Lena had been in good spirits afterward, her humor gentle and her posture strong. She'd squeezed Yuuri’s hand and joked, “Now let’s see if your future tiny skater decides to stick around.”

For two weeks, all they could do was hope.

Yuuri’s anxiety returned in quiet waves. At first, he tried to hide it—channeling his nerves into reorganizing their bookshelves, rewashing already clean baby onesies they'd bought “just in case,” and deep cleaning the fridge twice. But Viktor saw through it easily.

Late at night, Viktor would find him in the nursery—the unfinished room they’d painted in pale yellow and lavender—and gently pull him back to bed.

“We don’t even know if it worked yet,” Yuuri would whisper into Viktor’s chest.

“I know,” Viktor would murmur, fingers brushing his hair. “But loving them early won’t make it hurt more. It’ll just make you braver.”

The call came on a Thursday morning.

Yuuri had just stepped out of the shower when Viktor’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He didn’t recognize the number, but the country code was Russian. He answered, breath catching in his throat.

“Hello?”

“Viktor,” came Galina’s voice, tight with emotion, “it’s confirmed. She’s pregnant.”

He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, stunned into silence.

“Blood test was positive. Levels look strong. We’ll schedule the first ultrasound for next week.”

Yuuri emerged from the bathroom in sweatpants and damp hair, towel around his neck. “Who was that?”

Viktor’s mouth opened, then closed.

Then he broke into a blinding smile. “We’re going to be dads.”

Yuuri froze. “Wait—wait. Are you serious?”

Viktor nodded.

And Yuuri, breathless, eyes wide, dropped the towel and collapsed into Viktor’s arms, burying his face in his chest.

For a long time, they didn’t move. Just held each other, trembling and laughing and crying all at once.

“I want to tell everyone,” Viktor finally said, brushing the wet hair from Yuuri’s forehead.

Yuuri sniffled. “Even Mari?”

“Especially Mari. She’ll know what to do.”

✦

The first video call was with Mari and their parents in Hasetsu.

Yuuri held the phone nervously, sitting curled on the couch while Viktor beamed beside him. Mari was the first to answer, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at their too-wide smiles.

“What did you do?” she asked flatly. “Did you adopt a dog? Another cat?”

“No,” Yuuri said quickly. “It’s… bigger than that.”

“I swear if you bought a polar bear—”

“We’re having a baby,” Viktor cut in, grinning.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Mari let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a shout.

“You’re WHAT?”

“Our surrogate is pregnant,” Yuuri said, cheeks flushed. “Just confirmed.”

Mari blinked, visibly trying to absorb the words. “Wait—like a real baby?”

“Is there another kind?” Viktor asked brightly.

That earned him a groan. But then Mari smiled, soft and full. “Holy hell. You’re really doing this.”

“We are,” Yuuri said. “Scared out of our minds, but… we are.”

Their mother entered the frame, drawn by the noise. When Yuuri repeated the news, she gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

Tears welled instantly.

“A grandchild,” she whispered. “Oh, Yuuri.”

By the end of the call, Mari was demanding they send a weekly update, their father was already pricing flight tickets for the due date, and their mother was halfway into planning a care package of handmade booties and homemade soup recipes.

Next came Minako.

Yuuri had barely finished saying the word pregnant before Minako shrieked loud enough to send Viktor ducking behind a pillow.

“Yuuri! You’d better bring that baby here the moment they’re born! And Viktor—you protect that child’s rhythm like it’s your own heart!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Viktor laughed.

“And you better stretch before diaper changes,” she added. “No one wants a pulled hamstring in parenthood.”

Then came the rink.

Yakov grunted through a congratulatory slap on Viktor’s shoulder that nearly knocked the wind out of him.

“You’re going to need more discipline than you ever had on the ice.”

“That’s why I have Yuuri,” Viktor replied, smug.

“And diapers,” Mila added from behind a coffee cup. “You’ll need so many diapers.”

Georgi cried.

Phichit called from Bangkok three times in one day, each with more outrageous onesie designs and nursery theme suggestions, including “tiny ice rink” and “baby swan lake.”

“Are you gonna teach them jumps first or spins?” he asked.

Yuuri groaned. “We’re going to teach them to walk first, Phichit.”

“BORING.”

The ultrasound was scheduled for the following week.

Viktor insisted on buying a new suit jacket for the occasion. Yuuri rolled his eyes, but deep down, he understood the impulse. This wasn’t just a medical appointment—it was the first time they’d see their child.

Lena greeted them in the clinic lobby, looking radiant in an oversized cream sweater. Her smile was calm, almost serene. Yuuri always felt steadier around her.

Inside the room, the nurse asked if they wanted the monitor angled toward them.

“Yes, please,” Viktor said, instantly.

Yuuri clutched Viktor’s hand as the technician applied gel and moved the wand over Lena’s belly. The screen flickered.

And then—

A small, unmistakable flutter.

“There’s the heartbeat,” the nurse said softly.

It was a blur of sound and motion, but Yuuri felt it like thunder in his chest. His breath caught. Viktor squeezed his hand hard.

He didn’t cry this time. He just stared.

Stared like he’d never seen anything so perfect.

Later that evening, they sat on the floor of the nursery, cross-legged in the unfinished room.

Yuuri held a copy of the ultrasound printout in both hands, reverent.

Viktor was quiet for once, gaze fixed on the blurry image.

“I didn’t think I could love something so small,” Yuuri whispered. “But I do.”

“I love you more for loving them,” Viktor replied.

Yuuri leaned his head on Viktor’s shoulder. “We should start planning.”

“The nursery?”

“No. Everything.”

And so, they did.

They made lists. Notebooks upon notebooks. Yuuri handled the structure—birth plans, pediatrician interviews, co-parenting books, baby-safe travel guides.

Viktor focused on magic—music playlists for nap time, enchanted lighting ideas, baby’s first skates custom-designed in his sketchpad.

Together, they were unstoppable. They argued over bottle brands, debated cloth vs disposable, tested strollers in the park, and built IKEA furniture until 2 a.m.

Once, Viktor caught Yuuri asleep in the rocking chair, his hand resting over his belly like he could already feel her kicking.

In the middle of a snowstorm two months later, they received a call from Lena.

“It’s a girl,” she said softly. “If you still want to know.”

Yuuri nearly dropped the phone.

Viktor had just come in from a walk, cheeks pink and eyes bright. Yuuri launched himself at him.

“She’s a girl,” he said breathlessly. “We’re having a daughter.”

Viktor blinked, stunned. Then he smiled, slow and wide.

He dropped to his knees and pressed his face to Yuuri’s stomach, even though there was no baby inside it. “Hello, princess,” he whispered. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

That night, Viktor stood at the piano in the corner of the living room—dusty and old, a gift from a fan long ago. He touched the keys gently.

Yuuri appeared in the doorway. “You never play anymore.”

“I wanted to wait until we had someone new to play for.”

He began to play—soft, uncertain at first. A lullaby, drawn from memory, stitched together with notes of hope and wonder.

Yuuri came to stand beside him.

“You’re going to sing to her, aren’t you?” Yuuri asked.

“I was going to let you sing,” Viktor teased.

“I’ll break her ears.”

“She’ll love your voice.” Viktor turned, hands still moving. “Because it’s the sound of home.”

In the final days of the second trimester, the baby’s kicks were strong enough for Lena to feel them regularly. She began recording short videos of her stomach—tiny movements under smooth skin—and sending them to Viktor and Yuuri.

Yuuri would watch them late at night on repeat, hand over his heart.

Sometimes, he cried. Sometimes, he smiled.

Every time, he whispered: “We’ll be here soon. I promise.”

Chapter Text

The second time they heard the heartbeat, it was slower.

Not medically slower—just not the chaotic, thundering flutter it had been before. This time it was strong. Steady. Confident.

Like her fathers.

Yuuri held Viktor’s hand, thumb tracing the edge of his knuckles as Lena reclined on the exam table, the monitor humming softly. The doctor adjusted the Doppler wand, smiling as a rich thump-thump-thump filled the small, sterile room.

“She likes music,” Lena joked.

“She has to,” Viktor said with a grin. “She’s mine.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes but didn’t let go of Viktor’s hand.

He hadn’t cried this time. Not because he didn’t feel it—he did—but because he wanted to stay present. To hold this moment as clearly as he could.

He wanted to remember the way the sound vibrated in his chest. The way Lena smiled, calm and proud. The way Viktor looked at the screen like it was sacred.

He wanted to remember this moment as the one where he finally believed—not just in the idea of their daughter, but in his place in her world.

That night, back in the apartment, they sat in bed with a stack of name books between them. The soft glow of fairy lights bathed the room in warmth as they flipped pages, laughed at ridiculous names, and gently debated their favorites.

“I’m still partial to Sora,” Yuuri murmured. “It means sky. Feels… open. Safe.”

Viktor tilted his head. “I like it. But I also like Emilia. Or Alina. Something with grace.”

Yuuri smiled. “She’s going to be graceful no matter what. Look at her genes.”

Viktor puffed his chest. “Ah, yes. With my beauty and your stubborn perfectionism, she will be unstoppable.”

Yuuri poked him. “We are not creating a diva.”

“I was born a diva.”

“Not helping.”

They laughed quietly. Then Viktor flipped to a page and paused.

“What about Sora Emilia?” he offered. “Sky and grace.”

Yuuri’s heart fluttered. “Sora Emilia Katsuki-Nikiforov?”

“It fits.”

“It really does.”

They wrote it down together in Yuuri’s neat handwriting, and Viktor drew a tiny star beside it.

In the days that followed, they finally allowed themselves to talk to her.

Not just about names, but about life. About lullabies and skating and stories from their childhoods.

Viktor would speak to her belly through Lena’s video updates—his Russian a soft, melodic flow of “Papa loves you” and “We can’t wait to meet you.”

Yuuri, still more reserved, would whisper quietly in the evenings: “I hope you dream of cherry blossoms,” and “I’ll learn how to make the best pancakes in the world if you’ll just give me a smile someday.”

He even recorded himself playing violin for the first time in years, shaky and imperfect, but filled with hope.

The press found out.

It wasn’t unexpected. But Yuuri had hoped it would take longer.

The first article was soft—respectful even. “Olympic Legends Expecting First Child via Surrogacy” it read, with a glowing photo of them holding hands at the rink.

But the internet was not always kind.

There were messages of support. Thousands. From parents, LGBTQ+ families, fans who had grown up watching their journey and were now adults raising their own children.

But there were also the shadows.

Children need a mother.
This is unnatural.
They’ll ruin that poor girl.

Yuuri tried not to read the comments. Viktor did his best to shield him. But one night, Yuuri opened a post out of instinct—and what he saw turned his stomach.

He said nothing.

Just closed his laptop and went silent.

Viktor noticed.

It was after dinner. Yuuri stood at the sink, washing dishes a little too forcefully. The water hissed, steam curling against his cheeks.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said gently, approaching.

Yuuri didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice cracked.

Viktor reached around him, turning off the faucet. Yuuri’s hands trembled.

“I read the comments,” Yuuri whispered. “I shouldn’t have.”

Viktor closed his eyes, breathing slowly. Then, carefully, he turned Yuuri to face him.

“You know that doesn’t define us.”

“I know.” Yuuri swallowed. “But what if it defines her?”

Viktor cupped his face. “Listen to me. We’re going to raise her in love. She will know joy. She will know truth. And when she asks who her parents are, she will say, ‘My Papa dances on ice, and my Otou-san makes the world quiet just by holding me.’”

Yuuri’s eyes welled up.

“And when someone says something cruel, she’ll know it’s not her fault. She’ll know it never was. Because we will teach her that love is never wrong.”

Yuuri’s lip trembled. “I’m scared.”

“So am I,” Viktor whispered. “But I’d rather be scared with you than brave alone.”

A few days later, Mari sent them a package. Inside was a knitted pink hat with silver snowflakes sewn into the rim, a pair of tiny slippers, and a note:

“Tell her Auntie Mari doesn’t know how to do soft, but she will learn.”

Yuuri cried quietly on the couch, holding the hat against his heart.

Their first parenting class was awkward.

A room full of expectant couples—all bump, all glow, all confusion. Most looked at them with curiosity, a few with warmth, one or two with guarded expressions.

Yuuri didn’t speak much at first. Viktor, ever the showman, charmed half the room within the first ten minutes. He made the instructor laugh, flirted just enough to be harmless, and gave the most dramatic demonstration of swaddling a doll anyone had ever seen.

Yuuri thought he might combust from secondhand embarrassment.

Later, in the car, Yuuri whispered, “I think they liked us.”

“Of course they did,” Viktor replied. “We’re adorable.”

Lena invited them to her apartment one weekend for tea.

It was small, full of books and soft rugs and photos of her ballet days. She moved gracefully even now, hand resting lightly on her growing belly.

They sat together on the floor, drinking chamomile tea and talking about the future.

“Do you think she’ll want to skate?” Lena asked.

“I hope not,” Yuuri said, surprising himself.

Lena blinked. “Really?”

Viktor chuckled. “He means he doesn’t want to pressure her.”

Yuuri nodded. “If she wants to skate, I’ll support her. But I want her to know she can be anything. A violinist. A scientist. A birdwatcher.”

Viktor grinned. “A magician.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. “You’re still stuck on that magic kit from Phichit, aren’t you?”

“I’m just saying, she might have flair.”

Lena smiled quietly. “She’s lucky, you know.”

Yuuri looked at her, startled. “Why?”

“Because she’ll never doubt that she’s wanted.”

Yuuri looked down at his tea, blinking quickly.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

That night, in bed, Yuuri curled up beside Viktor and stared at the ceiling.

“I never told you this,” he murmured, “but when I was little… I used to watch other kids with their dads and wonder what made them so confident.”

Viktor stayed quiet, listening.

“I was loved. I know that. But I never felt like I was enough unless I was achieving something. Skating made me feel like I deserved affection. Like I earned it.”

Viktor’s hand moved to cradle Yuuri’s jaw. “You’ve always deserved love, Yuuri. You are love.”

Yuuri’s breath hitched.

“I just don’t want her to feel that way. Ever.”

“She won’t,” Viktor promised. “Because you’ll show her how to be soft and strong. How to fall and rise. How to be kind to herself.”

Yuuri closed his eyes. “Will you remind me of this, when I forget?”

Viktor kissed his temple. “Every single time.”

One week later, they received another video from Lena. She was in her kitchen, smiling and laughing, as the camera focused on her stomach. There, beneath her soft sweater, the movement was unmistakable—a small kick, then another.

A beat later, Lena said softly, “She kicked when she heard Yuuri’s voice. You’re already her favorite.”

Yuuri stared at the screen, hand pressed to his mouth.

And in the quiet hush of their apartment, Viktor leaned in, rested his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder, and whispered, “Do you hear her?”

Yuuri nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I do.”

Chapter Text

The calendar flipped to October with a whisper.

The city around them burst into color—leaves blazing orange and crimson, breath frosting on early morning windows. And somewhere beneath layers of linen and soft sweaters, their daughter grew stronger.

Lena had entered her third trimester. Her stomach now curved proudly beneath her coats, her face rounder, eyes softer. She moved slower. Laughed lower. The baby kicked often now—rhythmic nudges that made Viktor’s eyes sparkle and Yuuri’s heart tremble with wonder.

They were weeks away from her due date.

It didn’t feel real.

And yet, everything about their world had started to revolve around her.

That Friday morning, everything changed.

It started with a call from Lena’s sister.

Yuuri had just finished tying his skates when his phone rang. He answered with a smile.

Then stopped breathing.

“There was some cramping,” her sister explained, rapid-fire. “She was dizzy. Her doctor said we should monitor her overnight. Just to be safe.”

Yuuri nearly dropped the phone. His hands were shaking.

Viktor was across the rink, mid-spin with a junior skater. Yuuri turned, eyes wide and wild.

Viktor didn’t need words. He skated straight to him.

“What happened?” he whispered.

Yuuri could barely say it. “Lena. She’s in the hospital.”

They arrived within thirty minutes.

Viktor drove while Yuuri sat in the passenger seat, arms wrapped around himself, rocking slightly. He didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. He simply stared straight ahead, jaw tight enough to ache.

When they reached the hospital, a nurse directed them to the maternity wing.

Lena was propped up in bed, reading a magazine. She looked tired, but smiled as they entered.

“She’s okay,” she said immediately. “Just Braxton Hicks. Normal false contractions.”

Yuuri swayed.

“Everything’s fine,” she added. “She’s still kicking like she owns the place.”

Viktor crossed to her first, touching her shoulder. “You scared us.”

“I scared me,” she admitted, placing a hand over her belly. “But they ran the tests. She’s healthy. The heartbeat’s strong.”

Yuuri stood frozen in the doorway.

Lena reached out. “Yuuri?”

“I—I just need a minute.”

He turned and walked out.

Viktor found him in the stairwell, sitting on the third step from the top, head in his hands.

“She’s okay,” Viktor said gently, kneeling beside him.

“I know,” Yuuri whispered. “I know she is. But for five minutes… for five minutes I thought we’d lost her.”

Viktor didn’t speak. Just slid onto the step and wrapped his arms around him.

“I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I was back on the rink in Detroit—just frozen. But this time, no one came to skate beside me.”

Viktor held him tighter. “I came.”

Yuuri’s eyes brimmed. “I’m not strong enough, Vitya. What if I can’t handle it when she gets sick? When she falls? When she cries and I don’t know what to do?”

“You’ll love her. That’s all she needs.”

Yuuri shook his head. “It won’t be enough.”

“It will be. Because you will never let her go through anything alone.”

Yuuri’s voice cracked. “I don’t want to lose her. I haven’t even held her yet.”

“You won’t,” Viktor promised, even though he couldn’t know for sure.

But he needed to believe it—for Yuuri, and for himself.

That night, after Lena had been discharged and Yuuri had kissed her cheek and whispered a trembling “thank you” into her shoulder, the apartment felt impossibly quiet.

Yuuri stood in the nursery, hand pressed to the lavender wall.

Viktor watched him from the doorway. “Talk to me.”

Yuuri turned, tears slipping silently down his face. “What if she inherits my anxiety?”

“Then we’ll teach her how to breathe. Together.”

“What if she gets bullied?”

“Then we’ll be there, holding her hands, reminding her she’s stronger than they are.”

Yuuri’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What if she hates me?”

Viktor crossed the room in three steps and pulled him into his chest. “Then we’ll love her louder.”

Yuuri clung to him.

And for the first time, let the fear out completely.

Later that night, while Yuuri slept curled on the couch with one of Lena’s ultrasound photos clutched to his chest, Viktor sat at the dining table with a pen, a piece of parchment, and his heart split wide open.

He began to write.

✦

To my daughter,

If you’re reading this, you’re either very curious… or I’m not there to say these things aloud. I hope it’s the first one.

But just in case… here’s what I need you to know.

You were wanted. So deeply, so fiercely, so fully that the world seemed to bend to bring you here.

You were born not of convenience or accident, but of choice. We chose every step. Every appointment. Every page of paperwork. Every sleepless night waiting to hear your heartbeat again. All of it—for you.

Your Otou-san is the bravest man I’ve ever known. He loves in ways that are so quiet, so precise, you might miss them if you blink. But he will never, ever stop loving you. Even when he’s afraid. Especially when he’s afraid.

He’ll be the one who knows how to calm you during storms. Who’ll teach you how to dance even when the music’s in your head. Who’ll give you space when you need it—and closeness when you don’t know how to ask.

And me? I’ll be the one who makes you laugh too loud. Who embarrasses you at the rink. Who sings off-key lullabies and teaches you Russian swear words way too early.

I’ll be your chaos. He’ll be your calm.

But we will always be your home.

And if you ever doubt your place in this world, remember this: you were loved before you had a name.

We dreamed you into existence.

And we will love you—forever and always.

Your Papa,
Viktor

He sealed the letter in a cream-colored envelope, kissed the corner, and tucked it into the memory box they'd started together. Inside were ultrasound photos, Lena’s first handwritten note, a ticket from their first prenatal class, and now—his words.

Yuuri woke later, eyes puffy but clear.

Viktor joined him on the couch, lifting his legs and settling behind him, drawing him into his lap.

“I wrote her a letter,” Viktor whispered into his hair.

Yuuri tilted his head. “What did it say?”

“Everything I can’t say when you’re crying.”

Yuuri gave a soft laugh, broken and beautiful. “Can I read it someday?”

Viktor kissed his cheek. “When she does.”

The baby kicked for the first time while Yuuri was on a call with Mari.

He froze mid-sentence.

“What is it?” Mari asked.

Yuuri placed a trembling hand over Lena’s belly—she’d come to the apartment that night for dinner—and his eyes went wide.

“She’s kicking.”

Mari made a sound like she was choking and cheering at once.

Yuuri laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again.

Viktor, watching from the doorway with stars in his eyes, whispered, “That’s my girl.”

A few days later, they bought a music box shaped like a swan.

Yuuri wound it up. The melody was soft, sweet—a lullaby of hope.

They placed it beside the crib. And that night, for the first time, Yuuri said it out loud.

“I’m going to be a father.”

Not with hesitation.

Not with fear.

But with joy.

Chapter Text

Yuuri had never seen Viktor so unhinged in a store.

The baby section of the department store was a pastel wonderland—racks of plush blankets, walls of tiny jackets, shelves stacked with bottles, creams, and impossibly small socks.

Yuuri made the mistake of letting go of Viktor’s hand for one second.

By the time he caught up, Viktor had three diaper bags slung over one shoulder (none of which they needed), a stuffed swan cradled in one arm, and was waving around a sleep-training book with a cover that featured a smiling cartoon moon.

“She needs options,” Viktor said solemnly. “One diaper bag is oppressive.”

“She’s not interviewing for a fashion show. She’s being born.”

“All the more reason to enter with style.”

Yuuri sighed and gently took one of the bags away. “We don’t even know if she’ll like pink.”

“She will. It’s a power color.”

“She’s a baby, not a runway model.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “You say that now.”

Yuuri gave in and added the swan plush to the cart.

Later, they stood together in the nursery.

The walls were now painted lavender and pale sky blue, trimmed with silver stars. A white bookshelf stood proudly in the corner, filled with children’s books in English, Japanese, and Russian.

A rocker sat beside the window.

And in the middle of the room, still flat-packed and daunting, lay the pieces of her crib.

“I can choreograph a world championship routine,” Yuuri muttered, holding a screw, “but I can’t find the damn Allen key.”

“Don’t worry,” Viktor said, flashing a grin. “I built a bed once. In 2008. It took eight hours and I had to sleep on the couch, but still.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Inspiring.”

Together, they built slowly. Slats and screws and instructions in three languages. Every once in a while, Viktor would stop, holding a wooden piece in his hands like it might speak to him.

“What if she doesn’t sleep?” he asked once, uncharacteristically quiet.

Yuuri looked up. “Then we won’t either.”

“What if we mess up?”

Yuuri smiled gently. “We will mess up.”

Viktor glanced at him.

“But we’ll love her so much, she’ll never have to doubt she’s wanted,” Yuuri added.

They paused to take it in: the half-built crib, the finished walls, the lullaby music box glowing softly on the shelf.

“She’s going to be so loved,” Viktor whispered.

“She already is,” Yuuri replied.

✦

The baby shower took place two weeks later at Minako’s dance studio.

Minako had insisted—no, demanded—that she host it, declaring, “If I raised Yuuri into a functioning adult, I have earnedthe right to plan a party.”

It was an explosion of theme and color.

Silver and lavender streamers draped the mirrors. A giant “WELCOME SORA EMILIA” banner hung above the barre. The snack table was shaped like a tiny ice rink, complete with snowflake cupcakes and a pink punch fountain bubbling cheerfully.

Yuuri nearly passed out when he saw it.

“Minako—”

“Don’t start,” she said, arms crossed. “Now go put on the tiara. You’re the guest of honor.”

Viktor was already wearing his. It had rhinestones and said Papa-to-Be in glittering letters.

“I love it,” he said, sipping his punch.

Yuuri buried his face in his hands.

Friends flooded in.

Mila arrived with a handmade baby quilt and matching mittens, which she claimed took “three episodes of crying at ‘Call the Midwife’ to finish.”

Georgi gifted a pair of black baby booties. “For her first emotional performance.”

Phichit joined the video call from Thailand in a full onesie shaped like a duck and insisted on “hosting” a guessing game segment where guests predicted Sora’s birth weight, hair color, and zodiac sign.

Yakov grumbled in the corner, sipping soda, until someone caught him holding the swan plush and smiling down at it with frightening tenderness.

Lena came too.

She wore a flowing seafoam dress that hugged her belly like a dream. Her smile was wide, her steps careful, but she radiated joy.

When she walked in, everyone clapped.

Yuuri rose to meet her, and she hugged him tightly.

“She’s excited,” Lena whispered. “She’s been kicking all morning.”

“I think she knows,” Yuuri replied.

Mari surprised them all.

Not just with her arrival, but with the gift she carried: an old wooden box wrapped in a cherry blossom cloth. Inside were baby items saved from Yuuri’s own infancy.

A knitted blanket. A photo of him in his mother’s arms. His first tiny yukata.

“Thought she might want to know where she comes from,” Mari said simply.

Yuuri stared down at the blanket, overcome.

Viktor wrapped an arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“She’ll grow up wrapped in your childhood,” Viktor murmured. “And dance in mine.”

The party was warm and bright.

There were games (Yuuri won “Diaper Changing Speed Round,” to everyone’s surprise), laughter, and soft music in the background.

But the best part came when Minako stood at the front, clinking her glass.

“Before this night ends,” she said, “we want to give you something more than just gifts. We want to give you words.”

One by one, their friends and family spoke.

Mila: “To your daughter—may she find her own strength, and always return to the arms that held her first.”

Georgi: “May she know that love is art. Messy, beautiful, and sometimes dramatic. And that’s okay.”

Phichit: “May she skate like a comet and dream like the stars.”

Yakov: “May she have better balance than you, Viktor.”

Laughter.

Mari: “May she carry her name like armor. And may she learn that even the softest people can survive anything.”

Minako: “And may she know that home isn’t a place—it’s people. People like you two, who choose her every single day.”

Yuuri cried openly by the end. So did Viktor.

Lena rubbed her belly and smiled.

Sora kicked once, gently.

It felt like applause.

Later that night, long after the guests had left and the balloons deflated softly in the corner, Yuuri and Viktor lay side-by-side on the nursery floor.

The crib stood assembled. The music box played faintly.

Yuuri reached up and touched a paper star that hung from the ceiling, spinning on a string.

“She’s really coming,” he said.

Viktor nodded. “Are you scared?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

Yuuri turned to him. “But I’m also… ready.”

Viktor smiled. “We’re ready.”

Yuuri rested his head on Viktor’s shoulder.

And together, in the room they built with their hands and their hearts, they waited.

Not with fear.

But with joy.

Chapter Text

The snow came early that year.

It fell in quiet flakes—soft and slow, like the sky was whispering lullabies. Viktor and Yuuri stood at the nursery window, steaming mugs in hand, watching the city turn silver.

“She’s going to be born in winter,” Viktor said softly.

Yuuri leaned his head against his shoulder. “Like you.”

Viktor smiled. “She’s going to be wild.”

Yuuri laughed. “She’s going to be soft. Thoughtful.”

“Spirited.”

“Gentle.”

They both paused.

“Okay,” Yuuri admitted. “She’ll be both.”

That afternoon, Lena came to visit.

She moved slower now, both hands on her lower back. She looked tired, but radiant. Her coat was unzipped, revealing the gentle curve of her belly in a soft gray sweater.

“She’s dropped,” Lena said casually, sinking into the rocking chair.

Yuuri’s eyes widened. “Wait—what?”

“It means she’s moved into position. Could be today. Could be next week. She’s just getting ready.”

Viktor dropped his tea.

They spent the next hour doing everything.

Yuuri rechecked the hospital bags.

Viktor reorganized the diaper drawer.

Lena sat serenely in the rocker, watching them with deep amusement as they buzzed around the apartment like bees.

“I swear,” she said, sipping water, “I’m not in labor yet.”

But the snow kept falling harder.

And somehow, it felt like a warning.

At 2:17 a.m., Yuuri’s phone rang.

He was already half-awake, staring at the ceiling.

Viktor stirred beside him.

He answered.

“Yuuri?” Lena’s voice was calm, but her breath was shaky. “I think it’s time.”

Yuuri sat bolt upright. “Now?!”

“I waited a bit to be sure. But yes. The contractions are consistent. And the snow’s picking up. We should go soon.”

Viktor was already up, half-dressed, pulling on a coat over his sleep shirt.

“We’re coming now,” Yuuri said, heart hammering.

The storm had become a white-out.

Visibility dropped to meters. The roads glistened with fresh ice. They bundled up, grabbed the go-bag, and called a car. No taxis would come. No ride-shares nearby.

“We’re walking,” Viktor said firmly.

Yuuri stared at him. “Through a blizzard?!”

But they had no choice.

By the time they reached Lena’s apartment building, they were both soaked, wind-burned, and breathless.

Lena stood at the door, coat on, bag in hand, pale but focused.

“Contractions are five minutes apart,” she said. “We need to go.”

Viktor supported her left side. Yuuri her right.

The hospital was nine blocks away.

They trudged through snowdrifts like a trio of lost travelers. Every few minutes, Lena would stop, bracing against a lamp post or Viktor’s arm, breathing through a wave of pain.

“Almost there,” Yuuri whispered, each time.

“You owe me dinner,” Lena gasped.

“Anything you want,” Viktor promised. “Forever.”

They reached the hospital as the wind howled louder, the storm closing in.

Nurses rushed them in. Lena was admitted immediately.

Viktor and Yuuri were given scrubs and led to the birthing suite.

Lights buzzed. Monitors beeped. Snow pounded against the windows like impatient drums.

Yuuri stood frozen just inside the doorway.

She’s coming.

She’s really coming.

The hours passed in a strange, silent dance of pain and waiting.

Viktor held Lena’s hand. Yuuri rubbed her shoulders. They whispered affirmations. Counted breaths. Practiced everything they’d learned.

Outside the world vanished in snow.

Inside, a life waited to begin.

At 6:41 a.m., the door banged open.

A gust of cold wind followed—and then a blond whirlwind.

“Where is she?!” Yurio barked, hair snow-drenched, expression equal parts furious and terrified.

Yuuri blinked. “Yurio—how did you—”

“I saw your Instagram post yesterday and I had a feeling. I’ve been tracking the weather since 3 a.m. Got on the first train from Moscow. It derailed two stops out so I ran the rest.”

Viktor stared at him in disbelief.

“You ran through a blizzard?”

“I’m not letting you idiots welcome a baby without me.”

He stopped then, eyeing Lena as another contraction hit. His expression softened—barely.

“You okay?” he muttered, awkwardly.

She smiled, sweat dotting her brow. “You made it.”

Yurio cleared his throat. “Whatever. Let’s get this over with. I don’t have time for dramatic births.”

At 7:10 a.m., Lena’s cries filled the room.

Yuuri held her hand. Viktor whispered encouragement. Yurio stood awkwardly by the window, pacing like a caged lion.

And then—

A sharp, bright cry.

The sound stopped time.

Yuuri turned.

And there she was.

Red-faced. Wrinkled. Beautiful.

A nurse handed her to Viktor first.

He held her like glass.

Then she was placed in Yuuri’s arms.

His knees nearly gave out.

Sora Emilia Katsuki-Nikiforov was born at 7:12 a.m., just as the snow began to slow.

Yuuri stared down at her, tears streaming silently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispered, voice shaking. “We’re here. We made it.”

Viktor stood beside him, hand over his heart.

“She’s… she’s perfect.”

Her eyes blinked open for a moment. Pale. Curious.

Yurio stepped closer, peering over their shoulders.

“She looks like a loaf of bread,” he muttered.

Yuuri laughed through tears.

“She’s our loaf of bread,” Viktor said, smiling wide.

Later, when Lena had been moved to recovery and Sora was swaddled and sleeping, Yuuri and Viktor sat side-by-side on the small hospital bed, holding her between them.

“She’s real,” Yuuri said softly. “She’s ours.”

Viktor nodded, eyes wet. “And she’s going to change the world.”

Yurio sat beside them eventually.

Awkward. Quiet.

He stared at the baby. She made a soft snuffling sound.

“She’s gonna be a menace,” he said.

“Probably,” Yuuri agreed.

“I’ll teach her how to fight.”

“Please don’t.”

“I’ll teach her to skate, then.”

Yuuri smiled. “Now that I’d love.”

Yurio reached out, ever so gently, and touched her tiny hand.

Sora grasped his pinkie immediately.

He froze.

Then whispered: “Okay, brat. I guess we’re stuck with each other.”

Outside, the storm passed.

Inside, a family began.

And for the first time, the world felt still.

Chapter Text

Yurio moved in without asking.

He arrived with a duffel bag the size of a small car, a bag of gummy bears, and three crates of what appeared to be obscure herbal teas.

Yuuri blinked at him, still bleary-eyed and holding a half-full bottle of formula.

“Did you… tell anyone you were doing this?”

“I told Otabek,” Yurio replied flatly, dropping the duffel on the couch. “He said I was insane and packed me snacks.”

“Yurio—”

“Don’t fight it. You’re exhausted. I’m here now. Deal with it.”

Viktor, balancing Sora over one shoulder and humming “Let It Go” for the sixth time that hour, simply said, “Thank God.”

The apartment quickly evolved from peaceful nursery to a war zone.

There were bottles on the kitchen counter. Wipes in the sock drawer. Bibs hanging from door handles like prayer flags. The swan plush had gone missing—Yurio blamed Viktor, Viktor blamed the washing machine, and Yuuri quietly found it tucked into his coat pocket three days later.

Sora cried in bursts—startling, shrill, but always with reason. Wet. Hungry. Overstimulated. Lonely.

Yuuri quickly discovered that rocking her while muttering skating routines under his breath worked best.

Viktor preferred singing. Anything from Russian lullabies to Queen.

Yurio… glared.

On the third night, Yuuri reached his limit.

He was running on ninety minutes of sleep, covered in formula, and trying to remember if he’d brushed his teeth that day. Sora was red-faced and wailing, and nothing—nothing—was working.

Viktor was in the shower. Yurio was scrolling silently on his phone nearby.

Yuuri stared down at the tiny baby in his arms and whispered, “I’m not good at this.”

Sora wailed louder.

Yurio looked up. “You’re tired.”

“I’m… broken.”

“You’re not.”

Yuuri’s arms trembled. “I love her so much it hurts. But I don’t know if I’m… enough.”

Yurio stood.

Walked over.

And wordlessly took Sora from his arms.

She screamed in protest—briefly.

Yurio began walking, slow, deliberate. He didn’t try bouncing or shushing.

Instead, he started… humming.

A quiet tune. Soft. Familiar.

Then, almost inaudibly, he began to sing.

“Stars shine, silver and cold…
Night falls, soft on your soul…”

Yuuri blinked. “That’s your short program music from 2018.”

Yurio didn’t look up. “It calmed me down back then. Figured it might work.”

Sora hiccupped. Wriggled. Then—miraculously—stilled.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

Yuuri stared.

Yurio kept singing.

“Shadows pass, and morning comes.
You are more than storms or suns…”

Yuuri felt something in his chest shatter, softly.

He wiped his eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”

Yurio shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”

Viktor walked out minutes later, towel around his neck.

Paused.

Saw Yurio swaying with a sleeping baby in his arms.

“Am I hallucinating?” he whispered to Yuuri.

“No,” Yuuri whispered back. “He has a gift.”

“Should we name him godfather?”

“Don’t push it.”

The next few days passed in a haze of midnight feedings, diaper chaos, and shifting emotions.

Yuuri kept lists—feeding times, sleep windows, how many burps per bottle.

Viktor kept stories—he narrated her life like it was a documentary: “And now, young Sora Emilia conquers Mount Crib, facing off against her eternal nemesis… gravity!”

Yurio kept glaring at anyone who didn’t knock before entering the apartment.

But in between the chaos were moments of stillness.

One night, Yuuri sat in the nursery long after she fell asleep, watching the rise and fall of her chest.

“I can’t believe she’s real,” he murmured.

Viktor joined him, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind. “She has your lips.”

“She has your eyebrows.”

“Poor thing.”

They laughed softly.

Yuuri turned. “She’s… the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Viktor pressed a kiss to his neck. “You did this with me.”

Yuuri smiled. “That makes it even better.”

Yurio got her first smile.

They were all furious about it.

It happened during a feeding—Yurio holding the bottle with one hand, scrolling through his phone with the other.

Sora looked up at him… and grinned.

“Did she just—?”

“She smiled,” Yuuri said, stunned.

Viktor gasped. “Was it at you?”

Yurio blinked down at her. “It was probably gas.”

Sora squeaked.

And smiled again.

Yuuri groaned.

Viktor pouted.

Yurio smirked. “Face it. She knows who’s cool.”

Despite the sleepless nights, the fatigue, the hundreds of diapers, and Yurio’s ever-growing stockpile of black coffee and sarcasm… the apartment pulsed with life.

Sora brought something to them none of them could name.

Healing, maybe.

Hope.

Or just the reminder that this—the mess, the noise, the little socks on the radiator—was life now.

And it was good.

One quiet morning, Yuuri walked into the nursery to find Yurio asleep in the rocking chair.

Sora rested against his chest, both of them gently snoring.

Her hand curled around one of his braids.

Yuuri stared.

His heart ached.

He backed out slowly and found Viktor in the kitchen.

“They’re asleep,” Yuuri whispered. “Together.”

Viktor smiled, making tea. “He’s attached.”

“He loves her.”

“Of course he does.”

Yuuri leaned into Viktor. “We’re not alone, are we?”

Viktor shook his head. “Never.”

Chapter Text

Sora turned three months old the day her passport arrived in the mail.

Yuuri stared at it for a long time.

There she was: a blurry photo of a squishy-cheeked, wide-eyed girl who had no idea she now belonged to two nations.

“Do you think she’ll love Japan the way I do?” Yuuri asked, watching her swat at her mobile from her bouncer chair.

“She’ll love it even more,” Viktor said, tucking the tiny booklet away safely. “Because she’ll see it through your eyes.”

Yurio, sprawled on the couch, added: “And if she doesn’t, I’ll make her.”

They landed in Fukuoka under cherry blossoms.

Even in winter’s tail end, the trees seemed to bloom early just for her. Soft petals brushed the air as Yuuri stepped off the plane with Sora snug against his chest in a wrap.

Viktor held the bags.

Yurio held the snacks.

And the moment they walked into the airport terminal, Yuuri’s mother ran straight to them—arms wide, tears already falling.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, look at her.”

Yuuri had never seen his mother cry like that before.

She reached for Sora gently, like she was sacred.

“Can I?”

Yuuri nodded, heart in his throat.

The moment their daughter was in her grandmother’s arms, something clicked.

She cooed. Reached up. Grabbed a strand of hair.

“She knows you,” Yuuri whispered.

“Of course she does,” Hiroko replied, brushing her cheek. “She’s always known.”

The Katsuki inn transformed into a quiet celebration.

Mari took one look at Sora and declared, “She’s going to be a queen.”

Minako built a baby bouncer from an old futon and yoga straps.

Viktor insisted on teaching Sora to bow correctly by holding her hands and gently tipping her forward like a dance.

And Yurio—despite pretending to be unaffected—carried her from room to room like a little emperor in a sling made from a towel and zero instruction.

Sora laughed for the first time during dinner.

Yuuri had just sneezed while holding her, and the sudden burst startled her into a hiccup.

Then—like a crack of sunlight—she giggled.

High-pitched. Bubbling. Pure.

Everyone froze.

Then scrambled to capture the sound.

Mari hit record just in time.

Minako wept.

Yurio grinned so hard he had to hide it in his sleeve.

Yuuri just sat there, staring at her, mouth open in awe.

Viktor kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “She has your laugh.”

Three days into their trip, the press release went live.

It was simple.

A soft photo: Viktor and Yuuri standing side by side, Sora nestled between them, wrapped in a cream kimono and blue knit hat. No glitz. No sponsors. No skating costumes.

Just them.

The caption read:

“With joy in our hearts, we introduce our daughter: Sora Emilia Katsuki-Nikiforov.
Born of love. Raised in hope. Welcomed by family.”

Yuuri didn’t check the media coverage.

But Yurio did.

He scrolled through articles, commentary, gossip, headlines.

Then closed the laptop and said, “The world loves her already.”

Yuuri swallowed. “Even in Japan?”

Yurio nodded. “Especially in Japan.”

They held her naming ceremony beneath the sakura trees, beside the inn’s koi pond.

A blend of Russian and Japanese tradition: a family blessing, an offering of words, a circle of elders and chosen kin.

Minako lit incense.

Mari carried Sora, dressed in white.

Yuuri’s mother tied a red string around her wrist—a symbol of destiny.

And Viktor placed a folded slip of paper in her cradle.

Inside it were three wishes:

1. That she will always know her own strength.

2. That she will always be loved more than she can understand.

3. That she will know where she came from—and where she is going.

Yuuri stood last.

He knelt beside her and said, in a voice thick with emotion, “Sora means sky. And Emilia means rival—and strength. You are our sky. You are strong. And we will never leave your side.”

Yurio stood too.

He mumbled, “Her middle name’s cool.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “You picked it.”

“I know. That’s why it’s cool.”

That night, the house glowed with lanterns.

Sora slept between Viktor and Yuuri, tiny fingers curled around each of theirs.

Yurio stood in the doorway for a long time, arms crossed, watching them.

“You’re doing okay,” he muttered.

Yuuri looked up.

“You mean as parents?”

“No.” He shrugged. “As… humans.”

Yuuri smiled. “You helped.”

Yurio rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get sappy.”

Then: “I can stay longer if you need.”

Yuuri looked over at Viktor.

Viktor grinned. “Our spare futon is yours.”

Yurio nodded, pretending it wasn’t a big deal.

But when Sora stirred that night and reached out, it was Yurio’s voice that calmed her first.

He sang again.

This time, in Russian.

And in the soft dark of the inn, Sora slept like she’d never known fear.

Chapter Text

Three months after Sora was born, Viktor laced up his skates again.

He sat on the bench in the empty rink locker room, fingers looping through muscle memory—pulling taut, tying precise. But his hands trembled just a little, his heart thudding not with nerves… but with something heavier.

“I feel like I’ve been gone for years,” he murmured.

Yuuri sat beside him, Sora in a sling against his chest, swaddled in a fuzzy cloud of lavender fleece.

“You’ve been exactly where you needed to be,” Yuuri said, pressing a kiss to Viktor’s shoulder.

“She’ll still know me as a skater, right?” Viktor asked, voice hushed.

Yuuri gave a soft laugh. “Vitya, she’s going to think skating was invented because of you.”

He stepped onto the ice with a reverence he hadn’t felt since he was seventeen.

The first glide was shaky.

The second was smoother.

By the third, Viktor was airborne—spinning, soaring, laughing as he landed with the grace of someone born for winter.

Yuuri and Sora watched from the stands.

“She’s mesmerized,” Yuuri whispered.

Sora blinked up at the blur of silver and blue across the ice. Her hand reached forward once, as if trying to catch the stars.

Later that afternoon, the rink buzzed with old voices and new energy.

It was a reunion.

Chris was the first to arrive, champagne in one hand, a teddy bear in the other, and enough eyeliner to make a pop idol weep.

“Where is she?!” he called. “I demand godfather rights immediately!”

“She’s not taking applications,” Yurio growled from the snack table. “And if you try to kiss her, I will burn your lips off.”

“Such aggression,” Chris said with a wink. “You’ve become a daddy’s daddy’s little bodyguard, haven’t you?”

Yurio scoffed—but didn’t deny it.

Seung-gil arrived next, silently slipping into the rink and immediately making his way toward Yuuri and Sora. He didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the baby, head tilted.

“She’s… symmetrical,” he finally said.

Yuuri blinked. “Thank you?”

Then Seung-gil reached down and gently handed her a knitted fox plush.

“She’s perfect,” he added softly.

JJ and Isabella swept in with a baby Olympics onesie and a tiny gold medal engraved with “Champion of Our Hearts.”

“Raise her strong,” JJ said solemnly. “Let her skate with fire.”

“Let her sleep first,” Yuuri replied, adjusting Sora’s head against his chest.

JJ held up a finger. “Touché.”

Leo and Guang-Hong brought matching headbands.

“We made her an official rink pass,” Guang-Hong said, proudly holding up a laminated card: Sora Emilia - Ice Baby - VIP Level: God Tier.

Yuuri laughed so hard he nearly cried.

But it was when Viktor stepped back onto the ice—with the music from his final gold-winning season echoing through the speakers—that the rink truly went silent.

He moved like time had never touched him.

And when he reached the center, struck his final pose, and opened his arms—

Yuuri walked out to meet him.

Sora nestled between them.

And the entire crowd rose to their feet.

“Hold her,” Viktor whispered, taking Sora from Yuuri’s arms gently.

She blinked up at him, dazed and warm.

He held her high, just above his chest, and turned slowly on the ice.

“She’ll never forget this,” Yuuri whispered.

“She is this,” Viktor replied.

Afterward, the rink lounge was filled with laughter, warmth, and the smell of steamed buns and yakisoba.

Yurio sat in the corner, Sora asleep against his hoodie, one hand wrapped around his thumb.

“She chose me,” he muttered, sipping black tea.

Chris tried to take a photo.

Yurio hissed like a feral cat.

“She’s going to grow up with twenty skating champions as uncles,” Yuuri murmured to Viktor, curling up beside him.

“And one dragon as her brother,” Viktor added.

Yuuri laughed. “We’re a strange family.”

“The best kind.”

A reporter came quietly at the end of the evening.

Just one. A woman from Skate Japan Weekly, who had been following Yuuri since his junior days.

“Just a few words,” she said. “About what this means.”

Yuuri took Viktor’s hand.

Then looked down at Sora.

“It means the world is changing,” he said. “It means that love is love, in any language, on any ice. It means our daughter gets to grow up knowing she was always meant to be.”

The reporter blinked back tears.

Yuuri smiled. “And we’ll be here. For every step.”

Later, when the rink was dark and the night cold, Viktor and Yuuri stood together beneath the arch of the exit.

Sora slept in Yuuri’s arms.

Viktor tucked a blanket closer around her.

“She didn’t cry once,” Yuuri whispered.

“She knows she’s loved.”

Yuuri looked up at him. “You skated like it was your first time.”

“It was,” Viktor replied, eyes shining. “The first time I skated as her father.”

Yuuri pressed his forehead against Viktor’s.

“And the last time you skated just for yourself.”

Viktor smiled.

“Now I skate… for her.”

Chapter Text

It was almost impossible to believe a whole year had passed.

One year of midnight feedings and sunrise cuddles.
One year of milestones, messy bibs, and belly laughs.
One year since she entered their lives—like a comet made of starlight and lullabies.

And now… she was turning one.

Viktor stared at the invitation design on his laptop for the fifth time that morning.

“You think gold foil is too much?” he asked, sipping his espresso.

Yuuri, folding laundry in the corner, snorted. “For a one-year-old’s birthday party?”

“She’s an icon already.”

“She eats glitter glue, Vitya.”

“Every queen has humble beginnings.”

They planned something simple at first—just family and close friends. Maybe a picnic at the rink. A homemade cake.

But then word got out.

And suddenly, they had RSVPs from six countries, three skating federations, one royal sponsor, and a letter from someone claiming to be a descendant of Nijinsky requesting a formal waltz with the birthday girl.

“Maybe we went too far,” Yuuri said one night, watching Viktor try to coordinate seating charts between Otabek and JJ.

Viktor looked up from his spreadsheet. “But we didn’t.”

The days leading up to the party were full of preparations—and something quieter too.

Yuuri pulled out old boxes from his parents’ house in Hasetsu. Childhood drawings, newspaper clippings, a threadbare Katsudon-themed onesie.

He found his first skate medal tucked beneath a bundle of old journals.

“It’s so small,” he whispered, brushing the dust off.

“You were small,” Viktor said softly, sitting beside him with Sora nestled on his lap. “But your dreams were huge.”

Yuuri smiled. “Do you think she’ll love skating?”

“I think she’ll love anything that lets her fly.”

Viktor found an old camcorder from his junior championship days.

He played a clip for Yuuri: a 15-year-old Viktor spinning wildly, falling hard, and then bursting into laughter.

“I forgot how fearless I was,” he murmured.

“You still are.”

“No. Now I’m careful. Now I’m protecting something.”

Yuuri touched his hand. “That’s still courage.”

The morning of Sora’s party was soft with spring light.

The ice rink had been transformed—paper lanterns floating above, a section of ice reserved just for baby-safe skates, and tables filled with childhood foods from Japan and Russia alike.

Sora wore a dress made of pale sky blue silk, a tiny swan embroidered at the hem. Her hair, now just long enough to curl at the ends, was pinned back with a delicate bow.

Yuuri couldn’t stop staring.

“She’s so big,” he whispered.

“She’s tiny,” Viktor countered, dabbing her cheek with a cloth. “But she holds the whole world.”

Guests flooded in like a wave of joy.

Mari carried a cake shaped like a snowflake with “SORA ONE” spelled in frosted stars.

Minako arrived with a music box lullaby remixed into lo-fi beats.

Yurio stormed in late, sunglasses on, carrying a mysterious silver box and muttering, “Nobody look in here yet, it’s not time.”

Chris, Guang-Hong, Leo, and the rest came in with balloons, baby-sized skates, and a bag full of letters.

It was noisy. Bright. Ridiculous.

And perfect.

The real magic came just before sunset.

Yuuri had just passed Sora to Viktor so he could check the dessert table when a hush fell over the room.

Viktor turned around.

Sora was on her feet.

Unaided.

Wobbling slightly.

Hands in the air like she was conducting music.

Everyone froze.

Then—step.

Step.

Step.

Straight into Yurio’s legs.

She grabbed his jeans, looked up—and grinned.

The room exploded.

Cheers. Screams. Clapping.

Yurio just stared down, shell-shocked.

“She WALKED TO ME?” he barked.

Yuuri burst into tears.

Viktor nearly dropped a cupcake.

Mari shouted, “YES SHE DID, SHE’S ONE AND SHE’S ALREADY MAKING POWER MOVES.”

Yurio bent down slowly, picked her up, and held her aloft like Simba from The Lion King.

“Sora Emilia Katsuki-Nikiforov, Empress of Chaos and Queen of Footsteps,” he declared.

She drooled on his face.

Later, when the noise faded and the sun dipped behind the ice dome, Yurio finally opened the silver box.

“A time capsule,” he explained. “Don’t get all weepy. Just letters. For her to open when she turns eighteen.”

Inside:

• A folded map from Otabek, marked with places she must skate someday.

• A gold-sealed note from Chris: “Darling, be bold. Always.”

• A pink glittery bookmark from Guang-Hong and Leo, with a quote: “Your story starts where ours left off.”

• A broken blade from Yurio’s first senior skate—“because falls matter too.”

• And a sealed envelope from Minako: To remind you where your grace came from.

Yuuri stared down at it all.

Heart full. Voice gone.

That night, Viktor found Yuuri at the nursery desk.

Writing.

Yuuri looked up, eyes red. “I thought I’d… leave something, too.”

He handed Viktor a second envelope.

“For her. For much, much later. Maybe after we’re… not here anymore.”

Viktor’s throat tightened.

He sat beside Yuuri.

Held his hand.

And began to write one too.

Sora,

If you’re reading this, we’re not there to say it in person. But please know—every beat of your heart once echoed inside ours. Every first step, every fall, every triumph—you carried us, even when you didn’t know.

You are not just the daughter of champions.
You are the child of love.
And nothing… nothing outshines that.

We love you. Always.

- Papa Vitya and Dada Yuuri

In the quiet that followed, Sora slept soundly.

Not just in a house.

But in a legacy.

Wrapped in story. Cradled in memory. Carried forward in every skate, every dream, every hand that would guide her.

Chapter Text

Sora had always loved cold things.

Snowflakes. Ice cubes. The metallic chill of Yuuri’s medal cases.

But nothing caught her attention more than the ice rink.

At just over a year and a half old, she had the eyes of someone much older—always scanning, always curious. Her steps had grown bolder. Her laughter louder. Her falls more frequent but never frightening.

Still, Yuuri wasn’t ready.

“Not yet,” he whispered as he watched her toddle to the edge of the rink in her socks one afternoon. “She’s still just a baby.”

“She’s already braver than we were,” Viktor said softly, watching her press her palm to the cold barrier glass.

Yurio, chewing on a matcha-flavored gumdrop behind them, rolled his eyes. “She walked before she had teeth. She’ll skate before she can say ‘quad toe loop.’”

The idea came from Minako.

“She’s been imitating your movements,” she said one morning as they watched Sora spin in circles to music. “Twisting, gliding, stepping in rhythm. She’s learning.”

Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck. “But what if she falls too hard?”

Minako smiled. “Then she’ll learn how to get back up. Just like you did.”

The decision was made quietly.

One Sunday morning, before the rink opened to the public, they brought her in.

Viktor carried her on his hip, her tiny fleece-lined skates looped on his wrist. Yuuri walked beside them, still unsure but clutching the baby mittens with nervous fingers.

Yurio skated ahead of them and cleared the ice.

He didn't speak—but his pace was slower than usual. His circles were protective.

Like a shield of motion around the rink’s edges.

Viktor laced her up with hands gentler than breath.

The skates were pale blue. Almost white. Custom-made. More decorative than functional. But they’d hold her just enough.

Sora watched him the whole time.

Wide-eyed.

Still.

Waiting.

Yuuri held his breath as Viktor stood her upright.

Her knees wobbled.

Her hands immediately reached out—

And found Yuuri’s fingers.

He nearly sobbed.

They stepped onto the ice together.

Yuuri’s skates glided easily. Viktor hovered near, arms open.

And Sora—

Sora slid.

It was a tiny motion. Barely half a meter. A shuffle. A gasp.

But her face—her face lit up like someone had handed her the moon.

She squealed.

Then tried again.

She fell.

Once. Twice. A dozen times.

Each time, Yuuri flinched.

Each time, Viktor helped her back up.

And the third time—she laughed.

Giggled, belly-deep, right there on the cold ice with her little legs sprawled and her hat lopsided.

“Look at her,” Viktor whispered, kneeling beside her. “She’s not afraid.”

Yuuri nodded, blinking fast.

“She’s flying.”

Yurio joined them halfway through.

Pretending he wasn’t emotional.

Pretending he just needed to “check the blade angles.”

He crouched down beside her after her eighth fall and muttered, “You need better form. And stop flailing like a newborn duck.”

Sora beamed.

Then promptly reached for his hoodie drawstring and tried to chew it.

Yurio froze.

“She loves you,” Yuuri said, grinning.

“Gross,” Yurio muttered. But he didn’t pull away.

Later, Viktor and Yuuri stood side by side, arms around each other, as Sora glided between them holding both their hands.

“She’s not even two,” Yuuri whispered. “And she already knows where she belongs.”

Viktor kissed his temple. “We gave her wings.”

“And she’s using them.”

They left the rink to cheers and clapping—staff who had quietly gathered at the glass, watching, hands over their hearts.

Someone had filmed it.

Someone always did.

But this time, they didn’t mind.

Let the world see her.

Let the world know her.

That night, Yuuri sat by her crib as she slept.

Fingers curled. Arms sprawled. A bruise just below her knee from a fall earlier.

He touched her hand gently.

“You’re already stronger than I ever was,” he whispered. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life catching you when you fall.”

Behind him, Viktor placed a blanket over his shoulders.

“She’s going to change the world,” Viktor said softly.

Yuuri nodded.

“But tonight,” he whispered, “she changed ours.”

Chapter Text

Russia in late autumn smelled like frost and woodsmoke.

The sun was slower to rise. The skies a little dimmer. But the chill in the air brought Viktor back to himself in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Funny,” he murmured, watching Sora press her tiny hand to the airplane window. “I always thought this place would feel colder after all this time.”

Yuuri wrapped an arm around his waist. “Maybe you’re just warmer now.”

They arrived in St. Petersburg with very little luggage but heavy hearts.

It had been years since Viktor returned to his childhood home.

The building still stood tall—a sprawl of gray brick and faded shutters with ivy twisting around the corners. The windows were the same. The creak of the door the same.

But now, when Viktor stepped through that threshold, he wasn’t alone.

He had Yuuri at his side.

And Sora, bundled against his chest, wide-eyed and blinking.

The cold met her cheeks and she didn’t cry.

She looked up at the sky.

And laughed.

The house had been closed up for years, but Viktor’s cousin—Tanya—had kept the heat on, the linens fresh, the old photographs untouched.

“She looks just like your mama,” Tanya whispered as she took Sora in her arms for the first time.

Viktor blinked fast. “You think so?”

“The same eyes. Same mischief.”

Yuuri smiled quietly, watching his husband soften. “She’s always had Viktor’s smile.”

The days passed gently.

Yuuri helped in the kitchen, learning family recipes from scratch. Sora was passed between a chorus of warm, accented voices—her name pronounced with care, her cheeks kissed pink.

Viktor took her walking through the old skating rink he trained in as a child.

The boards were cracked.

The lights dim.

But the moment he stepped onto the ice—holding Sora high above his head—he laughed like he was ten years old again.

One evening, the three of them stood on the front step, watching snow begin to fall.

Yuuri reached for Viktor’s hand.

“She’s learning Russian faster than I thought.”

“She’s part of this place.”

“She’s part of every place we’ve touched.”

Viktor looked out over the snow-dusted road. “This house… it remembers me.”

“You’ve changed.”

“I’ve grown.”

He looked down at Sora, nestled between them.

“And so has my reason for coming home.”

On the fourth day, Viktor took them to the cemetery.

It was quiet.

No tourists. No fans. Just rows of names and stones worn down by time and weather.

They walked in silence.

Sora clung to her papa’s coat collar.

And when they stopped before two matching stones—engraved with Cyrillic lettering and faint music note etchings—Yuuri finally realized:

These were Viktor’s parents.

Gone long before he ever stepped onto the Grand Prix stage. Long before Yuuri.

Long before Sora.

Viktor knelt.

Gently, reverently.

His hands brushed snow from the base of the headstones.

He set down a flower. A tiny ribbon. And a photo—Sora’s first.

Yuuri stood behind him, holding their daughter.

“She’s beautiful,” Viktor whispered to the stone. “You would’ve adored her. She’s fierce. She never stays still. She makes me believe I still have so much more life to give.”

His voice cracked.

Yuuri stepped forward, placing Sora in his arms.

“She’s your granddaughter,” Viktor whispered, holding her close. “Her name is Sora. She means sky. Because that’s what you gave me. A place to dream.”

The wind passed softly around them.

Yuuri leaned his forehead against Viktor’s shoulder.

And Sora, as if sensing the weight of that moment, rested her cheek over Viktor’s heart—and didn’t make a sound.

That night, they lit a single candle in the kitchen window.

A Russian tradition for those who cannot return home.

Yuuri stood behind Viktor as he stared at the flame.

“You think they know?” Yuuri asked gently.

Viktor nodded once.

“They always knew.”

In bed later, with Sora asleep between them, Viktor turned to Yuuri and whispered, “I used to think legacy meant medals. Records. Performances.”

Yuuri looked at him, soft and calm.

“And now?”

Viktor smiled.

“Now I know it means her. What we leave behind in her. In how she’ll love. In what she’ll remember.”

Yuuri reached across Sora’s blanket and took his hand.

“She’ll remember love,” he said. “Because we’ll teach her nothing else.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Sora said when she stepped onto the ice again was, “I go zoom now.”

Viktor, crouched in front of her, blinked once. “Yes,” he said. “You zoom.”

She grinned—two bottom teeth showing—and immediately launched herself forward.

Sort of.

She mostly waddled.

In oversized skates.

Wearing them on the wrong feet.

“Who did this?” Yurio shrieked from the stands, voice echoing off the plexiglass like a fire alarm.

“She wanted to do it herself,” Yuuri said with a proud, if worried, shrug.

“She’s skating like a drunk penguin.”

“She’s trying!”

“She’s TWO!”

Viktor skated by with a smirk. “That’s how I looked at fourteen.”

Yurio groaned into his gloves.

Minako organized the lessons like a dance class.

Fifteen-minute stretches. One-on-one glides. Games disguised as drills.

Sora ate it up.

She loved the silly balancing toys. Loved chasing Minako’s scarf across the ice. Loved clapping for herself after every “spin” that looked more like a collapsing jellybean.

But what she loved most—more than anything—was the way her parents looked at her when she tried.

With wonder.

With softness.

With no expectation beyond joy.

Yuuri watched from the side sometimes, hands pressed to the rink glass.

“She looks so free,” he whispered to Minako one afternoon.

“She is,” she said, gently. “Because you made her feel safe enough to be.”

Yuuri nodded slowly.

But deep inside, he felt it—that small ache.

The kind that comes from watching your baby grow away from your arms.

Just a little.

That night, Viktor found Yuuri in the nursery, sitting on the floor beside Sora’s bookshelf.

“She’ll love skating,” Yuuri said quietly. “But I don’t want her to love it because we do.”

Viktor knelt beside him. “She won’t.”

Yuuri looked up. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure she’ll love it because it’s hers.” Viktor reached for a board book with a skater on the cover. “You and I… we gave her the ice. But what she does on it—that’s her story.”

A few weeks later, Sora completed her first lap around the rink without falling.

The room erupted like the Olympics.

Minako wept into a towel.

Yurio punched the air and shouted, “THAT’S MY NIECE!”

Yuuri nearly dropped the camera.

Viktor caught him—both of them breathless from pride.

“She’s not just gliding,” Yuuri whispered.

“She’s becoming.”

That night, as Sora fell asleep on Viktor’s chest—still in her skates, despite protests—Yuuri pulled out his journal.

He hadn’t written in months.

But tonight, his heart was full in a way words had to hold.

Dear Sora,

Today you skated like the ice was singing to you. I think it’s always been calling your name—since before you were even born. You glided across it like it belonged to you. And maybe it does.

Papa and I used to think skating was our whole world. But then you came.

And now we know… you’re the only thing we want to last forever.

No matter where you go—whether you skate, or sing, or climb trees or paint stars—I’ll be watching. Not to catch you when you fall…

But to remind you that it’s okay when you do.

We love you.

Always.

– Dada

In the weeks that followed, Sora’s confidence bloomed.

She zipped. She spun. She twirled straight into a pile of stuffed bears and screamed, “AGAIN!”

She named each corner of the rink.

She gave the Zamboni a name—“Bumpy.”

She stopped calling it “ice.”

Now, she just said:

“Let’s go to my place.”

One afternoon, Yuuri scooped her up after a lesson and asked, “What’s your favorite part about skating?”

Sora thought deeply.

Then pointed at Viktor.

“Papa’s arms.”

Yuuri smiled. “And your favorite sound?”

She turned and touched Yuuri’s chest.

“Dada’s voice.”

In that moment, Yuuri realized—

This wasn’t just a sport.

This wasn’t just play.

This was family, written in the language of movement and trust.

This was love, translated through the blades of a child’s first dreams.

Chapter Text

The moment Sora saw the ocean for the first time, she gasped.

It wasn’t a quiet sound. It was loud—full of joy and disbelief and three syllables strung together in toddler wonder:

“DADA! LOOK!”

Yuuri, still pulling sunscreen out of the beach bag, turned in time to see her sprinting—full speed—toward the waves.

“SORA, WAIT—!”

Viktor laughed. “She’s fine!”

Yuuri chased. “She has no shoes!”

“She has no fear!”

Thailand greeted them with open arms and endless sun.

They stayed in a quiet bungalow tucked near the jungle, just beyond a beach that sparkled with crushed pearl sand. Every morning was birdsong and the distant sound of waves. Every night smelled like jasmine and roasted spices from the tiny food stalls that lined the walking path.

It was a world far from the chill of rinks and the echo of skates.

And Sora loved every second of it.

On the second day, she met an elephant.

The sanctuary was quiet and respectful, led by local villagers who spoke to the animals like family.

Sora sat on Viktor’s shoulders as they walked beside a great gray elephant named Mali. When she reached out and touched her trunk, she squealed.

“She tickled me!”

Yuuri, recording everything, smiled. “That’s because she knows you’re small and special.”

Viktor leaned close. “Just like your Dada.”

Sora blinked. “Dada small?”

Yuuri nearly dropped the camera.

Afternoons were for beach walks, collecting shells, and naming every fish they could see from the shore. (Most were named “Fishy-chan.”)

Evenings were for sunset dinners, fireflies, and falling asleep in a pile of sea-scented towels and saltwater-softened hair.

One night, Viktor and Yuuri sat on the porch watching Sora sleep inside, her arms spread like wings.

“She’s never been this happy,” Yuuri whispered.

“She’s never known this yet,” Viktor replied. “The world. It’s hers now.”

On the fifth day, during a quiet temple visit, Sora tugged on Viktor’s sleeve.

“Papa?”

“Yes, solnishko?”

“Where do babies come from?”

Viktor choked on his water.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide.

Sora blinked innocently.

“Did Mali come from a tummy?”

Viktor coughed. “Well. Technically, yes.”

Yuuri buried his face in his hands.

Sora considered. “So did I come from Dada’s tummy?”

“No, sweetheart,” Yuuri mumbled. “Papa and I—well. It’s a long story involving love, help from very kind people, and some science.”

“And magic,” Viktor added quickly.

Sora beamed. “I knew it!”

Yuuri sighed. “That… could’ve gone worse.”

That night, Sora lay in her hammock strung between two palms.

She was quiet.

Then: “I like being your baby.”

Yuuri leaned over, kissed her forehead. “We like being your daddies.”

“Even if I was magic?”

“Especially because you were magic,” Viktor whispered.

One evening, while Sora napped with her head on Yuuri’s chest, Viktor pulled him down the beach—just the two of them. The sky blazed with orange and lavender. The waves whispered like a lullaby.

“You know,” Viktor murmured as they walked, “I always thought I’d be done performing by now.”

Yuuri tilted his head. “You think we are?”

“Maybe. But not done living.”

They stopped under a swaying palm. The wind smelled like salt and citrus.

“I was always afraid the spotlight was the best part of me,” Viktor whispered. “But now I know…”

He turned.

Touched Yuuri’s cheek.

“It’s this. Us. Her.”

Yuuri leaned in, lips soft and salty against his. “You shine brighter now than you ever did on the ice.”

When they returned to Sora, she was digging her hand into the wet sand.

“Look!” she cried. “My print!”

She patted beside it. “Dada. Papa. Yours too.”

They knelt.

Pressed their palms next to hers.

Three prints.

All imperfect.

All beautiful.

And then the wave came.

It swept them clean.

Sora blinked. “It gone!”

Yuuri smiled. “The sea took it.”

Sora whispered, “But it still stays.”

Viktor froze.

Then smiled—deep, soft, full of awe.

“Yes, darling,” he said, lifting her in his arms. “It always stays.”