{INFO: the baby is one years old, he has nikolai's white hair though it was curly, and fyodors purple-violet eyes. The baby was also pale but that was from genetics}

The sound of rain filled the apartment, gentle, steady, and endless. Nikolai sat by the window, his legs crossed on the floor, their baby perched in his lap. Tiny fingers pressed curiously against the cold glass, tracing the trails of water sliding down the pane.

“Look,” Nikolai whispered, his voice low and playful, “the sky’s crying.”

The baby blinked up at him, wide violet eyes catching the soft light. A small giggle escaped his mouth as another drop rolled down the window, and he tried to grab it.

Fyodor’s voice came from behind them, calm, slightly amused.

“Don’t tell him that, Kolya. You’ll make him think thunder is someone shouting.”

Nikolai turned halfway toward him, smiling. “Maybe it is. Maybe the sky just has bad days like the rest of us.”

Fyodor sat in the armchair near the window, book in hand, though his eyes were on them more than the pages.

“You’ll fill his head with nonsense before he can even talk properly.”

“That’s called imagination, my dear Fedya.”

The baby slapped his palm against the glass again, startled by the coolness, then laughed, bright, unfiltered. Nikolai laughed with him.

“See? He gets it.”

Fyodor’s mouth twitched slightly. “He’s curious.”

“He’s peaceful,” Nikolai said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of their son’s snowy white curls.

“I like this version of him better than the one that screams at dawn.”

“I like all of them.”

Nikolai turned, eyebrows raised. “You’re getting soft.”

“Only with him.” Fyodor set the book down and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.

His tone was even, but his eyes gave him away, that rare kind of warmth that only appeared when he looked at their child.

The baby shifted, catching sight of Fyodor, and held out his arms with a small whine. Fyodor stood and crossed the room, scooping him up with practiced ease.

The boy’s small hands immediately tangled in his long hair, tugging experimentally.

“Gentle,” Fyodor murmured, brushing a tiny fist open.

Nikolai watched, the smile on his face turning softer, quieter. “He likes you best.”

“Don’t sound so betrayed.”

“Not betrayed,” Nikolai said, grinning. “Just jealous.”

Nikolai shifted closer, resting his chin on Fyodor’s arm, watching their son’s chest rise and fall. Outside, the rain thickened, drumming gently against the windows.