A/N: It's been AGES. It goes without saying that 2020 SUCKED (and I'm sure no on needs hints as to why!). But here I am, back again after more than a year on hiatus. I disappeared (again) and returned to cries to continue this story. So here I am, sticking to my word to never leave a story unfinished no matter how long it takes to get to the end.

I am no longer a student in school, however, I have applied and succeeded in enlisting for our glorious military! If you'd like more info on that, feel free to send me private messages. But for this reason, I will try my best to crank out as many chapters as I can for this story-and hey, maybe even finish before I get a date for bootcamp.

Without further adieu, read and enjoy!


Chapter 8

It is another two days before Viktor's heat finally fizzles out to nothing. By the, I am well and truly exhausted; so sore that it is a struggle to move, let alone to walk or sit. The result is that I do little more than lay in bed and browse my social medias while Viktor is up and running.

It amazes me every time how quickly he is able to bounce back.

I attempted to rise up on the first day to get us some real food, but my hiss of discomfort did not go unnoticed. And Viktor promptly ordered me back to bed while he ordered delivery. And that was how it went for the remaining few days until I simply could no longer ignore the state of the bedroom.

Firstly, it smelled of old sweat and sex. It was stuffy. It was hot. And I felt disgusting continuing to lay in a filthy bed of bodily fluids. I didn't care that I was not 100% recuperated, I made myself leave the comfort of Viktor's arms to open the windows as wide as they could go and begin tidying up.

"You're letting out the heat, lyubov," Viktor called out.

I peer behind from my position by the window to look at him. Despite the shill, he doesn't pull the blankets up to cover himself. "No, I'm letting out the stuffiness," I correct, though I lower the windows to half-open anyway before resuming my picking up of loose clothing. One by one, I chuck them into the nearby laundry basket before gesturing for Viktor to get up so the sheets could join the laundry pile.

By the time I get the laundry going, Viktor is freshly showered and already checking the abysmal state of his unread emails. I decide on a much longer, very hot bath to soothe my sore muscles. I'm pink upon completion, but feeling much better at least.

I don't realize that I've been staring at my reflection in the large bathroom mirror until Viktor's voice snaps me out of it.

"Lyubov moya...?"

It's then I notice my hands resting on my flat, though not yet firm midsection. Three times I carried life inside. Three times I failed. This had to work.

This had to.

Without my having to say so, Viktor knows where my thoughts have strayed. He steps into the bathroom himself, his taller form joining mine in the slightly foggy reflection; my expression a look of anxiety, his of calm resolve. Standing behind me, he doesn't remove my hands or tells me not to worry. Being high-risk for miscarriages, concern was adequate. Required, even.

But instead, Viktor raises his hands to rest them atop my own, and simply kisses the side of my head.

"If it is meant to be, it will be," he whispers against damp hair. "But come what may, I will always be here. And we will get through it: together, yes?"

The idea of losing a fourth hovers at the corner of my thoughts. But after a moment's hesitation, I nod.

Since we must wait at least a month to see if I bleed or not, I carry on going to the rink for Viktor to train me as usual. Except, unlike usual, he asks me to refrain from performing my jumps full on. Much to my irritation.

And much to his irritation, I attempted them anyway.

And to both our dismay—or more like his horror—I fall particularly hard on the ice, on my side.

"Yuuri!"

As far as falls go, it's not the hardest I've experienced. After all, I've broken bones on the ice before. It's expected with this sport. And I mean to say this when I see his expression, but when he rests both his hand and his eyes on my belly, I see his concern is two-fold.

Oh. Right.

Blue eyes move from my stomach to my face, Viktor's mouth now set into a thin line. "Yuuri, I asked you: no jumps. Now I am ordering you not to."

The rink is quiet. Quiet enough that I know others have heard his command and barely concealed displeasure. Red-faced, I can do no more than to nod in compliance. He helps me up, of course, as always; checks me over to make sure nothing is permanently wrong with me. I know for sure a bruise is blooming on the side I fell on, but otherwise, no broken bones this go-round. But eventually, I gently have to slap his hand away from my stomach.

"Viktor, stop," I whisper. "People will start asking questions to things I don't have answers for." Yet.

Too late, however. The moment our rink time is up, I notice too many pairs of eyes on my belly.

It remains that way for the rest of the month, though no one is yet bold enough to ask me outright what's going on. But by Week Three following my heat and his rut, I decide I cannot wait until my scheduled doctor's appointment to check the status of my fertility. It's still two week's out, and the idea of not knowing is killing me. The result is my buying not one, but three different brands of early-pregnancy tests from the pharmacy in the fourth week.

"My luck I get pee-shy when it matters most..." I grumble from my stance above our home toilet. My timing is always so incredibly off in important moments like these!

But eventually, I manage to urinate just enough to complete all three tests. And once done, I simply place them on the bathroom sink and wait.

And hope.

And pray.


A/N: Leave a glorious review for me, will ya?!