**Author's Note!**

I know this is late, I lied! I'm sorry, I know I said this would be published on Sunday and today is Tuesday but, if it helps, I made this chapter double the length of a normal one to make up for it- and packed full of fluff! I hope you like it (God know I do), enjoy!

January 15th, 2029- Eleven Months Later- Three Years Old-

Yuri's POV- 1st Person

After far too much delay, I step out onto the ice, turning back to the entrance as soon as I do. I shouldn't be this nervous, I know that, but I can't help it. Today's the first time we're going skating together as a family, which means that today is the first time Sacha will be going on the ice. As much as Otabek and I are determined not to force her into skating, we can't help but be excited at the prospect of seeing her do so. It sounds awful to force a three-year-old onto a cold, hard, slippery surface with little more than knives on her feet, but all we really want to do is share something we love so much with her. Even if she hates skating, even if she never wants to do anything related to it, it feels wrong not to introduce her to something that's occupied the majority of our lives until a few years ago. And, hopefully, if she enjoys today, we'll have fostered a love of skating in her that she'll keep for the rest of her life.

As we're not sure how she'll react, we've decided that we'll stay for half an hour, and, if she hates it, leave and try again in a few months. It'd been difficult to find rental skates small enough to fit her and even more so to persuade ourselves into using rental skates to begin with. It's against our principles as figure skaters, it's like oil and water: we do not mix. But we resigned ourselves to the fact that there's no point in buying her skates, knowing that in all likelihood she'll outgrow them and have only used them once. Still, though, I can't shake the feeling of unease that grows in the pit of my stomach at the sight of her wobbling in the hand-me-down barely-maintained contraptions. But, I imagine, that can be put down as pure parental fear; it seems that since she was born it's become impossible not to worry. 

She'll be fine though, I assure myself. Between Otabek and myself, there's no way she'll end up getting hurt. Right?

"Careful!" I cry as Otabek hands her off to me, letting me hold her up while he mounts the ice as well. Gently, though maintaining a firm, vicelike grip, I carry her, letting her little skate-clad feet brush the ice without supporting any weight.

At three years old Sacha's very advanced for her age, both physically and mentally. She can ride a tricycle, identify and tell a familiar story, and is running circles around us with the childlike energy that never seems to run out. 

I kneel down beside my daughter, and, keeping her upright, allow her small legs to bear her own weight. She stares at the ice and gives her foot an experimental kick, seeming shocked by the sensation of the other one gliding out from under her from the force of the momentum.

Grabbing the walker my husband gives me, I place it beneath her, her hands at once gravitating to the sleek metal bar and holding on. Carefully, I stand up once more, holding her close to me as she gets her balance. This continues for a few minutes before, slowly, cautiously, I take my hands away, leaving her balancing on the ice with only the aide of the walker. Both Otabek and I watch her carefully, equally terrified that she'll fall and get hurt. Even after having her for three years, I still see her the way I did when we first brought her home from the hospital: tiny, fragile, and far too precious for this world, though I doubt that last one will ever change

Coming in front of Sacha, and grabbing her walker, Otabek pulls her forward slightly, very slowly and deliberately, trying out the motion. Sacha gasps in awe as her feet glide smoothly across the ice, watching mesmerized as she moves without exerting any effort. I don't remember my first time on the ice very clearly, but I can guess what she's feeling: like she's flying, moving so naturally the sensation must rival that which birds possess when taking flight.

Giggles erupt from the three-year-old as Otabek pulls her around the rink, grinning from ear to ear. I feel myself smile as I watch, totally in love with the sight of them together. 

"Do you want to go faster?" Beka asks her and she nods vigorously,

"Yeah! Faster!" 

"Okay, then you've got to help me," Otabek slows to a stop, then, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially in her ear, "I need you to push with your feet okay?"

"Why?" She asks, puzzled,

"Because," He says very seriously, and she watches him with rapt attention, the sight melting my heart. "I can't do it all by myself, and you're such a good skater you need to show me how," She considers for a second, then nods, taking a step.

My breath catches when she does: what if she falls, what if she cries, what if she gets hurt?
But she doesn't. To my immense relief, and Otabek's obvious satisfaction, she begins to push the walker slowly ahead of her down the rink, following as he skates backward just in front of her, calling out to the child. "Good job!" He says, beaming, "Keep going! Can you catch me?"

"Yeah!" She says enthusiastically, skating a little faster, laughing and determined to reach her dad.

"I don't know," He says with mock confusion, "I think you're going to have to go faster! Come on- come and get me!" She skates quickly in his wake, barely slower than him and shrieking with laughter. 

They circle around the rink, looping again and again, never once showing signs of stopping. Then, finally, Otabek slows, coming to a halt, reaching a hand out to stop Sacha's walker as she draws dangerously close to plowing into him. "You did it!" He cries happily as she gets down on her hands and knees, crawling beneath the walker and reaching for her dad. He picks her up, swinging her into the air and garnering a torrent of giggles for doing so.

He spins her around, exciting her further before setting her back on her feet. It takes her a second to become un-dizzy, but once she does she reaches once more for the walker, ready to continue their previous game. To both my and her surprise, however, Otabek pushes it slightly out of reach. 

"I think," He says slowly, kneeling down before her, "You can do it on your own." 

"No," Sacha says resolutely, it being the favorite and most-used word in her three-year-old vocabulary.

"Beka, I'm not sure that's a good idea,"  I say nervously, "She only started skating today after all, why don't we give her a little bit?"

"Don't worry," He says firmly, shooting me a calmly reassuring smile, "She can do it. I'll help her- right Sacha?" She shakes her head but he sticks his tongue out at her playfully, a gesture she's more than happy to imitate. "Come on," He says, taking her tiny mittened hands and pulling her close so they're at eye level. "Let's go!"

Getting to his feet, Otabek grabs hold of Sacha under the arms, and steers her out into the center of the rink, far from the hazardous public skaters. Reaching it, with me hovering nervously a few feet away from them, he lets go, and, waiting for her to get her balance, skates a few feet away. "Put your arms out like this," He instructs, holding his so they're fully extended and level with his shoulders, "And march like you're in the Christmas parade!" I smile slightly at this direction, knowing what a perfect analogy it is.

Ever since we got together, and even back when we were just best friends, Otabek and I have gone to the annual Saint Petersburgh Christmas Parade. It's a tradition of ours, and, since Sacha's old enough, we brought her this year, only a few weeks ago actually. She loved it, finding the music and dancers exciting and hot chocolate delicious, she especially enjoyed watching the marching band, watching mesmerized as they walked in perfectly synchronized motions. She even decided that she was going to march like them too, and did all the way back to the car, getting us to join in. 

Her face lights up when he mentions this and she does as she's told, stretching out her arms and raising her knee to take a tentative step forward. My heart stops as I watch her, but, sure enough, she makes it safely to her father's waiting arms. "Yes!" He cries, scooping her up and hugging her tightly, "You did it! I'm so proud of you!" 

"Sacha!" I come over and give her a hug too, squishing her between Otabek and I. "That was amazing! Come to me!" Otabek sets her down and I skate away, slightly father than he was. Slowly, carefully, Sacha comes toward me and is only a foot away when she slips, falling onto the ice with a soft thump. "Sacha!" I cry, worried, "Honey, are you okay?" She looks stunned, confused by the sudden change, but, planting her hands unsteadily on the ice, she rises to her feet, sliding a bit before regaining her balance. Smiling, on the second try, she makes it to my arms, hugging me and squealing,

"I did it! I did it!" 

"You did do it!" I laugh, holding her close to me, "Do you want to skate more now?"

"Yeah!" She answers immediately, excited.

We spend quite a while like this, her skating back and forth between us, the distance gradually growing, and eventually beginning to follow us at very low speeds around the rink. She even experiments with penguin slides, (scaring the shit out of me in the process might I add) and spins on her butt, making snow angels on the ice. Soon, she's absolutely covered in the fine white powder, and, although enjoying her time immensely, begins to shiver.

"Why don't we take a break?" I suggest, not wanting her to get too cold in this frigid environment.

"No!" She replies, shaking her head vehemently, "I want to skate!" 

"But it's so cold!" I tell her and make a show of rubbing my hands against my arms, "Don't you want to go home and warm up?" She shakes her head again, and, as I glance out of the rink into the skating center it's situated in, I get an idea. "I know," I say slowly, grinning, "How about some hot chocolate?"  This does the trick. Hot chocolate's her favorite drink and I suspect her love of winter and Christmas (though what little kid doesn't?) is strongly influenced by its propriety to the season. We even got it at the Christmas Parade and let me say she was so happy- she might've liked the hot chocolate stand better than the actual content now I think about it.

"Yeah!" She cries immediately, "Hot chocolate!" Otabek and I laugh, and, after being shepherded off the ice by an extremely motivated Sacha, assist her in removing her skates.

The line for the requested beverage is short and soon we find ourselves sitting at a table, each of us with a cup and Sacha's piled high with whipped cream and marshmallows. Normally we don't let her decorate it, the drink being treat enough as it is, but since she did so well today we thought we could relax the rules just this once. 

"So, did you like skating?" I ask her over the hot-chocolate, and receive a nod, "Do you want to come back?" Another nod, but it's plain she's not paying me any attention, tackling the drink in front of her with a vigor unequaled.

Smiling, Otabek dips a finger into the mountain of whipped cream on top of her cup, eliciting a gasp from her. "Daddy no!" She says reprovingly, "It's mine!" 

"Oh really?" He says, shooting me a sly grin, before bopping the whip-cream covered finger on her nose, painting it white. She gasps, caught off guard by this action, but giggles, wiping it off her face with a napkin larger than her hand. 

I smile at this sight, loving watching them together; the picture of family.

"Yuri?" Otabek asks me, smiling slightly, "What are you thinking about?" 

"Nothing," I reply, still beaming affectionately at the two of them, "And everything."