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Toronto was having one of those rare, golden mornings—sunlight pouring through the windows, breeze just cool enough to feel like a kiss on the cheek.
Inside their apartment, it was anything but calm.
“Where’s the gift bag?” Yuuri asked, spinning in a slow, panicked circle. “The one with the card and the chocolates and the—”
“It’s in the hallway,” Victor called from the bedroom. “Next to the shoes.”
“I put it on top of the shoes.”
“You put a paper bag on top of the boots Yurio hates?”
“Wait, those boots?!”
A dramatic groan came from the couch. “ I can hear you,” Yurio snapped, arms crossed, already dressed in a pressed white shirt and dark slacks. “If you ruin my graduation day because you smushed my Docs, I swear—”
“You’re still not wearing the gown?” Yuuri asked.
“I’m not wearing it until we get there.”
Victor peeked out of the room, hair still half-flat on one side from the steamer. “You look so grown up.”
“Don’t start,” Yurio muttered, tugging at his sleeve.
From her perch on the armrest, Borscht nosed at Yurio’s cuff like she approved. Makkachin was sprawled nearby, watching solemnly, tail thumping once in steady support.
Victor, now fully dressed and emotionally compromised, handed Yuuri a tissue on instinct.
“Is this for you or me?” Yuuri asked.
Victor’s eyes were already glassy. “Both.”
They piled into the car in semi-organized chaos.
Yurio sat in the backseat, earbuds in but not playing anything. Just… breathing. Letting the moment settle.
Victor kept adjusting his tie in the rearview mirror. “He’s going to do amazing.”
Yuuri drove, calm and focused. “It’s a graduation. He just has to sit still and not punch anyone.”
“Yura doesn’t punch people anymore,” Victor said proudly.
“He almost punched that dad at parent-teacher night,” Yuuri reminded him.
Victor waved it off. “That guy insulted his physics project. It was provocation.”
Yurio didn’t say anything. But he looked out the window and smiled.
The auditorium buzzed with movement and soft classical music. It smelled like flowers and perfume and fresh paper.
Yakov and Lilia were already seated in the front row, somehow looking both regal and bored. Lilia wore sunglasses inside. Grandpa Nikolai had a camera around his neck and three Werther’s Originals in his pocket.
Yurio stood in line backstage, shoulders set like he was about to take the ice. When his name was called—
“Plisetsky, Yuri.”
—the entire Nikiforov-Katsuki section applause in unison.
He walked with sharp steps and his head held high. Confident. Grounded. Like the kind of man who still growled at vending machines but held his future steady in both hands.
Victor let out a tiny sob.
Yuuri gently squeezed his hand.
“He did it,” Victor whispered. “Our boy.”
After the ceremony, they took so many photos.
Victor insisted on every combination imaginable: Yurio and Nikolai. Yurio and Yuuri. Yurio and Lilia (who did not smile but allowed her hand on his shoulder). Yurio and the diploma like it was an Oscar.
Yurio pretended to hate it. He didn’t protest when Yuuri fixed his collar again.
“Thanks,” he muttered. “For… everything.”
Yuuri blinked. “What was that?”
“I said thanks, okay? Don’t make it a thing.”
Yuuri didn’t.
But he smiled all the way to the restaurant.
The dinner reservation was at a rooftop place with glass walls and string lights glowing like stars.
Victor chose it, of course.
Yurio looked uncomfortable in a black button-up but accepted the menu with only a moderate sigh. Alex joined them, clean and smug in a blazer, and sat beside Yurio like it was always meant to be that way.
Nikolai gave a toast. It started with a joke about Yurio’s temper and ended with everyone dabbing at their eyes with napkins.
Even Yakov looked proud. Lilia sipped champagne and nodded once—her version of a standing ovation.
Victor insisted on ordering three desserts.
Yuuri didn’t speak much, just watched them all—his loud, brilliant, chaotic family—and thought, this is the life I never knew I could have.
Summer passed.
Yurio trained. Alex made mix tapes. Otabek called more often. Victor pretended not to listen in, and Borscht took to sleeping in Yurio’s laundry pile.
By late August, the apartment buzzed with suitcases and the smell of new notebooks.
It was move-in day.
The dorm was already chaos.
Boxes, pillows, posters. Parents in various stages of emotional unraveling. New roommates nervously trying to act like they hadn’t just Googled “how to make friends in college” that morning.
Alex was already there, lounging across one of the beds with his sneakers still on, holding a smoothie and absolutely thriving.
“Sup,” he said to Yuuri, then added with a smirk to Yurio, “Nice of you to show up, roommate. ”
“Keep talking and I’ll switch floors,” Yurio muttered, but his bag dropped right next to Alex’s.
Victor immediately started fussing with the bedsheets.
“This mattress needs a topper. I read the reviews. Hold on—Yuuri, hand me the lavender spray—”
“Victor,” Yuuri said gently. “Let him settle.”
Yurio shot them both a look that said I will never recover if you unpack in front of my roommate.
“Okay, okay,” Victor backed off with dramatic flair. “But I am leaving you this.” He pulled a tiny framed photo from his coat. “Junior debut. You were radiant.”
Alex peered at it and let out a low whistle. “Yo. This hair was legendary.”
Yurio groaned. “I’m burning that.”
“No you’re not,” Yuuri said, placing it gently on the desk. “It’s staying.”
Victor slid a tea bag into Alex’s pocket. “For moments of crisis.”
Alex nodded solemnly. “Every Tuesday, then.”
They unpacked for an hour—Yurio organizing his books alphabetically, Alex tossing socks into drawers like a raccoon in a hoodie.
Victor took a thousand photos. Yuuri made the bed, even though Yurio would undo it within minutes.
And just before they left, Victor grinned and held out his phone.
“Group selfie!”
“Absolutely not,” Yurio said.
Yuuri was already leaning in. “Too late.”
Alex threw an arm over Yurio’s shoulder. “Say ‘blistering emotional growth’!”
Yurio blinked mid-glare. The shutter clicked.
Perfect.
Outside the dorm, Victor sniffled and clutched Yuuri’s hand.
“I can’t believe he’s growing up without our supervision.”
Yuuri smiled. “He’s not. He just has more square footage now.”
Victor sighed dramatically. “I hope Alex knows how to make barley tea.”
Back inside, the door clicked shut behind them.
Yurio stood there a moment. Then walked to the desk. Picked up the framed photo. Set it down again—right at the center of his shelf.
Alex looked up from his laptop. “You okay?”
Yurio shrugged. “Fine.”
A pause.
“Better than fine?”
“…Maybe.”
His phone buzzed.
Alex peeked over. “Otabek?”
Yurio grabbed the phone before he could see. “Shut up.”
Alex raised his eyebrows, grinning. “Oooooh. You are blushing.”
“I’m not blushing.”
“He is your boyfriend.”
“He’s not—” Yurio paused. Glared. “—shut up.”
“Tell him I say hi.”
Yurio groaned but answered anyway, turning slightly toward the window.
“Hey,” came Beka’s voice, low and warm.
“Hey,” Yurio murmured, voice softer than it had been all day.
Alex threw his hands in the air like he’d just scored a goal. “HE IS YOUR BOYFRIEND!”
Yurio didn’t respond.
But he smiled.
The apartment felt bigger than it had that morning.
Not in the good way.
Victor set down his keys like they might echo. Yuuri slipped off his shoes and placed them neatly beside the door. There were no extra sneakers next to his. No boots tossed carelessly against the wall.
Just space.
And silence.
Makkachin wandered into the hallway and sniffed Yurio’s bedroom door. He let out a soft whine, then circled back and curled up by the couch with a slow, dramatic sigh.
Borscht jumped onto Yurio’s favorite chair, circled once, then stared at the empty hallway as if waiting for someone to come back through it.
Yuuri sat down quietly, folding his hands in his lap.
Victor joined him, resting his head on Yuuri’s shoulder.
“She’s been sitting there for ten minutes,” Yuuri whispered.
“She misses him,” Victor murmured.
“…Yeah.”
They sat in silence. Watched the dogs. Listened to the city outside.
“I knew this would happen,” Victor said. “The growing up. The moving on. I just didn’t think I’d miss him this much.”
Yuuri leaned his head against Victor’s. “I miss him too.”
Victor reached for Yuuri’s hand.
“We made space,” he said.
Yuuri laced their fingers together. “Yeah.”
“…Do you think we’re ready for more?”
Yuuri looked down at their hands. The apartment was quiet, but not empty.
“I think… we have space now. In here.” He tapped his chest. “And that’s what matters.”
Victor turned to him, eyes soft. “So you’re saying…”
Yuuri smiled. “Let’s look.”
Victor’s face broke into the gentlest, shiniest grin. “Now?”
Yuuri nodded. “Now.”
But “now” didn’t mean right that second.
There were steps. Sessions. Forms to fill. An online portal with videos and orientation modules. Virtual meetings with a caseworker named Sandra who wore chunky earrings and called Victor “sunshine” after the second call.
They didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. Not until it felt real enough to hold.
They took the PRIDE training on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Discussed routines and boundaries over dinner. Watched Borscht destroy another slipper and somehow turned that into a conversation about patience and flexibility.
The snow hadn’t fully melted, but something in their lives already felt like spring.
And then—one quiet evening, after a day that had felt like any other—
the email came.
Victor returned from the kitchen with two mismatched mugs of tea—Yuuri’s favorite chamomile in the one with the cracked handle, and his own peppermint in the mug shaped like a skating boot.
Yuuri was already seated on the couch, laptop open, fingers hovering over the trackpad like it might bite.
Victor sat beside him, nudging their knees together. “Tea?”
Yuuri accepted it without looking away from the screen. “It came.”
Victor’s breath caught. “The link?”
Yuuri nodded and turned the screen toward him.
There it was. A simple subject line: Thank you for completing your final information session. Beneath it, a short note from Sandra. And then: Available Children – Early Viewing Portal.
Yuuri murmured, “Just to see what’s there.”
Victor reached over and laced their fingers together. “Slow is good.”
The portal was quiet. Clean. Soft photos. Short bios.
They scrolled.
A boy who loved marine animals. A girl who drew horses. Sibling pairs. Favorite colors like “blue.” Dreams like “a bed that’s mine.”
Yuuri whispered, “They’re all…”
Victor didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
And then—they stopped.
The page was still loading, but one photo had already rendered.
Not a portrait. Just a candid image of a young boy at a craft table. Black hair. Wide eyes. A paper star clutched in one hand, held toward the camera like an offering.
No name.
No age.
Just a note:
Profile currently being updated.
Yuuri leaned in.
Victor didn’t breathe.
“I see him,” Victor said. “I really see him.”
Yuuri’s hand tightened on his.
There were no fireworks. No music. Just the quiet click of a heart opening to possibility.
They didn’t know his name yet.
But somehow, it already sounded like family.