DPOV
"Roza?" I gently embraced my wife, who was three months pregnant. With our third child, I should note.
"Yeah, Comrade?" she asked softly and leaned back into the touch. That nickname hadn't left. Five years, a marriage and three children later and she still couldn't drop the ever endearing nickname.
"We need to think about enrolling Ivan in an Academy."
We named our first baby after my past friend and charge(Ivan Zeklos). Rose had been adamant that it would do me a world of good to have another Ivan I knew and loved. I, however, had not seen how I could possibly name my eldest son after my dead friend and not see said friend every time I looked at said eldest son. She'd even done the dangerous thing and contacted Ivan Zeklos' spirit, who'd apparently agreed that my eldest son should be named after him. Naturally, Roza had been right. Naming my eldest son after said dead friend had done me a world of good. Ivan-Belikov, not Zeklos-himself had also proven me wrong. I only saw my miracle son whenever I looked at him. In looks, he was my mini-me. In attitude, he was Roza all over again. Not that I minded it; I actually thought it was adorable to have a boy who looked like me yet behaved like his mother running around the house. Both Rose and I hoped he'd eventually learn my control-tough task when I had nearly no control around my wife.
"I know. I just don't know if I'm ready to let him go, to let the world know. I brought him over here to have a family life while escaping prying eyes. I'm worried the second he steps on a campus, that plan will go down the drain."
Rose was one of those people that was extremely protective and loyal once she got to know you and like you. It had made her an extremely protective and over-cautious mother. I couldn't and wouldn't judge her for that, because that was exactly the kind of nature the (as we put it) near parent needed. Rose was the near parent while our babies were at home and I was at St Basil's.
"Oh, Roza. I know this is hard for you. I know how you fear about making the same mistakes your mother made with you. I know you fear about our baby's safety, about all three of them's safety. But you aren't going to make Janine's mistakes, and I'll be there with Ivan if we send him to St Basil's."
"Dimitri, how do you always know?"
"What you need to hear? What you're thinking and stressing about?" I asked as I rubbed the bump our third child was beginning to make.
"Yes," she moaned when one hand 'accidentally' fell below her belt line. "Comrade," she warned lustfully. "That's going to get you nowhere if you want to make any progress on deciding Ivan's future."
It was times like these when I was glad we lived over the road from my mother, grandmother, sisters and their children. Yes, even Vika now had a baby-and I hadn't been able to say a word about her being too young since I'd be a hypocrite, given I'd impregnated Roza with my own son when she was the same age.
"I think his Academy choice can wait another day," I said huskily into Roza's ear. That was all it took. Within milliseconds, our lips were fused together, and within moments our clothes were being ripped off as we made our way from the kitchen to our bedroom. So, thanks to our strength, I do quite literally mean our clothes were being ripped off by the other.
I awoke before my beautifully pregnant wife. And before nearly-four year old Ivan and nearly-three year old Riana (our baby girl). So, I carefully disentangled-succeeding at not waking Roza-and dressed, then headed to the kitchen. I had to pick up multiple pieces of torn clothing. Naturally, they went in a bag before going into the outside bin. After returning to the comfort of inside my own home and washing my hands, I made breakfast for my three-soon to be four-angels.
"Dada!" squealed the baby girl wrapped around my lower leg.
"Morning Riana," I softly greeted before scooping the energetic daughter of mine up onto my hip. "Mama's still sleeping, baby girl."
"Soft speak?" asked my gorgeous baby girl.
Riana looked mostly like me, yet had her mother's darker hair colour and its curls. She-unlike Ivan-had gotten my personality. Mostly.
"Yes, Riri," I smiled. It wasn't her Russian nickname. Yet Roza had insisted I use her endearment term. It had, unfortunately, worked. All because Riana had very much so come to look like she should be nicknamed Riri.
