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theonlyqualitytrash · 5 months ago

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Dear Quality,

Do you think Fyodor and his wife Reader would have wanted to have children, or would they have preferred to live a child-free life? What do you imagine his views about him having a kid would be like?

All right, listen to me. I was watching one of Chloe Chua's videos. You can also check it out if you want. :>

https://youtu.be/WT9jOZLFaEY?si=VCkz7fuBhK9HOpz0

Meanwhile, I was also browsing on Pinterest when I came across John Collier's painting "The Sonatina."

Then, for some reason, this scenario popped up in my mind. 🥺 We know that Fyodor is already a skilled cello player, and he presumably also spent many years of his life practicing a variety of other instruments in his free time, given his love and appreciation of classical music. I thought to myself—Fyodor having a child who was just as passionate about music as he is, and I thought of them playing together, Fyodor being so proud of his little one—it was just adorable to think about.

Anyway, I just wanted to share this random idea with you. What I'm really curious about is your answer to my earlier question.

My own answer to that would probably be like this: If I stop daydreaming, I think that although Fyodor may like children, he wouldn't want to have a child of his own for reasons you can reckon. BUT let's say hypothetically he meets the love of his life. He already knows that he will outlive her due to his ability. Therefore, he might not be against having children with his beloved if she wishes to.

Despite the fact that he knows he will have to watch them pass away, he would have wanted to make sure that their shared moments together were the happiest it could possibly be for her - so if she had really wanted to have children with him, I think he would have agreed to it. Besides, he would have liked to have a perfect mixture of them. After all, they have a limited amount of time, and he would have tried to make the most of it. He would have stayed by their side even in their final breaths.

And a child would be the fruit of their love, wouldn't it? Years pass, and his descendants live on, unaware that one of their oldest ancestors is still very much around. After all those portraits he spent countless hours painting her, they are the only flesh and blood reminders he has of his darling wife, whom he misses terribly. And Fyodor keeps a keen eye on them from afar. But no one would know about his connection to them except himself.

Okay, I started to daydream and talk nonsense again despite saying I wouldn't do it, lol. 😭 Feel free to respond whenever you want. Love u.

Hello, dear Berry! <3

AHHH—thank you for this question! I’ve spent far too much time contemplating the idea of Fyodor and fatherhood, and let’s just say… it’s a complicated dream. On paper, he is the absolute worst candidate to be around children (I mean, the man has literally used children strapped to explosives as part of his grand schemes—joke, but also not really). And yet, if we set aside that rather damning detail and indulge in a little fantasy, things become much more complex.

The video you sent me? Absolutely enchanting. Chloe is a true gem—so expressive in her artistry. It was wonderful to hear that she’s still doing well, even years after this performance. ^^ I also loved seeing how warmly the other musicians treated her. And don’t even get me started on the comments—equal parts delightfully wholesome and gloriously unhinged. :))

As for the painting—it carries this timeless, wistful elegance, and I can’t help but see Chloe’s performance within it. The title, "The Sonatina", is also such a poetic touch. A sonatina is, in essence, a short sonata. In naming his work, John Collier may have been likening the young girl he painted to a sonatina herself: a melody not yet fully realized, brimming with potential but still small, still tender. Perhaps, had she been older, the title would have been The Sonata instead, reflecting growth and completion. To me, this name captures something fragile: a moment of youth suspended in time. If anyone ever called me something so achingly lovely, I think I would simply dissolve on the spot.

But back to Fyodor—because as much as I want to dream, I cannot. I don’t believe he was ever destined for fatherhood. As you pointed out, there are countless reasons why he would never bring a child into this world.

To him, children are the epitome of purity—beautiful, fragile, untainted. And above all, he would love them too much. So much that the thought of them growing up in a world so corrupted, so uncertain, so riddled with suffering would be unbearable. So he would refuse. He would be against it.

And yet, for his beloved wife, he would waver. He would never seek fatherhood, but if she pleaded—truly pleaded—perhaps he would give in.

The only world in which he could accept raising a child is the one he envisions—a purified world, stripped of ability users, free from the sin he so despises. But what is Fyodor himself, if not the embodiment of that very sin?

In the end, his pursuit of perfection would demand the ultimate price—his own existence. He would carve his utopia into reality with blood-stained hands, only to erase himself from it. And in doing so, he would leave behind the woman he loved—pregnant, perhaps—to raise their child in the world he died to create. A world without him. A child who would never know their father, except through echoes of his ideology, shadows of his absence.

And then what? Would his name become a whispered legend, a martyr for a cause too grand to hold love within it?

The mere thought of it makes me want to claw my own eyes out. :(

But let’s step away from doomed inevitabilities and take the hypothetical path—one where we entertain the thought of Fyodor as a father, no strings attached. Like you, I do believe he would want children, even knowing he might outlive them. He would love his descendants quietly, distantly—never smothering, never overbearing, but always there.

I also think he would search for traces of his late wife in them.

He seems like the type to linger in the shadows, watching over them unseen, ensuring they are safe, protected, untouched by the horrors he himself endured. A silent guardian, orchestrating their happiness without ever stepping into the light.

I can see him leaving anonymous gifts—books filled with cryptic annotations, letters never signed but unmistakably his. Little traces of himself, scattered through generations, proof that he was there even when he wasn’t. His great-grandchildren might grow up with the quiet knowledge that someone—some enigmatic presence—has been looking after them all along.

And when death inevitably comes for the ones he loves, I do not think he would bury them. Graves are too final, too absolute. No, Fyodor would keep their ashes, refusing to let them return to the earth so easily. Perhaps he would scatter them somewhere meaningful—a place only he knows, where the wind can carry their presence across the world. Or perhaps he would keep them close, hidden away in a place untouched by time, a shrine of memory that only he visits. A way of preserving them, as if to defy death itself.

And yet, no matter how you twist it, it is always tinged with sorrow. He either never gets to see his child, or he will see them die before him. More than anything, he longs for rest. For peace. But peace, for someone like him, is as fleeting as a whispered prayer.

Now, let’s imagine a scenario where Fyodor does have a child—and teaches them to play.

Berry, thank you so much for submitting this. It truly made me happy, and I hope I’ve answered your question. I love you too, and I hope you’re taking care of yourself. <3

Word count: 2,000

The evening at home unfolded in its familiar embrace of gentle, comforting quiet. Nestled beside your husband on the couch, you let your knitting needles work, the quiet click of yarn looping together marked the steady progress of a scarf for your darling daughter. Beside you, Fyodor reclined slightly, a book in hand, his expression as calm as ever. The air carried a serene harmony that bound the three of you together.

You had always cherished these moments. The rustle of turning pages, the reassuring warmth of Fyodor’s presence, and the way silence never felt empty but full—rich with the quiet understanding shared between family.

Then, breaking the gentle silence, a small voice emerged.

“Papa,” came the tiny, curious question. “Do you only play the cello?”

Dunya—Avdotya, though always Dunya to you both—had just turned four. Her dark curls framed her round face, her eyes bright with curiosity as she peered up at her father. You smiled as she wordlessly wiggled between you, pressing close in the way only a child could, small hands reaching to claim his attention.

Fyodor set his book down, its cover closing softly with a deliberate thud. His gaze softened the instant it fell on his daughter, the cool detachment in his eyes dissipating in favor of something rarer—something infinitely more tender. A small flicker of warmth crossed his features, subtle but deep, before his lips curved into the faintest smile.

"No, myshka," he whispered. "I play many instruments."

Dunya’s eyes widened with wonder, her small hands latching onto the sleeve of his shirt. “Then… what was the first instrument you ever learned?”

You watched, utterly taken by the quiet exchange between them. Fyodor’s gaze grew distant, his usual composed exterior wavering as he considered her question. A brief pause settled over him, a rare moment of stillness where even he seemed to step beyond his carefully measured presence, touched by something close to vulnerability.

Then, with a soft, knowing smile, he answered. “The gudok.”

Dunya blinked, lips parting in a quiet pout as she processed the unfamiliar word. Then, as understanding gave way to excitement, she grinned, her whole face alight. “I want to learn it too! I want it to be my first instrument—just like you, Papa! Please teach me!”

Her enthusiasm was so pure and untouched by the weight of the world, unburdened by doubt or hesitation. She had no reason to question her place in it. And that—more than anything—was what Fyodor had always longed for. What he needed. Hope. Hope in a world he saw as tainted.

They talk of hope as if it's a fragile thing, something transient, wrought from whispers and spider silk. But his hope was another story altogether—bloody, dirt-filled, trampled by the world. His hope never flinched—it always got back up for the next bout.

You didn’t know exactly what Fyodor was thinking at that moment, but you were certain of one thing. He was happy.

Your heart swelled as you watched them, father and daughter, wrapped in something so simple yet overflowing with love.

He reached out, resting a gentle hand against the crown of her head, fingers threading through soft hair. “Is that so?” he mused, amusement threading through his tone. “Then we shall begin at once.”

The joy that filled the room was clear. Fyodor’s gaze softened further, the shadows that so often clung to him dissolving in the light of his child’s presence. And for that fleeting moment, you saw it—the weight of tenderness in his touch, the quiet promise that no matter the cost, he would shape and protect this little life with everything he had.

With that promise, the lessons began.

As the days passed, a quiet ritual took root. Fyodor’s words were always calm, measured—yet laced with a warmth rarely seen in his dealings with others. When Dunya had expressed her wish to learn the gudok, he hadn’t dismissed it, nor had he treated it as a passing whim. He had seen the spark in her eyes, the determination brimming just beneath the surface, and he had made a silent vow—to nurture and guide her with the same care he gave to precious things.

The first few lessons were slow, methodical, just like him. Dunya’s small fingers fumbled, uncertain of where to press, the bow trembling in her grasp. But Fyodor, ever patient, never sighed, never furrowed his brow, never let frustration touch his voice.

He would sit behind her, hands hovering just above hers like a guardian angel, ready to guide but never to force. His quiet, steady voice guided her to understanding. “Hold the bow lightly, myshka,” he would murmur, careful never to let his words shake her confidence. “Like holding a breath—gentle, not too tight.”

Every now and then, you would catch them in some hidden corner of your home—his hand resting on the shoulder of her smaller frame. Dunya's face tilted upwards in purposeful listening, as though she saw the world through his eyes. Fyodor was not a man who granted his full attention readily, and yet in those moments, something in him yielded, something held back came to life—something that only existed for Dunya.

Now and again, you would be shooed away, welcomed with a firm yet teasing, "Not now, Mama. It's Papa's time." Their studies were inviolate, a world that belonged to them alone, cut off from the world as though it existed in another time altogether.

Yet, even from a distance, you would hear Fyodor’s voice as he adjusted Dunya’s posture or murmured quiet praise for a well-played note. What they were building was more than music; it was something deeper, something unspoken. For Fyodor, teaching had never been just about the notes, the bow, the strings—it was about passing down something more.

Every lesson carried with it a quiet kind of love. A love he might never say aloud, but one that was felt in every patient correction, in every steadying hand, and in every fleeting smile that softened his otherwise sharp edges.

It was in the way he watched over her with quiet intensity, ensuring she was never rushed, never forced—only guided. He let her move at her own pace, teaching her not just how to play an instrument, but how to be patient, to endure, and to strive quietly yet steadily toward something greater.

And Dunya, for her part, was a model student. Her resolve was a mirror image of his, steady and unshakeable. With each new day, her modest but consistent improvement was a testament to his patient teaching. She was developing under his attentive eye—her spirit undefeated, her affection for her father, this silent, cautious, and reflective man, growing with each lesson.

Occasionally, when the lesson was over, Fyodor would reach out—tucking in a stray curl, brushing a gentle kiss against her temple in a rare moment of affection. “You’re coming along nicely, Dunya,” he would murmur, his voice low and affectionate. And yet, even as he spoke, his gaze remained distant; it was as if he saw something beyond the present moment—something only he could understand.

For Fyodor, this was never just about teaching her to play. It was about giving her something of himself—a piece of his soul, a gift she could carry long after the lessons had ended.

Weeks passed, and the lessons continued, steady and unhurried. Dunya’s grasp on the gudok grew firmer, her fingers more certain, her small efforts beginning to shape into something real, something resembling music. Every practice session became a quiet, careful dance—his focus on her, and her eager determination to live up to the father she adored.

The understanding crept in gradually, unfolding like a gentle melody in your chest. But when it finally formed, it caught your breath. Fyodor hadn't been passing on a love of music. He had been preparing the way for something more—something personal, something for you.

He had been teaching Dunya a song. A song for you.

The day itself came on a still afternoon, the yellow light outdoors growing softer as evening set in. Something in the air held a particular heaviness, an unspoken expectation you couldn't quite define.

"Sit, dearest," Fyodor whispered, easing you onto the couch. His eyes, fixed and inscrutable, didn't leave Dunya's face.

As you settled in, Fyodor sat beside you, his expression as serene as always—although beneath it, there was something you couldn't quite grasp. His fingers traced over yours, drawing slow, soothing circles on your skin, grounding you in the here and now.

Over by the window, Dunya sat stiffly on her small stool, the gudok held delicately in her lap. The bow shuddered a little in her hand, but her face reflected only steadfast resolve.

The room fell silent.

With a small inclination of his head, Fyodor nodded to her.

And Dunya started to play.

For a few seconds, it was as if you were standing in a vast concert hall. You and Fyodor were used to go to such places—beautiful theatres, ornate opera houses—but this? This was different. This was private, sacred. Your daughter, this little shining creature, was more gorgeous than any spectacle you had ever seen.

The initial notes trembled, uncertain, slightly off-key—but they were deeply moving. Unpolished and raw, yet painfully sincere. The melody, searching and fine, filled the space, a mirror of her small hands navigating something much larger than merely music. It was love, crafted into sound. A song formed by her father's quiet devotion, borne by her own earnest heart.

And it was for you.

You could hear him in her every movement. In the way she adjusted her posture, in how she eased into the rhythm, in the careful precision of her small hands. Every note carried his voice—not in sound, but in guidance. But it was more than just a song.

It was a message. A gift. An unspoken vow, shaped by his hands and entrusted to hers.

The music was simple—a gentle lullaby, exquisite in its quiet elegance—but to you it was the most beautiful music you had ever heard. As Dunya's bow danced across the strings, her confidence increasing with every note, you knew what this really was: a silent message from Fyodor. A message of love, time, and effort, crafted solely for your ears.

And when the final note faded into the room's silence, your throat swelled with a lump. You were so proud, so unbearably moved, and you swore you wouldn't cry.

Dunya's eyes met yours, expectant and wide.

You clapped, your palms striking together in love, your heart aching with fullness. But before you could say anything, Fyodor's fingers brushed against your shoulder.

"She did well, didn't she?"

His tone was low, but in it was something unusual—something tender. When you faced him, you smiled gently and nodded. And then you saw it echoed in the blurriness of his eyes: a tender pride, a soft love he rarely spoke of but wove into every lesson, every moment spent molding this little miracle in front of you.

His fingers drifted down, tightening around yours for a moment before his gaze was back on Dunya. He didn't miss a beat as he whispered, "Well done, myshka."

Your heart brimmed with so much love at this moment, it felt as if it might overflow. Smiling, you extended a hand, placing it on Dunya's face and kissing her forehead.

"You were wonderful, Dunya," you whispered, your voice warm, full of all the things you couldn't quite say.

Then you settled back into the couch, your head against Fyodor's shoulder, as Dunya climbed into his lap. He didn't shift, didn't pull away—his hand stayed in yours, firm and certain. A silent vow. A bond as profound and unshakeable as the music that had filled the room.

And for that moment, everything felt right.

Fyodor, ever reserved and calculating, had given you something priceless—not just his time and care, but something far more profound. His love. Woven into every note of the song he had taught your daughter to play.

A quiet concert, where words weren’t needed.

Because love had already been spoken in the melody.

Now some interesting things about the gudok! It is an ancient (similar to Fyodor) three stringed Eastern Slavic musical instrument, played with a bow. Its design and playing technique bear resemblance to other instruments like the Bulgarian gadulka and the Byzantine lyra. One would hold the gudok on their lap, like a cello or viola da gamba (but I have seen the gudok being held as a violin as well).

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