A/N: Written for a prompt on my tumblr that asked for Yusuke holding his child for the first time :') Lemme know if you guys liked it!

In this moment, Yusuke thinks that his mother must have been the greatest artist who ever lived.

Yusuke had always been captivated by the beauty of Sayuri, had always sought to recreate it. Once the truth behind the painting had come out, all of his emotions regarding it had gotten that much more complicated. Ann had once suggested that the only reason that Sayuri looks that beautiful is because his mother had poured all the love she felt for him into the canvas. That it was the genuine emotion behind it that drew everyone to the painting.

Looking at the infant in his arms right now, he can't even begin to fathom how to give the incredible amount of love he feels any sort of form at all. Anything he can picture in his mind falls short, no medium could be encompassing enough, no colour vibrant enough to capture this emotion within him. It is, in a word, overwhelming.

"Inari," Futaba calls out from the bed, her tone chiding. "You're getting snot on my creation."

Yusuke startles out of his reverie and blinks- Oh. He is indeed crying. How curious, he hadn't noticed. He looks up to see Futaba give him a soft, understanding smile. She is inspiring too right now, he thinks, but in a different way. Her auburn hair, piled atop her head in a messy bun, shines strangely under the harsh, white lighting of the hospital. Her glasses have been removed and Yusuke can see the dark circles under her eyes. He commits this to memory as well.

"Give him here," Futaba holds out her arms. Yusuke hesitates, just for a moment, before sidling into the spot just beside her. Gently, he transfers their son into her arms, taking care to support his head before wiping the tears tracking down his eyes. Their son remains blessedly asleep throughout the ordeal.

"Awww, look at him," Futaba coos gently, tracing a finger down the line of his chubby cheek. "He looks just like you."

"He does not."

Futaba gives him a look that she favours whenever she believes him to be acting 'stupid'. "He has your hair," she tells him bluntly. "And your eyes."

Well yes, that is true. His hair, as sparse as it currently is, is still distinctly the same colour as Yusuke's. And his eyes do seem to be grey in colour. "Yes," he acquiesces slowly. "Perhaps so. But in all other matters he vaguely resembles, I believe, a screaming potato."

Futaba chortles out loud at that, jostling the baby, and Yusuke quickly places his hands over hers' to make sure he's stable. Futaba quirks an amused eyebrow at him. "He happens to be quite fragile!" Yusuke says defensively.

"Please, no baby that can scream that hard for that long is fragile," she shakes her head. "No baby of mine is fragile, period."

Oh but he is. So, so very soft and small- barely the length of Yusuke's forearm. He doesn't know if it's some evolutionary instinct or not but he is overcome but a fierce desire to protect him at all costs. It makes every terrible person he's ever met in his life so much more heinous by comparison. How could anyone ever feel anything less for their child?

They stay that way for a long time, Futaba's head on Yusuke's shoulder, their hands entwined under their son's head. Eventually, Futaba stirs.

"The others are probably getting antsy by now," she murmurs. "We should let 'em in so they can gush over how cute he is."

Yusuke glances at the door. Their friends have been there since Futaba went into labour hours ago, he doubts any of them have left. Akira in particular, would certainly not leave until he sees his surrogate nephew for the first time.

He looks back over to his wife and child, curled contentedly around him. "Just a little while longer," he promises and Futaba hums in agreement.