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Yoongi has always been a light sleeper, but early fatherhood has had him jerking awake at a pin-drop. There’s a snuffle, a stir, then a soft whine to his left, and all at once Yoongi is alert, his lids peeling open to blink out into the dark.
Once his proprioception returns to him, he works out that he’s lying on his belly, head turned towards the bassinet as if he’d fallen asleep keeping a watchful eye. He can make out its shape, a stark white against the backdrop of night. It must be two or three a.m. by now. He’d gotten up at midnight to piss and check on the kitten, only to slip off into sleep as soon as he sunk into the give of his—their, Yoongi’s subconscious reprimands—memory foam mattress.
The soreness to his joints have come back. His head feels three sizes too heavy on his shoulders, too, Yoongi’s vision spinning a bit as he pushes his upper body up and off the pillow. Yet, all of that sinks away when Jihoon’s whine crescendos, the tell-tale warning sign of a crying spell just around the corner. His senses now heightened, Yoongi’s pupils thin out, centuries of instinct firmly in tact; a few blinks and his eyes adjust to the dark.
“Jihoon-ah,” Yoongi’s voice grinds like plates in the earth. “Are you sleep regressing already?” He earns a louder, more desperate whine and stir in response, Jihoon reacting to the sound of his father’s voice. Yoongi swings his legs off the mattress ledge and gets to his feet. “Don’t grow up too fast, okay? Jiminie appa is going to be sad he missed it.” The bassinet is a mere four steps away; in under a second Yoongi has scooped his fussy kitten out and into the comfort of his arms with a theatrical grunt, Jihoon’s chubby, warm body melting against his chest.
“Better?” Yoongi murmurs. He bobs Jihoon up and down, up and down, rubbing a palm along his back. Jihoon’s whining levels back off into a snuffle.
When Jihoon was still in his body, Jimin had dubbed him a roll of bread—our little breadroll is kicking again? He’s gonna be a dancer just like his appa—and the nickname caught on amongst their friends and family. Roll-ppang, roll-ppang-ah.
Ppang and roll-ppang had been his name up until a month after his birth, and then Yoongi and Jimin had finally decided on Park Jihoon. They’d gotten input from their parents as well, a list of names compiled from everyone’s efforts—but then their roll-ppang was born in the spring, and thirty days later it’d become obvious what name they’d choose.
Ji-hoon. Jimin’s generation name, carried with a similar meaning: wisdom. Park Jihoon will grow up to be a wise intellectual, the top of his class and a natural-born leader. (Maybe a performer too, if Jimin has his way.) (Yoongi has his reservations.)
Two months later and Yoongi doesn’t think he’d ever stop gazing at Jihoon in awe. He’s already quieted down, drowsily rubbing his forehead against the tops of Yoongi’s pectorals. “Already getting too big for this onesie,” Yoongi lisps, tugging at the collar to the Chimmy-print cotton. Jihoon scowls and rubs. Scowls and rubs. “Who knew omegan milk was this fattening.”
Chubbiest baby he’s ever seen. Of course he and Jimin would have a chubby baby.
Really, it’s as if they created a carbon copy of Jimin. Soft cheeks, round eyes, lips full and pouted out in exhaustion. There’s drool gleaming at his mouth corners. Yoongi cradles the crown of his head with a broad hand, massaging into Jihoon’s tufts of ink hair. He starts a journey around the perimeter of their bedroom, bobbing and massaging as he ambles along.
He fondly recalls Seokjin’s guffaw and playful frown when he’d come by last weekend, eyes locked on where Jihoon swung in his living room baby swing. You made another Park Jimin? For the sake of our sanity, the world can only keep one, so you have to choose: Jimin number one or Jimin number two?
Yoongi was busy setting his RJ bottles—a gift from Seokjin given mere days before Jihoon’s birth—upside down to dry on the kitchen dish mat. “I think the world would be more than happy with two Jimins,” he’d snorted. “Imagine if his fans saw his son. They’d lose their minds.” That was an understatement of the decade.
“I can already imagine the Naver articles,” Seokjin had his legs tucked where he sat on their rug, folding Jihoon’s washed clothes and setting them aside to be put away, “comparing Jiminie’s baby pictures to Jihoon. Waah! Jimin oppa’s genes are so strong! Just as expected of South Korea’s son-in-law!” His voice was pitched up three octaves, words cracking at the edges. He stopped to laugh at himself. “It’d be a fucking mess on those celeb sites.”
Another understatement of the decade. Park Jimin’s tearful marriage announcement was accompanied with a handwritten letter, Jimin simultaneously thanking and begging his fans to understand why he’d kept his courting efforts a secret for the past few years. He and the company knew it couldn’t be kept under wraps for much longer when Yoongi had gotten pupped. Someone somewhere was going to sniff out a clue, and if it was released before Jimin could get ahead of it, it could cost him his career.
So Jimin got ahead of it. Both his marriage and child announcement wrapped into one, heartfelt bow, delivered with as much emotion as Jimin held in his little body—and that was enough emotion to overwhelm even Yoongi, after all this time. Beloved idol Park Jimin was going to be a father! Park Jimin was a husband! Park Jimin and some lucky omega were shacked up in his Apgujeong high rise! So on and so forth.
Thankfully, the majority of the shock didn’t translate to anger. He maintained his core fanbase once the debris settled, he shed the more fanatical ones, and he was allowed to keep promoting and clinging to his pure image as South Korea’s son-in-law.
—Except now he was an actual son-in-law.
Strange how life progresses. Yoongi blinked once and there he was: Park Jimin standing in his studio with his manager, pheromones thick and gaze unsure. I’m—I’m looking forward to working with you, Min Yoongi-ssi. Another blink, and Jimin had him mated, slipping a ring on his left hand from where he kneeled on a Kyoto hotel’s balcony. I look at you and I see the rest of my life. Min Yoongi-hyungnim: will you marry me?
The final blink—
“You’re fussing this much because you miss him, aren’t you.” Yoongi is on his second lap around the bedroom. Jihoon keeps squirming in his arms, warm and soft like bread fresh from the bakery. “Jihoon-ah. If you sleep longer, time will pass faster. So go to sleep. Okay?”
Jihoon at least seems to understand this. His face, piecemeal, gentles out, fat cheek squished up against Yoongi’s shoulder. “Ohh, good boy. Good boy.”
Promotions won’t be ending for another two weeks, but Jimin should be back in Gangnam in one. He’d spent days leading up to his comeback trying to figure out a way to commute between cities so he can stay home with Yoongi and Jihoon; this had been the compromise. A week away, a week back. “I would choose to cut promotions short in a heartbeat if it means missing his 100 days,” he’d insisted once the news was dropped to Yoongi. Jihoon snug in his arms, Jimin clinging as if to make up for the days he’d be without his cuddles. “Don’t worry.”
The assurances seemed to be more for himself than for Yoongi. Yoongi wasn’t worried. He was going to miss him, yes, but Yoongi had already compromised on his own career to take care of his family; music production became a when-you-have-the-chance sort of hobby (AKA, when Jihoon’s napping or whenever Seokjin or Taehyung can babysit) rather than the twenty-hours-a-day grind of his early and mid twenties. Fatherhood does that to you. That’s what his own father would say.
Jimin’s career will always take precedence in Yoongi’s order of importance—second only to Park Jimin and Park Jihoon.
Yoongi gently returns Jihoon to his bassinet after his third go around the bedroom. “There y’go,” he coos. His voice comes out wet. He sniffles. Folds Jihoon’s hair off of his forehead. “Goodnight, ppang-ah.”
Is it too late to blame postpartum hormones? Or maybe it’s three a.m. that has him sentimental.
Yoongi is swallowing his tears and watching the fragile rise and fall of his—their—kitten’s chest. He can practically hear the quick pulse of Jihoon’s heart, tiny beats to pump blood throughout his tiny body.
He made this. Wow.
Healthy cheeks, chubby fingers and full mouth: Jimin has never left. He’s right here. Stubborn and resolute down to his DNA. That’s Park Jimin.