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“Hey,” Chan mumbles, his hands coming to Jisung’s hips. “You’re really okay with it, right?”
They’re having breakfast, but Chan is still clingy, having dragged Jisung into his lap. He has his chin hooked over Jisung’s shoulder, looking at the email he’s drafted to his boss, his resignation. No two weeks' notice, because, well—there’s really no need in preserving bridges, is there?
“I am okay with it,” he insists, even though he can’t quite bring himself to press send yet. “It’s just—scary.” He’ll be unemployed. Like—unemployed unemployed. And Chan would never let him, like, starve or live in a cardboard box in the street, it’s just—it’s scary. Jisung’s gaze drags down to the ring on his left ring finger—yeah, Chan can take care of him. That’s exactly why this has been the idea since they’d been seriously dating.
“It’s okay if you aren’t,” Chan mumbles. “If you changed your mind.”
Jisung hates his job. He’s hated it since he'd started, basically. It’s soul-sucking, soul-crushing, and Jisung can genuinely say he hates every last second he spends in that hellhole. And Chan has a kid, Chan makes almost five times Jisung’s salary, and it just kind of… makes sense for Jisung to stay home.
He still hesitates, twisting around to confront Chan. “Channie,” he whines. “I—I don’t know how to cook. Or clean. I’m not really housewife material.”
“I disagree,” he says, bringing a hand up to his chin, pressing their lips together. “You’re really pretty, you’re great with Ben. And you’ll be happier, I think. Right?”
“Yeah,” Jisung admits, his lip wobbling. He fucking hates his job.
“If you don’t like it,” Chan says, “you can get a job again. Not this job, though. No going back. I forbid it.”
It’s a little tongue-in-cheek, but Chan really has been trying to get Jisung to quit this specific job for a long time. The housewife offer was not on the table until marriage, naturally, but he’d always told Jisung he should quit his job and look for something he’d like more.
“I know,” Jisung mumbles. “You won’t let me, like—starve to death?”
“Sweetheart,” Chan says, clutching his face in his hands. “Our bank accounts are merged. What’s mine is yours. Not to mention the fact that I just very publicly professed in front of all of our friends and family that you’re my problem for as long as we both shall live.”
Jisung pouts. “You hit send, Channie, I can’t. They’ll be so mad at me.”
“Fuck them,” Chan says, and winds around Jisung to hit send without further ado. “If they’re mean to you, I’ll handle them. I won’t let anyone bully my husband.”
Jisung ekes out a little smile, timid. “I thought I was your trophy wife?”
Chan’s arms tighten around his hips; his mouth comes to work along the line of his shoulder. “You’re that, too,” he promises. “Wanna hold off on breakfast?”
Jisung slams the laptop shut, unable to continue staring at it. He needs a distraction—Chan is a really excellent fucking distraction. “Yeah, yes,” he confirms. “Distract me, Channie.”
Once they’re actually properly eating breakfast, Chan calls Ben, pacing in front of the windows of their hotel room. Minho had been kind enough to watch Ben the duration of their honeymoon—he and Minjoon have always gotten along well. They really need to get Minho a nice souvenir, or something.
So Chan chit-chats with his kid, tells him about the dolphins they’d seen splashing out in the waves, to Ben’s absolute wonder. Jisung curls up in an armchair and picks at the remains of breakfast on his plate. He doesn’t really know their plans for today, but Chan had seemed kind of excited to go swimming. Jisung will stay on dry land, probably—unless Chan convinces him otherwise, he’s very convincing.
There’s a grin in Chan’s voice. “Yeah, buddy, Jisung’s right here. Why, you want to talk to him?”
Jisung perks up, wide-eyed at Chan. What does he mean, Ben wants to talk to him?
When he’d started dating a man with a kid, Ben had only been a toddler, and Jisung had been supremely worried about Ben liking him. What if he didn’t like him? What if he hated his guts and then, by extension, Chan also hated his guts? He knows the trope of stepparents, and he doesn’t really want to be a hated figure in Ben’s life.
But Ben is used to Jisung now, even if he doesn’t quite trust him as much as he does his own father. Fair enough. But Jisung can pick Ben up from school. They can go get ice cream on the weekends. Jisung has taken him to the playground.
They’re… uneasy allies, maybe. Ben isn’t quite sure about Jisung and Jisung isn’t all the way sure about Ben.
But now, Chan is thrusting the phone to Jisung with a grin, and he’s fumbling with it, trying to get it against his ear. “I—Hello?” he says awkwardly.
“Jisung,” Ben says, “Dad says you saw dolphins. Did you get a picture?”
“I—no, sorry, buddy,” Jisung says, looking up to Chan with wide eyes. Does Ben… miss him? “I’ll try to get one for you, though. How’s everything? How’s Minjoon and his dad?”
“Fine,” Ben says noncommittally. “But—hey, I tried to get Mr. Lee to take me to that ice cream shop we went to, and he doesn’t even know it! Do you have the address?”
“Yes,” Jisung says immediately, determinedly. He’ll help Ben anyway he can. “I’ll text it to him, okay?”
“Thank you,” he responds dutifully. “Hey, at school the other day, my friend bet me that I couldn’t jump higher than him, and so—”
Oh, god. Ben is yapping at him. Telling him precious, inane details of his day. Because he misses Jisung? Jisung cradles the phone to his ear and dutifully chimes in at appropriate times, nodding insistently.
“—and my art teacher said my macaroni art was the best,” he concludes.
“That’s great, Ben,” Jisung says. “Hey, you’ll have to show me when we’re back home. You think it’s fridge-worthy?”
“It’s definitely fridge-worthy.”
In the back of the call, he can hear Minho’s voice, frustrated. “Ben!” he shouts. “Are you ready for school yet?”
“Oh,” Ben says hastily. “Gotta go, Jisung, love you.” Then, louder, and directly into Jisung’s ear: “Dad! Love you!”
Chan chuckles and stoops by the phone. “Love you, Ben, have a good day at school.” The phone hangs up, and Chan peers down at Jisung.
“Did he say he loved me?” Jisung asks, his eyes welling with tears.
“He did,” Chan says, patting his head. “And he asked to talk to you. He talked to you longer than he talked to me. He likes you, Jisung.”
“Oh, thank god,” Jisung breathes, slumping back in his chair. “Oh my god, your kid wants my validation on his macaroni art.”
“He does,” Chan grins, gripping him by both shoulders. “You’re in.”
Jisung sits up in his chair, looking at Chan determinedly. “Channie,” he says. “We have to get photos of those stupid dolphins for Ben.”
“We’ll camp out on the beach today,” Chan promises seriously. “Get your bathing suit on.”
The plane ride home, and Chan still can’t keep his hands to himself. He has an arm firmly latched around Jisung’s hips, rubbing bare skin where his shirt has ridden up. Jisung’s phone had been blowing up with work calls, but now it’s blessedly silent, Chan’s doing. He’d gone in and blocked Jisung’s boss’ number, then chucked his phone to the side.
“I’m going to have to, like, read mommy blogs,” Jisung realizes, Chan’s lips tracing around his ear. They have some modicum of privacy in business class, and Chan’s taking advantage.
“If you want,” he mumbles. “Honestly, Jisung, I’m not even fucked if you want to lay in bed all day. I don’t expect you to—to scrub baseboards or have a roast on the table by 6:00.”
“No, I’m gonna try,” Jisung says, determined. “Like, if I’m not working, what else do I have to do? Pilates? Should I start doing pilates?”
“If you want,” Chan shrugs. “I mean, all you really have to do is walk Ben to school and pick him back up. Watch him while I’m at work. Get food into him.”
“Oh, my god,” Jisung realizes. “What if he gets sick? I don’t know how to take care of a sick kid!”
“Give them soup and Google medication dosages,” Chan deadpans. “Really, it’s nothing. Ben likes you. Although, I will say, you need to find something to do with him other than taking him for ice cream.”
“He likes ice cream,” Jisung protests, pouting. “Oh! I could be, like, a soccer mom. Should we buy a minivan?”
Chan chuckles. “I don’t think you need a minivan. But, yeah, we should look at signing Ben up for something this summer. Minho says Minjoon was talking about baseball.”
“Fuck, I don’t know anything about baseball,” Jisung laments.
“Me neither, baby, it’s okay,” Chan mumbles. “It’s just something to do with kids. Just stop stressing about it so much, okay?” His fingers come to massage Jisung’s scalp. “You’ll figure out a routine, hobbies. I’ll hire a maid, or something.”
Jisung pouts. “I’m the maid,” he protests. “I’ll, like, scrub the floors with my toothbrush.”
“You’re not my maid, Jisung,” Chan assures him. “You’re my husband, and I don’t expect my husband to also be my chef and my maid and my nanny.”
“But I’m a trophy wife,” he protests, his eyes going large and glassy, puppy dog-like.
It had started as a joke—one of Minho’s. One of those nights when Chan had been pleading with Jisung again to quit his job, to do anything else. Minho had sipped his beer, glanced over to where the kids were wasting quarters on arcade games, and said, “Fuck, hyung, I’ll be your trophy wife if Jisung won’t.”
And somehow they’d all latched onto that, Jisung as a trophy wife.
“You are,” Chan agrees, tweaking his chin. “But it’s because you’re really pretty and I love you a lot, not because you scrub our floors on hands and knees.”
Jisung huffs a sigh, leaning against Chan. He has to contribute somehow.
“Jacket on,” Chan says sternly, seeing Ben’s jacket conspicuously thrown over the couch, as if he has no intention of wearing it.
“I don’t want to,” he frowns.
“It’s cold out and you’ll wear it,” Chan returns, shuffling over to press a kiss to the side of Jisung’s head. “Yeah?” he asks Ben, ruffling his hair. He’s ready to shuffle out the door, the first day back after their honeymoon. He’s in a suit, and Jisung is still in the T-shirt he’d slept in, still with a nasty case of bedhead. Ben is eating a bowl of cereal—which Jisung had poured, thank you very much. Kid fed. This housewife shit is easy.
“Yeah,” Ben sighs forlornly, hunched over his bowl of cereal.
“Have a good day at school,” Chan instructs, then tugs Jisung over for a kiss. “Have a good day at home.”
Jisung smiles weakly. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do all fucking day.
First, though, is Ben. Ben has to finish breakfast. Jisung has slapped peanut butter and jelly on bread and stuffed it in his lunchbox for lunch. Grapes, a juicebox. A couple of cookies, a pack of crackers. He’s doing it, he thinks. He's housewife-ing, he's mommy blogging.
Chan shuffles out the door, and Jisung and Ben are alone. He’s—mostly ready for school. There’s the big to-do about the jacket, and he needs shoes. Probably his hair could use some wrangling—him and Jisung both.
Jisung hovers, uncertain. It feels odd—he should be at work. Stuffed into a suit he hates, languishing under fluorescent lights, squinting at a computer screen all day. He twists the wedding ring on his finger, anxious.
“I’m done,” Ben announces, shoving his half-eaten cereal away.
“Oh—aren’t you gonna be hungry, buddy?” Jisung fusses. “You didn’t eat much.”
“I’m not hungry now,” he pouts, and—fair enough? Jisung guesses.
“Okay,” he says apprehensively. “Jacket on, yeah?”
“I don’t want it,” he frowns.
Okay, yeah, right. Okay. Sure. Jisung grabs a brush from the bathroom and quickly tries to make Ben’s hair lay flat, then his own. He is only moderately successful. “Shoes, buddy, okay?” he pleads, scurrying back to the bathroom, grabbing Ben’s jacket and draping it over his arm.
He sits on the floor and tugs his shoes on, and Jisung throws his bookbag over his shoulder, because he always carries it. He just thinks it’s nice.
“Okay, let’s go,” Jisung instructs, holding his hand out for Ben to take. He’s done this a thousand times before, but always dressed in a suit, always hurrying to make it to the office. Now, he’s in sweatpants and a hoodie of Chan’s, feeling horribly out of place among the people bustling and hurrying for their offices.
He holds Ben’s hand tightly, more for himself than for Ben. But Ben’s a good kid, he doesn’t protest it.
It is chilly outside, and this time, when Jisung offers Ben the jacket, he accepts. He’s doing it—he’s doing alright.
School isn’t far, but Ben digs his heels in when he sights a fish cake stand. “Jisung,” he says, looking up at him, tugging the hem of his hoodie.
Jisung glances at it, at the kind-looking elderly lady running the stand. It’s steaming—it looks delicious. He hears Ben’s stomach growl, because he’d refused to finish his breakfast. He has cash on him, money that Chan had quietly slipped him that morning, not wanting to draw attention to it or make Jisung feel bad. Just spending money.
“Don’t tell your dad,” Jisung instructs, marching for the stand with Ben in tow. “Our secret, okay?”
“Yeah,” Ben says, a grin spreading across his face. “Our secret, Jisung.”
Jisung buys them both fish cakes on sticks, which they eat hunched over the stall; the fishcake lady tells Ben that he eats well, that he’ll grow up nice and handsome like his dad, and Jisung’s chest is warm—maybe not even from the steaming fishcake.
They throw the sticks out, and continue the block or so that remains to Ben’s school. Jisung catches a glimpse of Minho, in his suit and checking his watch anxiously as he holds Minjoon’s hand.
“Minho!” he calls, tugging Ben along. “Hey—are you late?” he asks, concerned. “I can walk Minjoon the rest of the way.”
Minho’s eyes turn to Jisung’s appearance, Chan’s old hoodie and his sweatpants. “Are you going to be my trophy wife, too?” he teases, and Jisung’s face flushes.
“I’m just doing a favor. You look like you’re in a rush.”
“Have a meeting,” he admits. “Just—yeah, Jisung, can you take Minjoon?”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling down at Minjoon. He looks like a mini-Minho, more or less, though he’s not quite as cutting and harsh as his dad can be. “Come on, kids, let’s get you into school.”
Minho’s hand comes to Jisung’s arm, grateful. “Thank you,” he says. “Trophy wife of the year, truly. Minjoon, have a good day, yeah? I love you.” Minjoon returns the sentiment, and Minho scurries away.
“Jisung,” Ben asks, cocking his head. “What’s a trophy wife?”
“Um,” Jisung says, his face flaming red. “Come on, you’ll both be late.” He tugs Ben’s hand and Minjoon follows behind them, and he’s—he’s doing it, he thinks.
Jisung feels the need to send Chan status reports. Just something like kids dropped off or going to the store or googling how to clean the oven. He knows that Chan probably doesn’t want Jisung to feel like he has to check in, just—he needs to feel useful.
Chan calls him at lunch, when his current status report would be something like standing in living room, overwhelmed. “Hey, baby,” he mumbles into the phone. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” Jisung says, too enthusiastic. Does cleaning really take up a whole day? Cooking? Running… errands? Should he be, like, taking clothes to the dry cleaner? What is dry cleaning? “I, um. I went to the store. Cleaned off the kitchen table. Um. Might… vacuum out the sofa?”
“That sounds great,” Chan encourages, gentle as always. “You can relax a little, though, baby.”
Jisung flops on the couch immediately. “I know it’s only been half a day,” he mumbles, defeated, “but I don’t know what to do all day, Channie. Like—I vacuumed. I washed some dishes. What the fuck else is there to do?”
“Weren’t you telling me about that anime you started that you really liked?” Chan prods.
“I can’t watch anime,” Jisung moans. “I need to—balance the checkbook, or something.”
“Jisung,” he says gently. “Do you even know what that means?”
“I need to google what balancing a checkbook is and then I need to do that. Wait, Channie—you have a checkbook, right?”
Chan chuckles. “Just breathe, baby. Look, you’ll have to pick Ben up in just a few hours. You should relax while he’s working on his homework.”
“Oh my god,” Jisung says, sitting up. “I should have asked Minho if he wants me to pick Minjoon up, too. I mean, I can—Minho’s working. I can take them both?”
“You have his number, don’t you?” Chan asks. “Ask him if he wants you to.”
Jisung heaves a sigh. “And then I’ll make them a little after-school snack and I’ll help them with their homework and maybe we’ll watch age-appropriate television—”
“That’s the spirit,” Chan says encouragingly. “But, um—can you handle third grade math?”
“No,” Jisung admits, cracking a smile. “No, you should hire a tutor.” He grins even broader. “I’m a trophy wife, my only job is to be pretty. I don’t know math.”
He can tell Chan is grinning on the other end of the line. “I’ll hire a tutor and tell them my trophy wife is too pretty to do math. Same with the maid, and the cook—”
“I love you,” Jisung mumbles, curled into a ball on the couch.
“I love you, too, baby,” Chan returns. “Why don’t you give Minho a call? See if you can offer to pick Minjoon up.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” he mumbles.
“Hey, and I’ll pick up takeout on the way home, okay?” he offers.
“No!” Jisung protests. “I can—Shouldn’t I—?”
“Take it easy,” Chan insists. “Let me grab dinner for us, okay?”
“Okay,” he mumbles, his cheek mooshing against the cushion. “I’ll call Minho, okay?”
“Sure thing, baby.”
“Jisung, what?” Minho squawks impatiently as he picks up Jisung's call. “I can't chat in the middle of the day, I have a job—”
“Um,” Jisung says, horrified to find his eyes filling with tears. Yeah, he's fucking unemployed, some loser who can just call his friends up in the middle of the day. “I know,” he says. “I just—I was calling to see if you wanted me to pick up Minjoon,” he mumbles, ashamed. “Since I, like, don't have a job…”
Minho changes tack immediately. “Jisung, that would be—that would be great, really. You can handle Minjoon and Ben together?”
“I can,” he mumbles, feeling pathetic. “I’ll, um. I’ll give them a snack and make them do homework and whatever else.”
Minho sighs. “Jisung, I’m sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel bad. You know, anyone would kill to not have to work.”
“No, yeah, I know,” he mumbles. “Just, um—do you need to call the school to let them know I’ll be picking Minjoon up? You can just come by the apartment to get him whenever you're done with work.”
“Yeah, I should,” he murmurs. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Jisung—you're a lifesaver.”
“Mhmm,” Jisung says, and hangs up. He's still on the couch, it's still lunch, and he still has no idea what he's supposed to do with himself.
Minjoon and Ben are energetic, which he expected. He's getting better at using his stern parent voice, even though he still kind of feels like a kid himself next to Real Adults like Chan or Minho.
But he makes them noodles without even setting off the fire alarm and gets them to mostly focus on their homework. They're good kids, really, both of them.
Minho gets there before Chan, looking tired. His tie has already been loosened, but he seems to gain back a bit of energy when Minjoon launches towards him.
“You didn't give Jisung a hard time, right?” he checks.
“Dad, please,” Minjoon returns, rolling his eyes.
“He was very good,” Jisung reports, still a little lackluster. “Finished all his homework, right?”
“Yeah, I did,” he confirms to his dad.
“Good, good.” Minho looks next to Jisung. “Will Chan be back soon? I mean, we’ll wait if you think he will.”
“I haven't heard from him,” Jisung admits. “Usually he texts when he's on his way home, so. Maybe you two should go on home.”
“Yeah, sure,” Minho agrees, awkward. “Um, thanks again, Jisung. If you want to keep doing this…?”
“I can,” he confirms with a nod. He has fuck all else to do, after all. “Bye, Minjoon, nice to see you.”
“Bye, Jisung, thanks!”
And he manages to keep Ben amused until Chan at last makes it home, putting on a music video of the Current Big Girl Group Song and trying to learn it together with Ben.
“Was it rough today?” Chan asks in a murmur, nuzzling down into Jisung’s hair. He’s wrapped around Jisung from behind, spooning him, and Jisung has curled up in his arms. “You seem… sad. Tired.”
“I feel like a loser,” Jisung mumbles. “But I’m trying. I think I need a hobby.”
“I told you to watch your anime, baby,” Chan says fondly, squeezing him tighter.
Jisung readjusts, flipping around in Chan’s arms. “Channie,” he says. “I think locking myself at home and watching anime will make me feel like more of a loser.” He doesn’t want to say it, the j-word, but he really doesn’t know if he can function staying in the house like this, contributing nothing.
“Promise me you’ll try for a couple of months,” Chan mumbles. “I think you just need to get used to it, get into a routine. And, hey, if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
Chan does enough, Jisung can’t help but think. And all Jisung is really doing is freeloading, doesn’t have a thing to offer except—
He writhes around in Chan’s arms, horrified. “Oh my god,” he realizes. “Am I supposed to, like, wear lingerie, or…?”
Chan actually laughs out loud, directly in his face. Maybe it’s the unexpectedness of it—Jisung has noticed that Chan doesn’t always seem to effortlessly follow Jisung’s trains of thought. “No, no, baby,” he says, still grinning as he grips the sides of Jisung’s head, pulls him into his chest. “No, not unless you want to.”
“No,” Jisung protests, muffled by Chan’s chest and trying to pull himself back. He surfaces, takes a deep breath, and—“No, like, isn’t that part of my job? God, fuck, I didn’t even offer—”
“Jisung,” Chan says seriously, holding him by both arms. “Your job isn’t to have sex with me. It’s not an obligation, or an expectation.” He pauses, as if to let it sink into his thick skull, and then follows it up, lighthearted, with, “Besides, we had plenty of sex last week.”
Jisung pouts, but ultimately snuggles down into Chan’s chest. Just what is he getting out of this arrangement, anyway? Jisung thinks that that’s the part he didn’t get.
Oh—communication, communication. Chan is always drilling that into his skull. Ever since that huge misunderstanding they’d had a few months into their relationship, Chan has heavily emphasized it.
“So,” Jisung mumbles, trying to condense his thoughts into words, “what’s the point of this, then? Like, what do you get out of it?”
Chan draws back, looks at Jisung entirely bemused. His eyebrow is cocked, forehead politely wrinkled in confusion. “Jisung, I get to see you not dread getting up every morning. I have someone there for Ben when I can’t be. I mean, did you hear Ben at dinner?”
“What do you mean?” Jisung mumbles, nuzzling against his chest. Ben had talked an awful lot, but he always does. Jisung had tried to hang back, honestly, to give Ben a chance to spend time with his dad.
“Jisung this, Jisung that. Jisung made ants on a log for a snack and it was really tasty. Jisung learned a dance with me, do you want to see? Jisung knows a lot of words, he’s much better at helping with my homework than you are.” Chan pauses, presses his lips to his forehead. “He didn’t stop talking about you.”
“He saw a lot of me today,” Jisung points out, sulking. “He’ll get tired of it.”
Chan chuckles. “You’re such a pessimist. Can’t you ever admit that maybe I’m right?”
Jisung huffs and flops over in Chan’s arms. “I’ll admit it when I see it. Spoon me, old man. I have a long, hard day of nothing ahead of me tomorrow.”
Chan squeezes him, nuzzles down into his hair as he locks around him from behind. “That’s the spirit.”
Against all odds, Jisung does kind of settle into a routine. First things first is Ben—getting him fed, dressed, to school. They go to the fish cake stand every day now (and don’t tell Chan—it’s their secret). They inevitably run into Minho and Minjoon, and Jisung usually takes charge of making sure both kids get into the school while Minho dashes to work.
Between school drop-off and pick-up… he’s trying. That’s where he’s lacking routine. But he goes to the grocery store, he scrubs baseboards. He attempts to figure out the art of baking and how to do hospital corners on a bed. He is not very successful on any of those fronts, but Chan doesn’t seem to mind if he comes back to a messy bed, a kitchen where it looks like Jisung has set off a bomb.
So, even if the middle of his day is a disaster, he always picks up Ben and Minjoon in the mid-afternoon. He takes them home for a snack; sometimes they stop at a convenience store instead. He muddles through homework with them and lets them read or play when they’re done. He tries to research extracurricular stuff they might like to do—Ben seems apathetic, but Minjoon had mentioned baseball. It just seems there’s no Little League in the area.
Jisung broaches the conundrum of dinner. In his bachelor days, Chan had either taken them out or he’d eaten instant noodles for dinner. But he’s a trophy wife now. He has a kid to feed!
He doesn’t know how to cook. He doesn’t think he’s ever done more in a kitchen than boil water. But he makes himself his own guinea pig, and sets to making himself lunch as a dinner trial-run. And yes, he dons a frilly little apron because it had been on sale at the store and he’s a trophy wife and—and it makes him feel pretty. Sue him.
The apron does not improve his cooking. The spaghetti he makes—not instant noodles—congeals somehow, and when he tries the meatballs—frozen, but better than nothing—they burn his tongue only to be frozen on the inside.
He calls Chan to report his failure, sniffling and eating instant noodles on the sofa.
And, as always, Chan answers like there’s no greater joy than talking to his husband on the phone. “Hi, baby,” he greets. “How’s your day?”
“I tried to do a trial run of dinner,” he pouts. “Inedible.”
“Aw, Sungie, I’m sorry,” Chan murmurs, and Jisung places his bowl of noodles on the coffee table so he can curl on the couch with the phone and Chan’s voice. “You want me to pick something up on the way home?”
“Why do we have to eat three meals a day, anyway?” Jisung complains, ignoring Chan’s offer completely. “I have to figure out what we’re supposed to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? And then do it again the next day?!”
“Hey, hey,” Chan soothes. “Jisung, it’s okay. Listen, Ben’s honestly old enough to pack his own lunches at this point, yeah? He eats the same thing every day, anyway. And he can fix his own breakfast and—”
“No, no,” Jisung says hurriedly, because he is not trying to offload his few responsibilities. “No, Channie, I—I like packing Ben’s lunches. Like, I write him a little note and I look up knock knock jokes to write down and I just bought these cute little animal food picks to stick in his lunchbox—”
“You did?” Chan asks, obvious amusement in his voice. “I didn’t know you did all that.”
He sniffs. “It’s fun. It’s cute. I don’t want him to have to slap together his own PB&J and it looks all sad. I’ve been watching TikToks of moms packing their kids’ lunches.”
“That’s cute, Jisungie,” Chan says, an obvious smile in his voice. “But, still, if you don’t want to worry about dinner, you don’t have to. I’m fine with that.”
Jisung lays down fully on the couch forlorn. “Just let me—I’ll keep trying. Probably TikTok can teach me. There have to be moms on there who have, like, recipes and stuff.”
“Sure, baby,” Chan says encouragingly. “Now, what do you want me to pick up for dinner?”
Jisung sees it on the way to pick Ben and Minjoon up from school: salvation. An extracurricular opportunity that just falls into his lap—he just has to make sure it isn’t overly sketchy.
The flyer, taped to a light post, advertises the opening of a Little League for kids in the area. Meeting in a local park where there’s a baseball diamond… sure… games on weekends with existing Little League teams… uh huh… Practice three nights a week… sounds legitimate… If interested, contact Kim Seungmin at [email protected] or call…
Jisung calls Chan, praying to god he isn’t in a meeting. It takes him a few rings to answer, and his voice is low when he answers. He’d been in a meeting, then, and stepped out because his husband had called him. About fucking Little League.
“Hey, Jisung, what’s up?” he asks, his voice hushed.
“Go back in your meeting, it’s nothing that can’t wait until tonight,” Jisung scolds, tearing off one of the informational strips of paper just in case.
“But I’m on the phone now,” he says, and he’s probably doing that goofy grin that Jisung loves. “So what’s up?”
“I might have found a baseball team for Ben and Minjoon,” he says. “I just need to email the guy and see if he’s a wackjob.”
“Oh, that’s great!” Chan praises, and, as always, Jisung’s cheeks flush with the praise, especially for the bare minimum. “You should tell Minho about it when he picks Minjoon up tonight, yeah? Maybe call him and make sure it sounds legit.”
“I’ll do that tonight with Minho, then,” he mumbles. “Have a good afternoon at work.”
“I love you,” Chan says in parting, because he always does.
“Love you.”
Jisung calls this Kim Seungmin while the kids are busy with their homework, just to scope the guy out before Minho gets off work. He dials the number and double-checks it, then, after a short pause—
“Levanter Co., this is Kim Seungmin, Head of Accounting.”
His voice is flat, professional. Probably not psychopathic. “Oh, um,” Jisung says, pacing the kitchen anxiously. “Hi! Um, my name is Jisung, and I—I saw your flyer. You know, for the Little League.”
“Oh, of course,” Seungmin responds, his voice changing from professional monotone to something slightly warmer, more sincere. “I was just trying to see if there was any interest for it, to be honest. I don’t have kids myself, but, like—shouldn’t there be a league around here?”
“Um, yeah!” Jisung agrees tentatively. “So, like, I have a stepson. He’s eight. And then my friend’s son is also eight. And, like, my stepson doesn’t know anything about baseball, but Minjoon—my friend’s son—said he was interested in playing baseball.”
“Yeah, great,” Seungmin says, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. “I have a few voicemails from other parents also expressing interest, so, um—could I get your email? We can have an informational meeting or something before we just dive straight into practice.”
Ben edges into their bedroom, looking sheepish. It’s not bedtime yet, but they’d all kind of separated after dinner to do their own thing. Chan is sitting up in bed, reading a book. Jisung is scrolling TikTok and trying to figure out this cooking thing. He’d kind of figured Ben was playing video games, or something.
Chan looks up. “What’s up, Ben?” he asks.
“Um, so,” he says, fidgeting. “Don’t be mad.”
Chan’s brows knit together immediately; Jisung sits up and locks his phone. “What’s going on, Ben?” Jisung asks.
“So, like. There’s kind of a bake sale at school. And I kind of signed up to bring brownies,” Ben says. “Um. Tomorrow.”
Chan’s brows furrow deeper. “And you waited until 9 o’clock the night before to tell us?”
“I kind of forgot…”
Jisung perks up. He can—he can save the day. Boxed brownie mix has, like, instructions on the back, right? They can figure that out. Isn’t that easy?
“We can run to the store!” Jisung says, shuffling out of bed and grabbing his jacket. “Channie, do you own a brownie pan?”
“Probably not, I’ve never made brownies…” he says, then shakes his head, as if to remember the real problem at hand. “Ben, you can’t spring this stuff on us last minute, buddy.” He’s gentle, but firm—Chan through and through.
“I know,” he says, head hung. “I’m sorry. I’ll go with Jisung and help him make the brownies.” Ben’s a good kid—through and through. He is a little forgetful, but who isn’t? Well, Chan, but—they can’t all be perfect like him.
“You’ll do better next time,” Jisung says confidently, tugging his jacket on and casting around for his wallet and keys. “For now, we’ll go buy a brownie pan and brownie mix and whatever else goes into brownies.”
“Jisung,” Chan says, gentle as ever. “You know you can just buy brownies. Pre-made.”
“How hard can it be to make box brownies?” he says derisively, rolling his eyes. “Ben, don’t you do Home Ec? Have you covered brownies yet?” Kids do all kinds of shit in school these days that Jisung never learned—they taught Ben how to sew a fucking button back onto a shirt. He doesn’t even wear shirts with buttons!
“Um,” he says, blinking. “We made cookies?”
“How different can they be?” Jisung reasons. “Channie, we’ll be back, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” Chan blinks. “Uh—call if you need anything?”
It’s a quick enough trip. The box of brownie mix tells them everything they need—eggs, oil, water. An 8x8 pan. Easy. Jisung is, yet again, rocking this housewife shit. Making fucking brownies—who’d have thought, huh!
Jisung follows the instructions on the box to the letter, with Ben as his sous chef. Honestly, he lets Ben crack the eggs, because the kid is probably better at it than he is. Jisung has cracked perhaps fewer than a dozen eggs in his whole entire life. Ben reminds him to grease the pan before he just pours the batter inside. He reminds him to let the oven preheat, to set a timer.
And then they sit on the floor of the kitchen and wait, cleaning the bowl and spatula with their fingers, salmonella be damned. Maybe it’s bad stepparenting to risk salmonella, but—they’ve earned it!
“Thank you, Jisung,” Ben says quietly, his lips smeared dark with batter.
“Don’t tell your dad,” Jisung whispers. “About the batter. I don’t want him to freak out.”
Ben grins at him, and it—it looks like Chan’s grin. It makes his little heart burst—he does love Ben, so much, like he’s Ben’s dad, even if he isn’t. He’s just a stepdad-slash-trophy-wife. “We have lots of secrets, Jisung.”
They do. The fish cakes in the morning. Brownie batter. The fact that Jisung frequently Googles how to do elementary school math to help Ben with homework. The fact that he maybe occasionally allows Ben to watch not entirely age-appropriate anime because Jisung also wants to watch it. The way that he carries Ben’s jacket for him when he doesn’t want to wear it.
“Is that a bad thing?” he asks.
Ben beams. “No! It’s kind of cool, having two parents. You know?”
Two parents. Oh, Jisung’s heart hurts. He’s going to have a breakdown about this to Chan later—he’s a parent. Not a stepparent, a parent. Ben doesn’t call him dad but he also doesn’t need to.
“Yeah,” he says, trying to hide how breathless he is. “Yeah, two is better than one, huh, Ben?”
“Yeah, exactly!” Ben agrees, right as their brownie timer finally chimes.
It seems their family isn’t the only one who’s been looking for an extracurricular for their kids; the baseball information meeting is busier than Jisung expected. Minho is working late, but Chan gets off in time to accompany Jisung and Ben and Minjoon.
Kim Seungmin doesn’t honestly look like much of a baseball coach, still dressed in a suit from the office and gazing around at the gathered kids and parents. His assistant coach, Changbin, looks more the part—they seem a little hesitant and uncertain around each other, Jisung notes. Did they not know each other before this coaching gig?
Still, he seems to know more or less what he’s talking about. “So,” he announces to the gathered parents, “I’ve already gone through the proper channels to get approval and funding for a team. There would be modest fees for uniforms and equipment rentals, as well as use of the field. Games are Saturdays, and we might have to ask parents to drive up to an hour away for those. Any further questions?”
Several hands go up.
Seungmin runs the meeting well—maybe he does that for work, Jisung thinks. Jisung used to do things like that, meetings. Now he—he does this. Chan’s arm comes around his waist and squeezes, as if he can sense what Jisung is thinking about. Jisung leans heavy against him, into him.
All told, it doesn’t take too long. There’s a sign-up sheet that Changbin passes around once Seungmin has finished talking. Chan strikes up a conversation with Changbin, the kids awkwardly hovering, and Jisung sidles up to Seungmin.
“We’re all signed up,” he informs, nodding over to his little family. “Han Jisung, we spoke on the phone?”
“Oh, right,” Seungmin says, nodding at him. “I’m glad. Which is yours?”
“Neither, technically,” he says, then is immediately struck by how wrong that feels. It’s a lie, an untruth, and he shakes his head and corrects himself. “No, I mean—Ben. The shorter one. And my husband, Chan. Minjoon’s dad had to work late, but you’ll probably see him at games and stuff.”
Seungmin nods in understanding. “I had to haul ass to make it here in time. Work, you know?”
Jisung bites the inside of his cheek. He does know, of course, but in a kind of distant way. “I actually, um. Stay at home. With Ben.” It doesn’t feel as awkward to say anymore, actually.
“Oh, lucky,” Seungmin says neutrally, like he couldn’t really care less one way or the other. Of course not—why would he care?
Jisung glances over to where Chan is engaging Changbin in easy conversation. He’s always been like that—Chan could probably make conversation with a brick wall. “So, do you know Changbin from work, then?” he asks. You know, Seungmin is in a suit. Changbin is in a suit. Maybe they wear suits at the same place.
“No, actually,” Seungmin says, also staring over at Changbin and cocking his head, as if considering him. “He was in one of my meetings last week. Guy wouldn’t leave me alone, wanted to know every last detail of my life. I mentioned the Little League I was trying to get started, and he said he’d dabbled in high school and would love to help, and—and here we are.”
Jisung knows that stare. It’s the stare he’d given Chan back when they’d first met, when he thought Chan would never notice him, that it’d be impossible for him to care about him. Jisung always loved a little romance subplot with his sports anime, so he resolves to keep an eye on it.
For now, he just smiles. “Oh, okay,” he says. “I was just wondering because, you know. Suits. Anyway, have a good night! See you Monday for practice!”
Chan has been highly complimentary all night. He usually is, but—isn’t this even a bit far, even for Chan?
The boys had been begging for a sleepover, and, well, it’s Minho’s turn to host.
It’s hard for Jisung to say if they’ve even had a proper date night since their honeymoon—they really need to find a babysitter.
But Chan had been all over Jisung just as he had been during their honeymoon, feeling up his thighs and pressing against him and pressing their lips together over, and over, and over.
“You’re so, so pretty,” he compliments again, scrubbing shampoo into Jisung’s scalp as he rests, half asleep against Chan in the tub.
He practically buzzes with the compliment—he’s always liked being praised, of course, but there’s something about Chan’s praise, specifically. Maybe he’s just better at it.
“What else?” he mumbles against his collarbone, feeling Chan’s hands drag down to grope his ass.
Chan hums. “You know, when I look at you, my mind kind of goes blank except for pretty. Have I told you how pretty you are yet?”
There’s a smile curving Jisung’s lips, and he knows Chan can feel it against his collarbone. “You could stand to mention it more.”
“Pretty, pretty, pretty,” Chan murmurs. “You know it’s been two months since our honeymoon?”
“Was I supposed to get you a gift?” Jisung mumbles, then actually panics over it, sitting up. “Oh, god, is that a thing? I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“No, silly, it’s not a thing,” Chan reassures him, attempting to guide him back down into his chest. “I was just saying. We agreed to try the housewife thing for a couple of months, didn’t we?”
Jisung reels back again, looking at Chan with wide eyes. “But—” he protests, eyes shaking. “My pepper plant! It’s about to grow peppers, I swear, I can’t abandon her!”
Jisung is almost certainly smothering the thing with too much love. It’s a sad excuse for a pepper plant, but there are a few pitiful flowers that Jisung feels certain will turn into peppers given time and care. Chan receives several daily text updates regarding Jisung’s pepper plant.
His lips curve into an amused smile; his fingers rake through Jisung’s hair. “Well, of course not,” he agrees.
“And—And I promised Ben I’d try to figure out how to make a pizza with him this week so we can stop ordering pizza! And that was supposed to be a surprise, so please act surprised when you come home and there’s a pizza, okay?”
“I promise,” Chan agrees, placid.
“And I promised one of the moms from Ben’s class that we’d do lunch soon—Channie, you can’t just cancel vaguely-conceived-of lunch plans!”
“And I wouldn’t allow you to,” he assents.
“And I just ordered this—this doodad online that’s supposed to make scrubbing the grout in the bathroom, like, really easy? And I’m kind of dying to see if it works. Like, don’t you want our grout to be sparkling?”
“Naturally,” he says. “Jisung, did you even know what grout was two months ago?”
He calms down at last, his eyes wide and sparkling, pouting at Chan. “I—no, probably not,” he admits.
“So you’re happy with the way things are?” Chan checks, stroking his cheek.
Jisung sits back in Chan’s lap, straddling him. He huffs out a little breath, he sniffs. “Yeah,” he admits, as if he’s just realizing it himself. “Yeah, I—I am. I have you, I have Ben, I have my little oddball side tasks. It’s—it’s really nice, actually, Channie.”
“That’s good,” he says gently, encouragingly. “That makes me happy.”
“And—and you’re okay with it?” Jisung checks, timid. He loves his pepper plant and his vague lunch plans that will probably never materialize and the spin class he’s thinking about signing up for, but he loves Chan and Ben so, so much more. If he has to slog through a job he hates and he’s able to see his little family at the end of it all, then that’s enough for him. He’ll make do.
“Of course I am, Sung,” he says. I just want you happy. I want Ben happy. This way, I have both. It’s a win-win-win, right? Everyone in our family’s happy.”
“Yeah,” Jisung mumbles back, settling back down against him. For the nth time since he’s met Chan, he feels full, he feels warm—it never used to be like that before, he thinks.
“This round’s on me,” Chan announces, sliding his card to the bartender. “We’re celebrating.”
Changbin smiles. “That’s nice, hyung, you didn’t have to celebrate us finally telling Minjoon—”
Chan inhales deeply. “Jisung made mac n cheese without setting off the fire alarm.” And then he promptly engulfs Jisung in a bear hug, tugs him in his lap. “My beautiful wife, my amazing wife,” he repeats, nuzzling against his head.
“I’m gonna be sick,” Minho deadpans, his legs sprawled across Seungmin’s lap.
“How do you even set off the fire alarm making mac n cheese?” Seungmin gripes, grimacing at the two of them.
“You’re just jealous that you’re not a trophy wife,” Jisung says, sticking his tongue out at them. He’s manhandled into Chan’s lap, and Chan mooshes his cheeks together with one hand.
“My beautiful wife,” he lauds, and smacks a wet kiss to his cheek.
“Right, I’m gonna head out,” Minho says, trying to lunge across Seungmin’s lap to leave. Changbin’s arm, anchored around his waist, stops him.
“You know,” Changbin says, looking at his partners. “We technically have three incomes right now.”
“Seungmin makes more money than me,” Minho tattles immediately, jabbing a thumb in the man’s direction. “I’d make a better trophy wife than Jisung, anyway.”
“Hey,” he says, frowning deeply. “Channie—”
“Jisung’s the best trophy wife,” Chan defends immediately, leering at Minho. He throws a straw at him. “Take it back.”
“The day I’m a trophy wife, it’s over for you,” Minho threatens, jabbing a finger at him. “I actually know how to cook.”
“I can make box mac n cheese now,” he pouts. “And brownies and pizza if I really focus and Ben is there to help me.”
“And it’s delicious, baby,” Chan praises. “And our grout is sparkly clean now.”
“What the fuck is grout?” Seungmin asks with a frown.
Chan and Jisung ignore him; they’re kissing in that rapid-fire, gross way they do, and there’s a collective groan from the other side of the table.
Hypocrites—Minho and Changbin and Seungmin are no less in love and utterly disgusting about it. They’re hooked together in their odd, three-person way, much like Jisung is still perched in Chan’s lap. Probably once they all get a couple of beers in them, they’ll get rowdy enough to actually get kicked out, and they’ll go home to pick their kids up from the babysitter.
For now, though, Jisung feels warm, and full, the way he usually does with Chan—young and in love in a way he can’t recall ever being in his youth.