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The Tuan-Wang kitchen was usually a sanctuary of calm efficiency, a space where Mark meticulously prepped meals, ingredients lined up with almost scientific precision. But this Saturday afternoon, it was rapidly transforming into a war zone.
"Okay, BamBam! Remember what that chef on the TV show did?" Jackson bellowed, snatching a whisk from the counter. "Dramatic flair! You gotta feel the power of the whisk!"
BamBam, covered in a fine dusting of flour, giggled maniacally. He'd declared earlier that he wanted to bake "the ultimate rainbow cake", a task that, in Mark's humble opinion, was several light years beyond BamBam's current culinary skill set. Jackson, ever the enabler of fun (and chaos), had immediately agreed to supervise.
Mark, who had been attempting to read a cookbook at the kitchen island, slowly lowered it, his eye twitching. BamBam was enthusiastically cracking eggs – straight into the flour bag, judging by the growing gooey puddle.
"No, no, BamBam!" Mark sighed, trying to keep his voice even. "The bowl! The mixing bowl!"
"Oh! Right!" BamBam chirped, dumping the next two eggs into a bowl already overflowing with sugar. "Oops! More sugar!" He grabbed the bag and tipped it, sending a cascade of white crystals over the counter, the floor, and Daddy Jackson's head.
"Woohoo! Sugar snow!" Jackson yelled, shaking his hair out and laughing, completely unbothered. He then started a vigorous, off-key rendition of a pop song, egging BamBam on. "Whip it, then nae nae it!"
Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel his shoulders tensing, a familiar knot tightening in his stomach. His impeccably clean kitchen was now a disaster zone. Flour footprints trailed from the pantry, sugar granules crunched underfoot, and something suspiciously sticky dripped from the overhead cabinet. He watched as BamBam, attempting to measure milk, simply poured directly from the carton, eyes fixed on Daddy Jackson's dancing, missing the bowl entirely.
"BamBam, the measuring cup! Use the—" Mark started, but his words were drowned out by Jackson's booming laughter as BamBam got a splash of milk on his nose.
Mark took a slow, deep breath, trying to remind himself that BamBam was just a kid, excited and having fun. Jackson was just Jackson, living in a permanent state of joyful oblivion to mess. He walked over, grabbed a towel, and began to quietly wipe up the milk spill. As soon as he turned his back, BamBam, in an attempt to reach the sprinkles on the top shelf, knocked over a bag of chocolate chips. They scattered across the floor like tiny, dark pebbles.
Mark closed his eyes for a count of three. He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple.
"Guys," he said, his voice strained. "Could we just... try to keep it contained?"
"We're containing the fun, Appa!" BamBam yelled, already trying to scoop up the chocolate chips with his flour-dusted hands, smearing them into the sugary floor.
Jackson clapped Mark on the shoulder. "Relax, Appa! It's just a little mess! We'll clean it later! Look how happy BamBam is!" Indeed, BamBam was now trying to juggle two eggs, humming cheerfully.
And that's when it happened. In a grand flourish, trying to catch an egg that slipped, BamBam's elbow swung out wide. It connected with a sharp clink against Mark's favorite ceramic mixing bowl – a gift from his grandmother, a deep blue bowl he used for everything.
The bowl slid, then tumbled from the counter, hitting the tiled floor with a sickening CRACK! It shattered into several jagged pieces, the sound echoing loudly in the suddenly silent kitchen.
BamBam froze, his wide eyes fixed on the broken pottery. His cheerful grin evaporated, replaced by a look of utter horror. "Oh... Oh no," he whispered, his voice trembling.
Jackson's laughter died, and his expression shifted from amused to genuinely concerned as he looked at the shattered bowl, and then at Mark.
Mark stared at the pieces of his bowl. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He felt a hot surge of frustration, a primal urge to yell, to just scream at the absolute, uncontrolled chaos that had destroyed something irreplaceable. But then he saw BamBam's face, pale with immediate guilt and fear, trembling slightly. And he saw Jackson's worried gaze.
He took another slow, deep breath, forcing the anger down, deep, deep down. It was a physical battle, clenching his fists at his sides. He closed his eyes, let out a long, shuddering sigh, a sound of profound defeat rather than anger.
"I..." Mark managed, his voice strained, almost a whisper. "I just need a minute."
Without another word, without looking at either of them, Mark turned, his movements stiff. He walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, and pushed open the back door, stepping out into the relative quiet of the backyard. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it, inhaling deeply, trying to gather himself before he truly lost his composure. The smoke curled into the afternoon air, a stark contrast to the sugary, eggy mess he'd left behind.
Inside, Jackson and BamBam stared at the broken bowl, then at the kitchen door, now closed. BamBam's lower lip began to quiver. "Daddy... did I... did I make Appa mad?" His eyes, wide and suddenly glassy, darted from the shattered bowl to the closed back door.
Jackson's playful grin was long gone, replaced by a somber frown. He knelt down, carefully pulling BamBam away from the dangerous shards of ceramic. He wrapped an arm around his son, pulling him into a comforting hug.
"No, baby, Appa isn't mad at you," he said, his voice softer than usual. "He's just... really stressed right now. That was Appa's special bowl from his grandma. And well, the kitchen is a bit of a disaster zone, isn't it?"
He glanced around at the flour and sugar-dusted counters, the scattered chocolate chips, and the puddles of egg and milk.
"It's a lot for Appa when things aren't... neat."
BamBam sniffled. "But I broke it. And I made a big mess."
"You did," Jackson acknowledged gently, running a hand through BamBam's flour-dusted hair. "It was an accident, though, right? You didn't mean to."
BamBam shook his head vigorously, a tear finally escaping and tracing a clean line down his floury cheek. "No! I just wanted to make the rainbow cake!"
"I know, honey," Jackson murmured, pulling him closer. "And we still can, maybe. But right now, we need to show Appa we know we messed up. What do you think we should do first?"
BamBam looked at the mess, then at the broken pieces of the bowl. His brow furrowed in thought. "Clean up?"
"Exactly!" Jackson said, giving him a squeeze.
"Let's grab the broom and dustpan first. We gotta get these sharp pieces up so no one gets hurt. You can hold the dustpan, okay? And then, we're gonna clean everything."
He gave BamBam a small, encouraging smile. "It'll be a big job, but we can do it for Appa, right?"
Together, they carefully started cleaning. Jackson methodically swept up the broken ceramic, guiding BamBam's shaky hands as he held the dustpan. The lively chatter was gone, replaced by the quiet scrape of the broom and the occasional soft sniffle from BamBam.
Outside, Mark leaned against the railing of their small wooden deck, the cigarette clutched between his fingers. He watched the smoke curl into the blue sky, trying to empty his mind. The feeling of anger had receded, replaced by a dull ache of disappointment and a wave of exhaustion.
It wasn't just the bowl, though that had been the final straw. It was the constant low-level chaos that sometimes permeated their home, a delightful energy that also sometimes chipped away at his carefully constructed calm. He knew Jackson and BamBam meant no harm, that their joy was genuine, but sometimes... sometimes he just needed things to be orderly.
He took another deep drag, letting the nicotine settle his nerves. He loved his family fiercely. Jackson's boundless warmth, BamBam's vibrant spirit – they were the sun and stars of his life. But sometimes, being the stable anchor for such effervescent personalities was draining. He knew he hadn't handled it perfectly. Walking out had been better than yelling, but it probably scared BamBam. His son's terrified face flashed in his mind, and a pang of guilt hit him.
He took one last drag, then carefully extinguished the cigarette in a small ashtray. He couldn't stay out here forever. They needed him. He needed them. He squared his shoulders, took a final deep breath of fresh air, and pushed open the back door.
The kitchen was still a disaster, but the sharp pieces of the broken bowl were gone. Jackson was on his hands and knees, wiping a sticky spill near the stove, while BamBam earnestly, if inefficiently, wiped down the counter with a wet cloth, leaving streaks. They both looked up, eyes wide, as Mark walked in.
BamBam's lower lip started trembling again.
"Appa!" he cried, dropping the cloth and rushing towards Mark. He wrapped his arms around Mark's legs, burying his face against his jeans.
"I'm so, so, so sorry, Appa! I broke your bowl! I made a big mess! I didn't mean to!"
Mark knelt down instantly, pulling BamBam into a tight hug. He could feel his son's small body shaking.
"Hey, hey, baby," he murmured, rubbing BamBam's back.
"It's okay. It was an accident. I know you didn't mean to." He pressed a kiss to BamBam's messy hair.
"I'm not mad at you, okay? Not at you." He pulled back slightly, looking into BamBam's tear-filled eyes.
"I just got a little overwhelmed, that's all. And that bowl was special. But it's just a thing, Bammie. You're my special Bammie, and you're okay, that's what matters."
Jackson rose, walking over to them. He knelt too, wrapping an arm around both Mark and BamBam. He met Mark's eyes, a soft, understanding look passing between them.
"I'm sorry, honey," Jackson murmured, his voice low, for Mark alone. "I let it get out of hand. My bad."
Mark just leaned his head against Jackson's shoulder, exhaling slowly. "It's okay, baby." He squeezed BamBam tightly again.
"Alright, let's get this kitchen sparkling. All of us, together. And then... maybe we order pizza? No more cooking disasters today."
BamBam pulled back from the hug, his tears drying, a hesitant smile forming. "Pizza! My favorite!"
Jackson laughed, a genuine, relieved sound. "Pizza it is! But first, operation: kitchen rescue!" He clapped his hands.
"Come on, BamBam! Let's show Appa how well we can clean!"
With Mark's calm guidance, Jackson's renewed energy, and BamBam's earnest (if still a little messy) efforts, the kitchen slowly, painstakingly, transformed back to its orderly state.
~
The aroma of freshly baked pizza quickly replaced the lingering scent of sugar and cleaning supplies in the Tuan-Wang kitchen. The earlier chaos melted away with each cheesy slice. BamBam, now scrubbed clean of flour and tears, chattered excitedly about his day, recounting his "rainbow cake adventure" with exaggerated gestures, glossing over the broken bowl, which Mark and Jackson gently allowed.
Mark watched his son, a soft, fond smile on his face, occasionally sharing a knowing glance with Jackson across the table. Jackson, in turn, was a whirlwind of easy laughter and comforting presence, ensuring BamBam felt completely adored.
"You were a brave chef today, baby," Jackson cooed, pinching BamBam's cheek.
"Next time, maybe we try a pre-made cake mix?"
After dinner, the nightly ritual of tucking BamBam into bed commenced. Mark read a short story, his voice a low, soothing rumble that had BamBam yawning deeply. Jackson, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through BamBam's hair, humming a soft lullaby.
"Goodnight, Appa," BamBam mumbled sleepily, already half-asleep as Mark kissed his forehead.
"Goodnight, my sweet Bammie," Mark whispered back, pulling the blanket up higher.
Then, BamBam turned to Jackson, reaching out a hand. "Goodnight, Daddy."
Jackson leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to BamBam's temple. "Sleep tight, my little one. Dream of delicious, non-exploding cakes." He chuckled softly, and BamBam giggled, already drifting off.
They quietly slipped out of BamBam's room, leaving the door ajar, the soft glow of a nightlight illuminating their son's peaceful face.
The silence of their own bedroom was a welcome embrace after the day's events. Mark shed his clothes, letting them fall onto the hamper, and sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. Jackson walked over, reaching for him, but as Mark leaned in for a kiss, Jackson abruptly scrunch his nose.
"Nuh-uh, honey," Jackson said, pulling back with a theatrical fake cough. "You smell like smoke, baby." He fanned a hand dramatically in front of his face. "Phew! Like a smoky, stressed-out Appa who needed a cigarette break!"
Mark chuckled, a low, flirty rumble. He reached out, pulling Jackson closer by the waist, letting him straddle his lap. "Is that a problem, baby?" he teased, nuzzling Jackson's neck. "Maybe we should get rid of the smell then?" He looked into Jackson's eyes, a playful glint in his own. "Together?"
Jackson's eyes sparkled with amusement and affection. He leaned into Mark's touch, running his hands up Mark's bare arms. "Oh? And how exactly do you propose we do that, Mark Tuan?" he purred, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips.
Mark pulled him closer until their bodies were pressed together. "A shower," he whispered, his voice deep and suggestive. "A long, hot shower. Together." He pressed a soft kiss just below Jackson's ear, feeling Jackson shiver.
Jackson giggled, a warm, happy sound. "Hmm, that does sound like an excellent plan to get rid of the smoke smell," he murmured, already starting to shed his own shirt. "Lead the way, Appa."
The bathroom quickly filled with steam, the sound of water drumming against the tiles. They stepped under the spray, the heat immediately soothing tired muscles and frayed nerves. Mark reached for the soap, slowly lathering it between his palms before gently rubbing it over Jackson's shoulders, down his arms, and across his chest. Jackson leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed, a contented hum escaping him. The soft scent of smoke was quickly replaced by the sweet, clean aroma of their shared body wash.
Jackson took the washcloth next, his hands tender as he cleaned the tension from Mark's neck, tracing the lines of his shoulders, then running the cloth down his back. They stood pressed close, the water raining down on them, the world outside the bathroom door momentarily forgotten. There were no words needed, just the quiet rhythm of their breathing and the comforting brush of their skin. It was in these simple, intimate moments that their deep connection, forged over years of shared life and love, truly shone.
Later, wrapped in soft towels, they tumbled into bed, clean and content. Mark pulled Jackson into his arms, tucking him securely against his chest. Jackson sighed, burying his face into Mark's neck, his hand resting over Mark's heart.
"You really did good today, honey," Jackson mumbled, half-asleep already. "I know Bammie can be a lot. And that bowl..."
Mark kissed the top of Jackson's head. "It's okay, baby," he whispered. "It's just a bowl. We can get another one. What matters is us. All three of us. Even the messy parts." He tightened his embrace. "I love you. Both of you."
Jackson shifted slightly, looking up at Mark, his eyes soft and filled with affection. "I love you too, Markie," he whispered, pressing a soft, sleepy kiss to Mark's lips. "Goodnight."
Mark held him close, feeling the steady beat of Jackson's heart against his own. The day had been full of chaos and minor disasters, but it ended just as it always did, with the comforting warmth of his family.