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“Shhhh, shhh, don’t cry, sweetheart, don’t cry. Daddy will be here when you get back.”
“And Papa will take you out for popsicles, you know that?”
Tag-teaming had been the only way to keep Hwayoung from bursting into tears at any given moment. The clock ticked patiently towards the time the bus would arrive, taking their daughter to her first day of preschool and away from them, and unsurprisingly her excitement at buying a Doraemon backpack and Gudetama lunch box faded when she realizes she was leaving home for several hours.
Hwayoung almost certainly inherited her brave-faced-until-the-last-minute from Hobi.
Little tears dripped down her pink cheeks, and crouched in front of her, he swept them away with his long, warm fingers before returning to holding and squeezing her small hands. One wrist clattered softly with the beaded friendship bracelet they made together, and a matching one on Yoongi’s wrist swayed as he carefully brushed her soft hair.
They looked strange, to be sure. Yoongi’s small figure curled up on the toilet with their sniffling daughter between his torn jeans, trying to stay still as he braided it. Hobi’s taller, more gangly frame hunched on the tile, trying to keep her spirits up.
“Popsicles?” she finally said, hiccuping.
He grinned.
“Popsicles. Whatever flavour you like. What kind do you want?”
“Strawberry,” Hwayoung warbled, wet-eyed. With a trembling hand, she reached out and planted her palm on Hobi’s face, experimentally flexing her fingers against his smooth skin, ruffling the wisps of hair that fluffed under her tips. The gesture was oddly calming — something she learned from her father, unintentionally, when she woke up from nightmares and nothing made her feel better except getting her cheeks stroked.
“Do you want the pink or the blue hair ties?” Yoongi’s low voice broke through her reverie. The quiet resolve that hung in her gaze as she stared at Hobi was surely inherited on Yoongi’s end. Even after the brave face was gone and the tears had dried, she could remember to be strong. Even if she didn’t feel like it.
But she could be strong for Papa and Daddy and popsicles.
“Both,” Hwayoung said, and Yoongi smiled.
“Good choice.”
To their daughter’s credit, not a single tear was shed afterwards. Hobi kept up a steady stream of discussion on the merits of popsicle flavours, making sure to heavily tease Yoongi’s taste in matcha and boast about the superiority of mint chocolate chip, and as the rattling sound of a bus’s exhaust pipe and creaky breaks was heard outside, he faltered mid-sentence and all three of their heads turned to the window. The morning sunlight was just making its way through the glass, the sky a pale, sleepy blue and full of fat clouds, and Yoongi was the one who stood and gently placed a hand on Hwayoung’s back.
“C’mon baby,” he said firmly, making sure to keep on his smile. “In just a few hours you get to break out that lunchbox you broke my wallet for, and a little bird told me their playground is better than the one at the park here.”
“And then you’ll have popsicles in no time,” Hobi cut in, hardly keeping the hitch out of his voice. It wasn’t that he was an easy crier or anything — but Yoongi understood. Resisting a sympathetic eye-roll, he sidled in beside his husband and subtly reached around his back with his free hand to give Hobi’s arm a reassuring squeeze, give him a little bit of the endless strength he seemed to contain.
Hwayoung nodded and sniffed. But her braids shone pretty in the sunrise, and the bus driver’s greeting was loud and kind, and they all waved at each other after the doors shut and the bright yellow vehicle pulled away.
“She’ll be fine,” Yoongi said aloud, not really directing it at Hobi but, you know. He was. And Hobi’s shoulders shook as he began sobbing buckets, his face splotchy pink and shiny as he finally crushed himself against Yoongi, gladly taking whatever endless strength he had to offer.
“Oh god, Yoongs,” Hobi hiccuped, “how am I supposed to do this every day? Five days a week? We can home school her, can’t we?”
“You honestly think either of us are qualified enough to homeschool that child.”
Hobi made an ugly sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry and Yoongi amusedly wrapped his arms back around him, rubbing slow, soothing circles across his shoulder blades and down his spine. Minutely, his breathing eased and regulated, and he blubbered into his damp shoulder, “I-I could always sneak into her backpack tomorrow.”
At that, Yoongi finally barked a laugh, and with a playful scuff he dragged his ass back inside.
He wasn’t laughing long.
After both of them went to their respective meetings (hence their child was taking the bus to her first day of school) and came home, Yoongi found himself checking his phone.
Obsessively.
It had occurred to him, halfway through a riveting discussion on royalty distribution for their new mini-album, that if something were to happen to Hwayoung, he would be getting a call on his cell. And anything could happen to her. She could trip and scrape her knee. She could fall off the swing and break her leg. She could be one of those girls who gets her hair cut off by a mean, petty boy with a pair of scissors and a bad attitude. She could suddenly get sick and throw up all over herself. She could go into hysterics, finally losing her nerve, and need to be picked up.
Yoongi had the expression of someone whose intestines were filled with rocks and dangerous live animals for a solid four hours. Nothing could be done.
But the phone didn’t ring. Neither did Hobi’s. There was no breaking news about there being a school shooting or terrible accident, and twice when Yoongi considered getting in the car and driving to check on her himself, Hobi was the one who offered a bowl of oatmeal and plenty of repeated kisses to his hair, murmuring that she was tough as nails and they needed to trust her.
God damn Jung Hoseok’s good sense.
Eight hours after saying goodbye, both parents were on their front porch anxiously waiting for the obnoxious, pollen-coloured automobile to come puttering down their quiet suburban street with their daughter intact. And finally, finally they heard the exhaust, the rumbling engine, and every long, stressful second of waiting and worrying and wishing was all suddenly, painfully worth it. Yoongi mumbled at Hobi not to start crying — they didn’t want to upset her the second she got off the bus — and surreptitiously wiped a palm over his own eyes meanwhile — and moments later, the doors folded back and their tiny bundle of joy and light and perfection and love came bumbling down the steps, dry-eyed and all smiles.
“DADDY! PAPA!”
The bus pulled away with their daughter buried tightly in their arms. The weight of the world was gone, because the world was just that street — just the little girl they made and held with her whole day waiting in her backpack.
Each of them holding a hand, they returned to the dining room table, where Yoongi got to ask some of the best words he'd ever say:
“So how was school?”
Hwayoung was beaming ear to ear, positively glowing as she nearly broke her zipper in her haste to procure her papers and folders. Hobi, eyelashes suspiciously gleaming, disappeared and reappeared with paper-wrapped cold treats on wooden sticks, and Hwayoung was so engrossed in talking a mile a minute about the family portrait she drew with her crayons that she hardly noticed the popsicles had even arrived.
And it was only Monday.