Archive of Our Own

It is told that when the golden crown has fled, and the sky grows pale and dim, two sunflowers lean toward each other, and share the sun within. 

In that way, Seonghwa gradually became Yeosang’s steady bloom, and Yeosang, Seonghwa’s purpose made whole, completing the warmth the dimmed crown could not provide. 

But as with all things, even the brightest warmth can grow heavy when leaned on too tightly.  

What began as comfort soon blurred into a dependency rather suffocating, until one could not move without the other’s shadow trailing close behind. 

In less poetic terms: the so-called shadow is Yeosang, determinedly scooting across the floor on his backside, hot on Seonghwa’s heels like a tiny, clingy duckling. 

And truthfully, it had been nothing short of adorable at first- the way the younger sought Seonghwa’s presence like a constant anchor.  

Yes, his preference sometimes tipped into challenge- diaper changes demanded from Hwa only, bottles accepted from no one else’s hand- but outside of those stubborn little hills, they could cope just fine. 

That was, until a new wrinkle surfaced.  

Seonghwa had taken the rare chance to train under a renowned vocal coach, a mentor admired across the industry.  

The opportunity was too precious to pass, but it meant he would be gone for long stretches of hours on the weekends. 

It was the kind of choice that showed how even Seonghwa’s generous heart could only bend so far- he could not be everywhere at once, no matter how tightly he wished it so. 

And so, in time, it would nudge Yeosang towards the reality of the oldest not always being within reach when he slipped small. 

The others knew as much, and carefully began planting the seed.  

Since Seonghwa’s weekends would soon be partly claimed, they leaned into the everyday things Sangie still allowed them to do- feeding him spoonfuls of fruit and dinners, guiding him through the warmth of bath time, rousing him soft from naps, and carrying him into night with the ritual of tuck-ins and bedtime stories.  

It wasn’t everything, but it was enough to share the load- or so they thought. 

That, of course, was the hope- that Yeosang would learn to bend alongside Seonghwa. 

In truth, the opposite happened: his insistence only grew, task after task shoved back into the eldest's hands, no matter how compassionately the others tried. 

It began with fruits and dinners.

'What’ll it be today, Sangie? Apple or banana?’ 

Yunho crouches by the fruit basket, a whole apple in one hand and a banana in the other.  

His smile tilts soft, voice lilting as he holds them up for the little one to see. 

Yeosang’s eyes widen, a squeak tumbling out while he kicks his legs against the highchair.  

Wiggly fingers stretch desperately toward the apple, his choice clear in a heartbeat. 

‘Apple it is,’ Yunho chuckles, brushing a thumb over the smooth red skin before setting it back into the basket. ‘Alright, buddy, I’ll heat it a bit for you.’ 

He pads over to the fridge, pulling out one of Seonghwa’s neatly stocked tubs of mashed fruit- soft blends of banana, grape, melon, strawberry and apple, all lined up in tidy rows like jewels in plastic.  

The apple puree is plucked free, lid popped open, then warmed in the microwave just enough to loosen its texture back to velvet. 

Outside, the summer morning stretches itself wide- birds chattering lazily in the trees, light spilling golden through the window, the bucket and scoop Wooyoung left in the sandpit yesterday still resting where he dropped them, bound to be reclaimed once his bath and breakfast are finished. 

The kitchen smells faintly sweet, cinnamon dusted over the top while Yunho gives the mash a slow stir, the spoon scraping lightly against the bowl. 

He sets the ceramic down onto the breakfast table with a soft clink, humming under his breath.  

Yeosang waits, drumming his fingers against the highchair’s table, cheeks round and lips parted with anticipation. 

‘Let me fetch your bib real quick,’ Yunho says, slipping into the kitchen drawer for one and shaking it loose.  

He ties it snug around the younger’s neck, then takes the chair opposite him.  

‘There we go—now, let’s scootch you a bit closer, little man,’ Yunho smiles, tugging the highchair forward with the hand that isn’t holding the bowl. 

The chair shifts with a scrape, Yeosang’s body tugged along with it, his face lighting up at the movement.  

‘Closerrrr~’ Yunho says, sliding him another inch, lips quirking when Sang beams back at him. 

‘Cloooseeer~’ He drawls, nudging the chair again, the jaunty tugs earning a bubbling giggle. 

‘A biiiit closer still,’ he finishes, giving one last draw up to the point where Sang squeals outright, hands gripping the tray as he lets the motion carry him before happily melting back into the seat. 

Yunho dips the spoon into the mash, lifting it carefully toward his own lips first. He tests the warmth against his mouth, nodding in approval before turning the spoon towards the younger. 

‘Open up, love,’ he coaxes warmly. 

Yeosang obeys at once, mouth opening wide, the bite slipping in neat and sweet.  

He hums around it, cheeks puffed out contently as he swallows. 

Another bite, and another- each one accepted without question. 

Yunho stirs the mash idly, gaze flicking from the spoon to the way Yeosang nibbles at each bite.  

‘At this rate, you’ll clear the whole bowl before I can blink,’ he teases, then adds more brightly, ‘- which is good- ‘cause that means we can go dig in the sand with Woo after, hm? Maybe he’d like a building partner.’ 

The younger doesn’t fully grasp the suggestion, nor the sand or the building- but he hears Woo and that’s enough. 

A cheerful chirp slips free, his lips curling as though the name alone is a promise worth smiling for. 

It’s in the middle of offering the next spoonful that footsteps enter the kitchen.  

Seonghwa steps inside, freshly showered, the fabric of a grey short-sleeved shirt catching the light where subtle silver stones line the V of his collar.  

His hair, slicked back with gel, gleams damp at the edges, the sun finding glints as he moves. 

In his arms, Wooyoung squirms impatiently, dressed in loose pair of denim jeans and a red zip-up hoodie, a white shirt peeking through beneath the zipper.  

He looks clean, bright and rather restless, like he’s already halfway to the sandpit in his mind. 

Before tending to Woo, Seonghwa veers towards the highchair tucked by the table.  

His free hand drags lightly through Yeosang’s hair, tilting the younger’s head back just enough for him to lean down and press a quick, upside-down kiss to his forehead from above. 

‘Good morning, poppy.’ 

The response is immediate- a gummy grin spreads across Sang’s face, apple mash smeared at the corners of his mouth, eyes sparkling with instant recognition. 

He chomps the spoon Yunho’s holding with a happy hum when Seonghwa retreats, eyes on the other little. 

‘Let’s get you seated, little wiggly worm.’ The oldest grins, lowering Wooyoung into the second highchair with practiced ease, shoving it closer until the two littles sit side by side.  

Woo releases a high-pitched whine, little finger stabbing towards the garden where the sandpit glitters in view through the wide windows. 

Yeosang, however, pays him no mind.  

His gaze trails after Seonghwa instead- following the older while he moves across the kitchen, gathering a banana from the fruit basket, tugging a cutting board down from the cabinet- then reaching for a bowl and a knife from another. 

Yunho scoops another spoonful, though no matter how often he pokes at Sang’s lips, it leaves him unanswered.  

He doesn’t so much as blink at the spoon, attention still locked on Seonghwa’s presence.  

With a sigh disguised as a chuckle, the older reaches out and gently taps beneath his chin, tilting his face back toward him. 

‘Your bottle with Mama’s waiting later, love,’ he murmurs, tapping the spoon lightly against the tray. ‘Let’s finish some apple first.’ 

But Yeosang ignores him entirely.  

Instead of opening up, his resisting hand shoots out, fingers clamping down around the spoon’s stem and shoving it away from his face. 

The action sends the apple mash tumbling- half smeared across his own fist, the rest splattering onto the floor in sticky blotches. 

He doesn’t care half as much as Yunho does, getting to clean the mess afterward.  

His head has naturally turned back to Hwa already, eyes bright and beaming from where they lock onto him again. 

His chin tips up, lips curling into a grin when he lets out a soft, delighted call. 

‘Mama!’ 

Seonghwa glances up from the cutting board, a small smile tugging at his lips as he slides a ceramic bowl of chopped banana to the side. 

Reaching for a handful of strawberries next, he rinses them quickly under the tap before setting them down and slicing through with steady strokes of the knife.  

His answer comes quick but timid, the smile still there though his focus remains on the chopping rather than on the younger. 

‘Yes, hi, love…’ His tone stays light, almost authoritative while his eyes flick to the smeared fist.  

‘Let’s not make a mess with the fruit, little one. Yunho will give you some more, and then we can play and have a bottle after.’ 

He turns back to the strawberries without much pause, his words meant more to keep order than to entertain the plea. 

At first, Yeosang simply hums, eyes fixed expectantly on the older. But as the seconds stretch and no footsteps follow, his smile falters.  

The knife keeps tapping against the board, fruit slices dropping one by one into the bowl, and Hwa doesn’t turn back between the task. 

A faint frown pinches Yeosang’s lips, the shine in his eyes dimming when the reality settles in- Mama isn’t coming to lift him out, isn’t taking the spoon from Yunho’s hand to feed him instead. 

His face crumples all at once, little arms stretching out across the space between them, reaching insistently for the eldest. 

The fruit is forgotten, the mash smeared on his fist an afterthought. All he wants is mama. 

- 

That morning ended with squirming arms stretched wide, apple forgotten, and the rest of them realizing just how sharp Yeosang’s preference has grown.  

At first, they brushed it off as a single moment- a one-time protest, born from timing and mood. 

But it wasn’t. 

When the same pattern returned again and again, the solution came with little discussion- Seonghwa would simply avoid the kitchen during Sang’s snacktime, giving Yunho or one of the others the space to feed him without distraction. 

Dinner proved trickier.  

Each evening, when the oldest took his seat at the far end of the long table as per usual, Yeosang’s eyes would brim, his frame hitching as if the distance alone were unbearable.  

They tried, at first, to hold firm, to ignore the watery whines and keep the routine intact, but his cries only stretched longer, louder, until the meal felt strained around them all. 

In the end, it became easier to shift places, to let Seonghwa claim the chair nearest Sang’s instead.  

Another small accommodation, folded into the rhythm of their weeks. 

And so, that became the first true denial. The first thing, alongside bottles and diapers, that Yeosang would only take from Seonghwa’s hands, and no one else’s. 

The baths followed soon after. 

‘Someone tell me how spaghetti climbed all the way to his neck,’ Seonghwa chuckles, amazed by Yeosang’s after-dinner state.  

The bib has caught plenty, but the spaghetti clearly declared victory- smears along his jaw, sticky patches down his arms, even a glint of oil tangled in his hair. 

‘Honestly, at this point I should just put him straight in the washing machine with his dirty clothes,’ he jokes, lifting Sang’s chin for a careful swipe while the others clatter dishes into the sink. 

From the end of the table, Hongjoong laughs under his breath, the sound threading easily into the clack of his keyboard.  

‘Messy boy,’ he mutters, fondness tugging at his tone. 

Yeosang, in the meantime, looks quite delighted with himself, accepting the swipes along his face without fuss. 

A single noodle clings to his fist, which he brandishes high in the air before thrusting it toward Seonghwa with a beaming grin. 

‘Are you showing me proof of the disaster, little clown?’ The oldest chuckles, shaking his head as he dabs again at the boy’s sticky skin.  

‘As if I need the evidence- you’re wearing half the meal already.’ 

He shifts the cloth down to Yeosang’s fists, patiently prying each noodle-sticky finger open to scrub between them until they shine clean again.  

Only once both hands are freed from sauce does he unclip the straps, sliding the boy out of the highchair and lowering him carefully onto the ground. 

‘Go knock yourself out, darling,’ he teases, pressing a toy truck into his hands before nudging a stuffed rattle close by. 

With a quiet click, Seonghwa swings the living room door shut, keeping him in the kitchen- walls humming with warmth, laughter, and watchful company, safe enough for Sang to scoot around. 

‘Well, within these walls at least,’ he adds with a smile. 

‘I’ll get him in the bath soon, hyung. This counter’s a battlefield, though- let me wipe up before I dive into round two.’ 

Seonghwa blinks, gratitude plain in his eyes at Yunho’s offer.  

With a soft hum, he smooths the washcloth back onto the table and threads his steps between the chairs towards Hongjoong, curiosity tugging him close to the laptop’s glow. 

Their MATZ music video looms near, and even in the middle of spaghetti chaos, he wants to know what Joong is piecing together, eager to lend whatever assistance he can. 

‘Let me pitch in, hyungie,’ Woo pipes up, stacking a cup neatly. ‘That way I can have some Sangie-time too. Usually, it’s me in the highchair next to him, so I want to enjoy him while I can.’ 

‘That’ll help a lot,’ Yunho approves. ‘Why don’t you check my room for some fresh clothes and a diaper? The bathroom’s right there, and it’s easiest to use that tub.’ 

‘Sure thing, hyung.’ Wooyoung says easily, already heading for the stairs with delighted strides. 

A few minutes later, the last dish clinks into place, and Yunho dries his hands on the towel, ready to turn his undivided attention to Yeosang. 

When his eyes land on the younger however, Sang is already knee-deep in mischief- wiggly hands wrapped tight around the cabinet knob, tugging cheerfully against the baby-proof lock. 

He rocks it back and forth, the latch clacking in protest.  

It never opens, but that doesn’t faze him- eyes bright, smile easy, a happy hum spilling out with every resisting sound, fully absorbed in the simple game he’s made. 

‘Saaaangie~’ Yunho calls, his voice lilting coaxingly through the kitchen. 

The younger barely spares him a glance at first, too wrapped up in the glory of the cabinet knob.  

Though, when he finally lifts his gaze at the second call of his name, catching Yunho’s eyes across the room, his frame stills momentarily- ears tuned, waiting. 

‘It’s time for a bath, tiny man,’ the older says warmly, opening his arms from where he stands near the counter. ‘Can you come to Dada?’ 

The word bath lands like a pebble in still water, rippling straight through Sang’s regressed mind.  

His gaze lingers on Seonghwa, caught up beside Joong, and the pieces fall into place- Mama won’t be the one to bathe him tonight. 

That’s when the open door on his left catches his gaze, left ajar from when Wooyoung dashed upstairs.  

His mouth presses stubborn, decision made. 

The knob slips forgotten from his hand, left behind without a second glance.  

A tiny, relieved hum bubbles from his chest when he wriggles around, his waist twisting with clumsy determination, before he takes off, butt shuffling fast enough to squeak across the tiles, each scoot punctuated by a tiny huff of air.  

His limbs work with surprising speed, the hallway drawing him in with every steadfast push. 

The sight of Sang’s sudden rebellion sends both San and Jongho- who have been sitting at the same table chatting about viral TikTok trends to film next- reeling. 

San’s laughter hits first, dimples carving deep as he clutches at the table edge. Jongho follows, his chuckles spilling rough and loud, shoulders shaking with every sound. 

Yunho, however, doesn’t laugh right away.  

His eyes catch on the blur of fluffy, sauce-streaked hair zipping past his line of sight, and for a second, he just blinks in motion. 

Sang has never tried anything like this before, and the sight of him rocketing down the hallway on sheer stubborn will leaves the older more than surprised. 

By the time Yunho moves, the younger has already claimed distance, dragging himself fast and fierce across the hallway tiles with a mission on hand.  

The steady crinkle of his diaper turns the hallway into a stage, the sound drawing even louder laughter from the two at the table- while Yeosang’s hands work double time until he bumps triumphantly into the front door. 

Yunho finally steps closer, eyeing the boy with a glance full of silent amusement.  

‘And what do you think you’re doing, little man?’ He asks, voice carrying both fondness and disbelief. 

Yeosang blinks up at him, cheeks slightly flushed from the effort.  

His small finger lifts to point at the front door, his lips wobbling around a simple explanation. 

‘Stuwck,’ he mumbles, the sound edged with faint disappointment as though the door itself has betrayed him. 

Yunho huffs a laugh, voice lilting. ‘Oh, stuck, are we? Then I guess Dada better comes to the rescue.’ 

Without waiting, he bends and sweeps the boy up from the floor in one easy shift, settling him against his chest. 

The reaction is instant.  

What Yunho expects to be a squeal or giggle twists into an honest cry of distress, Yeosang’s little body stiffening in protest.  

His mouth crumples, tears brimming quick, and only then does the older realize this hadn’t been a funny escape game at all.  

It was his small way of saying he truly didn’t want to go. 

Yunho softens immediately, adjusting his hold so he can see the saddened face tucked against his chest.  

His voice gentles, coaxing without pressure. ‘Hey, Sang… don’t you want to bathe for a bit?’  

Yeosang’s lip juts out, quivering plump when he offers the faintest shake of his head.  

The word comes out hushed but not less certain. ‘Mah-ma.’ 

Yunho releases a considerate hum, tilting his head while he thinks.  

They’ve all agreed that caretaking shouldn’t rest on Seonghwa’s shoulders alone if not necessary.  

And with his practice schedule pulling him away more often soon, piling on now would only make things harder. 

Still, he knows this isn’t just about fairness- it’s about Yeosang’s comfort, and Seonghwa should have a voice in it. 

And so, he tells him as much, his thumb tracing a circle against Sang’s back.  

‘I understand, love. We’ll see if Mama can help you, hm? If he can’t, then Woo and I will.’ He says, then follows with a firmer note. 

‘That’s not up for debate, tiny man. You’re painted in remnants of spaghetti, and Dada’s not letting you crawl into bed like that.’ 

It’s a promise, the finality Yeosang needs.  

Even then, his reaction might flare ugly- tears, cries, stubborn kicks- but at least he knows they won’t budge.  

That certainty grounds him, easing the meltdown faster than when the line is blurred and he feels like he can keep pricking, hoping to change it. 

Yunho shifts Yeosang higher onto his hipbone, steadying his weight as he carries him back down the hallway. 

The kitchen rests in the soft murmur of voices, Seonghwa folded close to Hongjoong, their focus tied to the laptop flickering between them while pages slide by under scrolling fingers. 

Stopping beside the table, Yunho grasps their attention, his voice kept plain so it carries no weight of expectation.  

‘Hwa hyung, do you have time to bathe Sang tonight?’ 

The oldest pauses, the question hanging between them.  

Practically, yes- he has time. But he also knows what has been mentioned before- it won’t help Sang in the long run if he throws himself at every single task like that. 

His fingers linger on the trackpad, eyeing the glowing page in front of them. From beside him, Hongjoong shifts, meeting his gaze with a subtle but meaningful look.  

It’s not a command, not even advice, rather support- permission to step back if he chooses to do so. 

And he has reason to.  

He woke Sang this morning, handled the diaper changes, played with him in the yard, tucked him down for his nap, spooned dinner into his mouth- task after task, until now.  

He doesn’t owe Yeosang tonight’s bath on top of all that, though he’d never frame it that way himself.  

For Seonghwa, tending to Sang is joy- he adores being his anchor, his source of comfort. 

His gaze shifts to the younger, perched on Yunho’s hip with expectant eyes, waiting for the reach he anticipates to come.  

But instead, Hwa gives a small shake of his head, apologetic. 

‘I’m sorry, little one,’ he says gently, ‘- but Mama wants to work on a project for a bit longer.’ 

The words make Sang’s lips wobble, his shoulders hunching in quiet protest.  

Before it can tip into a cry, Seonghwa adds quickly, leaning forward just a touch.  

‘You can still come get a kiss or hug from Mama before your bath, if you’d like.’ 

Yeosang rubs his fists hard against his wet eyelids, trying in vain to hold the negative feelings back.  

Less than ten seconds later, however, the dam breaks- fat tears spill down his cheeks, his body sagging in Yunho’s hold while sobs shake free. 

The upset runs in waves, sharp whimpers breaking into cries that wrack his chest.  

His efforts to swallow them down falter, every sound spilling raw with disappointment. 

Seonghwa rises at once, a soft coo falling from his lips as he reaches for him.  

‘Oh, poppy,’ he murmurs, brushing his thumb across damp cheeks.  

He cups his face, kissing his forehead with affection. ‘No need for such big tears, hm? Mama’s right here with a kiss.’ 

He wipes away another tear with his thumb, voice soothing.  

‘It’s alright, tiny. You don’t have to be this upset. A bath with Yunho and Wooyoung sounds really fun, doesn’t it? And you’ll see Mama very soon.’ He promises, smiling softly while he tries to find Yeosang’s misty eyes.  

He releases a disagreeing sound, half-whimper, half-sigh, then leans into Yunho’s shoulder.  

There’s no use asking again- Yunho’s word always stands. 

The older adjusts his hold and starts up the stairs, his voice loving, giving Sang a picture to hold onto.  

‘Hear that, love? That water running means Wooyoung must’ve started your bath already. And I bet he’s picked some fresh pajamas too, ready to wrap you up in after.’  

The younger sniffles softly, his chest giving a small hitch.  

The hush of water upstairs draws his ear, his head tilting toward it in vivid recognition.  

His eyes are wet, but the way he perks with interest makes it evident that he hasn’t let go of the bath entirely. 

Yunho makes his way upstairs, holding the younger close, one hand anchored at his back and the other beneath his thighs.  

An absentminded tune hums from him the whole way, following them into the doorway of his own room. 

He eases onto the bed, keeping Sang snug against his chest as he adjusts them into the middle, the spot he’ll need to lower him onto. 

Once he’s settled properly, Yunho smooths a hand over the younger’s side.  

‘I’ll lay you down on the bed now, tiny.’ He announces, creating some space for Yeosang to anticipate his actions. 

He follows through after doing so, easing the little one down to undress him for his bath. 

As soon as Yunho begins to lower him, Yeosang’s hand clamps tight into his shirt, knuckles pale with the grip.  

The older chuckles softly, rubbing a hand over his tummy.  

‘Oof, did that spook you a bit, little man?’ The words land warm, and by the time he’s fully down, Sang’s fingers loosen from the fabric. 

The shirt comes first, Yunho’s fingers working slowly at the hem before tugging it over his head, careful not to jostle him more than necessary.  

He folds it neatly to the side, murmuring a soft hum as he does. 

Next, he works off the younger’s socks- no longer the bright white they began the day with- rolling them down carefully one by one.  

Yeosang's toes wiggle free on instinct, a small, clumsy flail against the air.  

Yunho’s lips twitch into a fond smile while he rubs a tender hand over one foot.  

‘How does the air feel between your toes, fluff?’ He teases, voice bright with affection. 

The younger lifts his legs from the mattress, blinking at his feet in wide-eyed wonder before answering with a soft, curious babble. 

With a fond chuckle, Yunho lowers his legs. ‘I’ll take that as your answer, love. The air feels funny on your toes, hm?’  

His hands linger near Sang’s waist, fingers brushing the denim. ‘Let’s take these jeans off now, tiny man,’ he murmurs, patting his sides affectionately. 

Sang shifts uneasily, his body tensing the further he’s uncovered, the familiar vulnerability creeping in.  

It’s the same fragile look he gets during diaper changes- exposed, small and dependent. 

The older’s fingers work at the button of his baggy jeans, tugging the wide fabric loose from his hips in order to fetch them to the side. 

The denim falls open, pooling wide against his legs, and at once Sang’s contentment falters.  

He grows restless, discomfort rising as it always does when warmth is stripped away and his body feels laid bare. 

When Yunho slides his jeans from his thighs, his legs kick out like a frantic frog, sharp little jerks against Yunho’s lap.  

A cry bursts free, high and piercing, swelling fast into a full siren wail that fills the room. 

Yunho slows for a moment- accustomed to this reaction, not startled by it- one hand supportively on Sang’s tummy, the other tracing calm circles of reassurance.  

‘Still not a fan of this part, are you, love?’ He murmurs, lips pressed together while he waits for the sharp wail to soften. 

Just as he sets the pair of jeans aside, the bathroom door creaks open.  

Steam drifts out, curling into the cooler air, and Wooyoung peeks his head around the frame. 

‘The bath’s ready for Sangie,’ he announces with a tight-lipped smile, observing Yeosang’s distress.  

‘His pajamas are already on the chair by the bed.’ His gaze flicks towards Yunho.  

‘Hyung, can you grab some towels after you’re done? I have no clue where you put them in here.’ 

The older nods once, a grateful smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Appreciate it, Woo- your preparation makes this a lot easier,’ he says, pitching his voice above Sang’s cries.  

Wooyoung gives a small nod in return before slipping back into the bathroom, steam curling out behind him as the door eases shut. 

Left with the little one’s wails, Yunho steadies him by a palm coming to rest at the back of Yeosang’s head, cradling him closer. 

His fingers thread slowly through soft locks, rubbing mindful circles as though to coax his attention.  

‘Sangie, listen, love,’ he says, voice stable even under the cries. ‘Dada will walk you through each step, so nothing feels like a surprise.’ 

Even when the words are buried under his cries, the older doesn’t falter- he simply continues where he left off. 

‘Dada’s going to take your onesie off now,’ he shushes, working the fabric with practiced hands.  

‘See—one… two… three buttons- perfect, love. Now your head through the hole- easy does it. Good boy, there you go.’ He praises. 

He keeps the rhythm ongoing, every action matched with subtitles even if the sobs continue to swallow them whole.  

‘Arms out next- one sleeve, then the other. All done, tiny man. Almost ready for that warm bath.’ 

Yunho reaches next for the tabs at Sang’s waist, peeling them open with practiced ease.  

He doesn’t make a big deal out of the wet diaper he’s met with- only notes inwardly how it must make the undressing feel twice as difficult for the younger. 

He wipes him down with practiced care, Sang’s pitched cry ringing through the room.  

‘Shhh, tiny,’ Yunho soothes while he tucks the damp diaper away, folding it into a ball to throw away after.  

‘All clean now, love. Let’s wipe away those tears- you’re all ready for your bath.’ He coos, thumbing the fresh droplets from Sang’s cheeks. 

Then, with an easy motion, Yunho gathers him up wholly into his arms, cradling him close against his chest.  

He shifts toward the dresser, pulling open a drawer one-handed to fetch two big towels, draping them over his arm while keeping Sang snug in the other. 

Turning, he steps into the steamy bathroom, where they find Wooyoung crouched by the tub, sprinkling a few droplets of vanilla oil into the bathwater.  

The soft scent curls upward with the steam, warm and sweet from where it wraps around the air of its own accord. 

Yeosang hiccups out whiny protests at the ordeal, face scrunching in distress and complaint.  

Yunho tips his head down, voice relaxed and playful.  

‘Oooh, Sangie, smell that? Warm and cozy- if anyone should fuss, it’s me, because I’m not the one getting in.’ He pouts, tickling the younger’s side. 

Instead of answering, Yeosang buries his nose straight into Yunho’s chest, pressing close to hide from the world of steam and scent, along the tickles that follow. 

Wooyoung steps in from the side of the tub, condensation curling around his face as he leans closer.  

With a tender brush of fingers through Yeosang’s damp hair, he offers softly, ‘Let me ease him in, hyung.’ 

Then followed by a ‘-could you also bring a washcloth? I think yours are all in the laundry basket.’  

Yunho nods wordlessly, shifting Sang in his arms before nudging him towards Wooyoung’s waiting hold.  

The transfer earns a fresh round of sniffles, Yeosang curling up tighter, shy and disoriented at the sudden change of arms. 

His bare bottom rests against Wooyoung’s arm, a new kind of exposure that prickles through him- especially with Woo, who is usually small alongside him, not the one carrying. 

‘None of that fuss now, Yeo. I’ve seen you bare more times than I care to count- you’re not tricking me with that shy little bum of yours.’ He chuckles fondly, brushing his lips to Sang’s crown.  

‘Now in you go, my little duckling, before the water goes cold.’  

A tiny sound bubbles free, though it isn’t contentment.  

Yeosang’s lips wobble, spilling into a broken, desperate ‘Mah-ma… ma…’ 

His fingers press against Wooyoung’s chest, eyes glistening while he pleads for the only comfort he wants, glancing at the door instead of the bathtub. 

Wooyoung sighs softly, though his smile remains gentle, fingertips brushing wet strands from Sang’s forehead.  

‘You always melt right into bath time, tiny one. Why the change of heart tonight?’ His voice is light, though the sympathy runs clear beneath it. 

‘Mam-ma… ma-ma-mma…’ Yeosang pushes out again, the word tumbling like a chant, his eyes searching as though the steam itself might deliver Seonghwa through the door. 

He crouches low by the tub, holding Yeosang tightly while he eases him into the warm water.  

The little one squirms, toes splaying at the first touch, but Woo is quick to adjust, one arm braced behind his shoulders to keep his head floating safely above the surface while the rest of him sinks into the bath. 

‘Easy, Sangie,’ he murmurs, voice calm as he shifts his grip. ‘Head up here, rest of you down- there we go.’ 

But the moment the warmth laps higher, Yeosang jolts. His neck strains back, mouth splitting on a cry that cracks sharp through the steam.  

Ragged hiccups catch in his chest, each one tumbling into another sob. 

His fists latch around Wooyoung’s hand, nails pressing deep, dragging for escape.  

The water ripples with every frantic kick, his head shaking side to side in stubborn refusal. 

‘Mam-ma… mam-ma…’ The chant spills broken, lips trembling, eyes wide with distress. 

The other shushes him softly, pressing kisses over damp strands, his palm caressing Sang’s cheek.  

‘Brave boy, I’ve got you. No one’s letting you go under, sweetheart.’ 

Still, Yeosang’s cries tear on, his body quaking even in Woo’s sure hold, every sound a plea for the arms that aren’t there. 

The door creaks open again, Yunho’s frame filling the echoing sobs once he steps back in, washcloth in hand.  

He halts mid-step, lips pressing together in a thin line when he takes in the sight. 

‘He doesn’t feel like it today?’ He asks, tone caught somewhere between surprise and concern. 

Wooyoung’s brows dip, a faint crease forming while he adjusts his hold.  

‘I thought he liked to be bathed…’ he murmurs, the words tugging with contemplation. 

Yunho crouches closer, the washcloth still loose in his hand.  

‘He does, usually. We’ve bathed him plenty without you-know-who, and once he was in the water, he never seemed to mind much. I’m not sure what’s pressing him today.’ 

Between sobs, Yeosang’s gaze flicks up, meeting Yunho’s without warning.  

The second their eyes lock, the wail rips back through him, louder, harsher.  

His lids squeeze shut, lashes wet against his cheeks, shutting the world out as his body twists in protest. 

His arms thrash beneath the water, nails dragging red lines across his chest, then pulling up to shield his shoulders.  

His knees press to his belly, body shrinking in Wooyoung’s arms, the fragile curl of someone who doesn’t want to be seen. 

Woo’s hand smooths over the younger’s back, then his eyes cut to Yunho, a flicker of thought sparking behind them.  

‘Hyung, can you hold him a moment? I think I’ve got just the thing- let me fetch it.’ 

The older agrees without question, setting the washcloth on the edge of the tub for later.  

He rubs his palms briskly together, coaxing warmth into them before sliding both hands beneath the surface.  

One anchors Yeosang’s shifting body, the other pours scoops of water over the crown of his head, watching the stream slide down his face.  

He scoops again, and again, each handful falling with the same unhurried rhythm.  

The warmth runs in thin rivulets, tracing down his strands, along his temple, then across his cheeks.  

Through the falling streams, Yeosang pries his eyes open, wet lashes sticking together.  

His gaze clings to Yunho’s dimmed, relaxed eyes, desperate for them to shift with a change of heart. 

‘Mam-ma… mam-ma…’ he pleads again, between hiccups, the word fractured- searching.  

When the older only keeps the rhythm of water in his palm, his cry splits again, louder, rawer. 

Before Yunho can respond, the bathroom door cracks open again. Wooyoung slips back inside, holding something in his hands.  

With a little flourish, he lifts it higher- an oversized, black shirt, its fabric wrinkled and clearly worn once already. 

The older’s brow quirks, lips tugging in a doubtful line while his gaze flicks from the shirt to the sobbing boy in his arms. 

‘I feel like he’s just a bit overwhelmed,’ Wooyoung begins, stepping closer, consideration in his voice.  

‘The mix of being so exposed and not getting what he wants- it’s tipping him over, I think. The exposure, though, we can take care of.’ 

He raises the shirt again, shaking it lightly.  

‘So, I fetched one of Hwa-hyung’s longer shirts for him to wear. It might make him feel less vulnerable- or at least stop the crying.’ 

Yunho narrows his eyes, considering the wrinkled fabric.  

‘I’m not against it, but I don’t see how it changes much. We’ve gotten him through plenty of baths, and he wasn’t nearly this worked up.’ 

Wooyoung shakes his head lightly, meeting his eyes.  

‘Hyungie, do you have any idea how overwhelming it can be to have those giant grippers of yours roaming all over your body without any say in it?’ 

Yunho blinks, caught off guard. 

‘Just because I melt when I lose that control,’ Woo continues, tapping his own chest lightly, ‘-doesn’t mean Sang can relate. For him, with both of us in the room- it could be rather unsettling, is what I mean.’ 

Yunho exhales through his nose, giving a short nod.  

‘Alright. Let’s try it your way. But if it doesn’t work, we’ll see if Seonghwa can at least reassure him through it. He might calm down a bit if he hears him.’ 

Wooyoung hums quickly at Yunho’s words.  

‘Fair enough. If this doesn’t work, we’ll call Hwa-hyung in, but let’s give this a shot first.’ 

His grin softens into focus as he eases closer, slipping the oversized shirt over Sang’s damp head, tugging the fabric down his arms and waist until it pools loose around him.  

Yeosang stills the tiniest bit, eyes tipping up toward Wooyoung in wonder- still watery, but no longer wild. 

‘There we go…’ Woo coos, smoothing the shirt over Sang’s chest while he leans in to kiss the damp fringe from his forehead. ‘Now that’s already a bit better, huh, bun?’ 

Yunho lets out a relieved breath, eyes soft when they flick from Sang to Wooyoung.  

‘You’ve really thought that through,’ he says, a trace of admiration in his tone. ‘Let’s start washing him, hm? He doesn’t seem in the mood tonight- so the quicker we’re done, the better.’ 

The other smiles, reaching for the washcloth resting at the tub’s edge.  

He dips it into the warm water, wringing it once before giving Yeosang a short heads-up through the last of his sobs.  

‘Alright, bun… I’ll start with your feet and legs first.’ He glances at Yunho. ‘Hyung, can you add a little soap for me?’ 

The older tips a small stream of soap onto the cloth, watching as Woo rubs it in before bringing it to Sang’s legs. 

As he begins on his legs, Yeosang’s resistance fires back- knees snapping up, lips quivering around a sob, the mantra fighting to surface once more. 

Wooyoung doesn’t pause, only adjusts Sang’s leg and continues with calm strokes. ‘It’s alright, bun. Just your feet now,’ he murmurs. 

Beside him, Yunho leans in, brushing tears from the younger’s cheek with his thumb.  

‘Shhh… good boy,’ he soothes, his voice low and affirmative. ‘You’re safe. You’re doing well.’  

He keeps the words flowing, praise and shushing layered together, while Woo keeps the careful rhythm of washing. 

He moves on from Sang’s legs, cloth dripping slightly as he lifts it to an arm.  

‘Alright, tiny- arms and shoulders now,’ he tells him, sweeping across his forearm. Yeosang twists in answer, shoulders jolting backward. 

Woo remains patient, working his way up to the curve of his shoulder before glancing at Yunho with a sigh. ‘He’s really not having any of it tonight.’ 

The younger’s head jerks side to side, his mouth forming another broken plea. He may not grasp the words, but every motion in him cries out his discontent. 

When Wooyoung lifts the cloth towards his face, the fight surges again- his mouth sticky with tears and snot, vividly twisting away from the swipe. 

‘Hold still, Sangie,’ he murmurs, soft but firm, and gives one clean pass over his lips before pulling the cloth back.  

He dips it into the water once more, wringing it out, then leans toward Yunho. ‘Hyung, more soap?’ 

Yunho nods, adding a squeeze into the damp folds before handing it back, his free hand never leaving Yeosang’s damp cheek.  

‘Good boy… almost there,’ he praises, brushing away the tears that keep spilling fresh. 

With his arms and face cleaned as best as possible, Wooyoung shifts the cloth again, dipping it into the water, rubbing in more soap. 

He flicks a quick glance at Yunho. ‘This might be a good moment for you to start singing-or something.’ 

The older doesn’t need more explanation.  

He clears his throat softly, then lets a light melody spill out- something about little duckies paddling in the water, their feathers bobbing and drifting along the stream.  

His voice is warm and composed, filling the bathroom with a playful hum. 

While Yunho sings, Woo lifts the hem of the oversized shirt, slipping the damp cloth beneath to reach the whole of his neck, washing behind his ears as well. 

He works it across Sang’s chest in careful strokes right after, circling toward his ribs, then along his back where the fabric clings. 

Yeosang’s whining breaks apart into ragged sobs, his body wrenching against the wet cling.  

He flings so sharply that his head almost knocks the rim, water leaping over the side in rapid splashes. 

The song doesn’t falter, the older threading words of praise through the simple melody, eyes fixed on Sang’s tear-streaked face.  

Still, the cries won’t lessen, his fingers tugging at the fabric while he bucks and twists against Woo’s arms. 

Then the bathroom door eases open, hinges creaking against the condensation. 

Seonghwa leans in, his head poking through the frame, expression kind and untroubled, as if he’d been listening all along.  

‘Sang’s being a little grump tonight?’ He asks, voice calm enough to cut through the chaos without pressing on it. 

Yunho exhales a long breath the second Seonghwa’s head appears, relief loosening his shoulders.  

Wooyoung glances up too, voice dry but focused. ‘He’s going through it,’ he answers, forcing himself not to let his lips curve at the sight of Seonghwa standing there after all. 

Yeosang doesn’t hesitate.  

His arms shoot forward, fingers clamping open and shut in frantic reach, cries breaking into garbled blabber- ‘Mam-ma…ma-ma!’- loud enough to leave no doubt who he’s calling for now that the one he wants finally fills the doorway. 

The oldest steps inside fully, a sympathetic smile softening his face as he takes Sang’s flailing hand in his own- though there’s a glint of irony when he speaks. 

‘Since we’ve all agreed on sharing tasks to help him get used to my absence…’ 

He lets the thought trail while he disappears again, only to return seconds later with Yunho’s chair in tow.  

He stalls it right between Yunho and Wooyoung, planting himself with ease, half-grinning at the way their eyes follow him. 

‘I will be joining you- for the sake of Sang’s comfort,’ he says, lowering into the chair with finality.  

‘But I am still standing on my choice. It’s best if you both take care of his bath routine.’ 

Wooyoung snorts out a surprised laugh, ducking his head with a grin at Seonghwa’s thorough explanation.  

Yunho chuckles along, his hand reaching over to pat Hwa’s knee in delightful encouragement, as though to say thank you for bending your rule- at least a little. 

However, Yeosang’s reaction is far from settled after the eldest had retreated his hand to grab a chair from the room. 

His whimpers rise again, confused and yearning, when Seonghwa doesn’t climb into the bath, doesn’t scoop him up, doesn’t even lean closer from where he sits. 

The sound breaks thin and questioning, his fingers clamping open and shut, begging for more. 

Seonghwa leans forward, catching one of those small hands in his own again.  

His voice stays measured, tone clear enough to break through the sobs. 

‘Mama is right here now, love. Wooyoung and Yunho will wash your body well- nothing to worry about.’  

He brushes a thumb across Sang’s wet knuckles, shushing softly at the tears still forming, the sympathetic smile never leaving his face. 

His whines rattle higher, urgent with want, his body twisting towards Seonghwa in a plea without words.  

He grips his hand fiercely, tears on the brink, but with each soothing stroke of Hwa’s thumb, the resistance wanes- still there, but dulled, like fire deprived of air. 

Wooyoung seizes the chance, slipping the cloth under the hem of the shirt, where he left off before the eldest made an entrance.  

‘Waist and belly now, bun,’ he hums, swiping across the curve of Sang’s middle, circling the soft dip of his belly button.  

This time, he doesn’t thrash.  

He squirms, lips wobbling without pause, but the wild resistance fades when his hand stays trapped in Seonghwa’s own, unwavering. 

By the time Woo moves up to his back, sliding the cloth over damp skin beneath the fabric, Sang’s tears have slowed to wet hiccups.  

His chest heaves shallow, his eyes glassy but no longer spilling. 

Wooyoung tips his head with a faint smile, working the cloth in small circles. ‘See? Those back rubs aren’t half as terrible as you made them out to be, hm, Sang?’ 

Through the haze of hiccups, the younger blinks slowly at him, a fragile pause that carries the first thread of peace. 

Seonghwa tilts his head, eyes narrowing at the oversized fabric clinging damp to the younger’s body.  

‘What’s with the shirt…’ he murmurs, squinting closer before recognition settles. ‘Wait- my shirt?’ 

Wooyoung lifts his chin a little, cloth still moving in careful circles over Sang’s back.  

‘He seemed so uncomfortable being exposed with us, hyung. I know what that’s like. So, I grabbed one of your shirts- one that still smells like you.’ He explains. 

‘Look how far it falls, down to his thighs, hyungie. The moment it was on, he leveled at least a bit.’ 

An amused laugh slips from Seonghwa, fondness all over his face.  

‘Only you would think to raid my laundry for comfort. Great thinking, though.’ He praises, rubbing his free hand along Woo’s spine gracefully. 

Wooyoung tilts his head toward him.  

‘Hyung, soothe him a bit more, will you? I’ll finish up down here.’ He dips the cloth under the oversized shirt, briskly swiping along Yeosang’s upper thighs, being quick yet careful. 

Then, with a flourish, he lifts the damp cloth high into the air, shaking the water from it with a jazzhand.  

‘All done, my little friend!’ He declares, grinning wide enough to coax a pause out of Sang’s hiccups. 

The boy’s watery eyes follow the dripping cloth, fascination flickering through the blur of tears.  

Slowly, one small hand lifts, fingers stretching in inquisitive reach. 

Wooyoung chuckles, lowering the cloth into his palm. ‘Curious, are we?’ 

Yeosang stares at it for a beat, his lips parted, then twists his wrist in the air- an awkward but careful mimicry of the flourish he’d just seen.  

The cloth dangles, heavy with water, but the motion is unmistakable. Yunho can’t help the grin that breaks across his face.  

He leans closer, wrapping his large hand around Sang’s wrist to guide the arc.  

‘Jazzhand!’ he cheers, voice bright enough to bounce off the tiled walls. 

Sang blinks up at him, startled for only a second- then his lips part into a teary beam, eyes shining through the damp as a giggle hitches in his throat.  

His fingers loosen without thought, and the heavy cloth slips free. It drops back into the bath with a loud slap, spraying water up within wide reach.  

Droplets splatter across Seonghwa’s cheek and Woo’s nose, leaving both of them blinking through the shimmer of water. 

Seonghwa just drags his sleeve down his cheek, lips twitching with reluctant amusement.  

‘Oh- why thank you, love. Apparently jazzhands come with splash effects.’ 

Wooyoung blinks through droplets, unimpressed. ‘Yeah, thanks a lot, Sangie. Really refreshing.’ 

The little releases another hiccupped giggle, completely unbothered by the unserious chaos he caused. 

- 

After that bath, they had diapered and dressed him, fed him his bottle with Seonghwa’s presence near and unwavering, and finally tucked him into bed. 

At the time, they reasoned that Yeosang had simply needed Seonghwa’s nearness on that particular day- something in between the ebb and flow of allowing others to care for him and yearning for Hwa’s arms. 

Yet nothing proved further from the truth.  

From then on, the younger wouldn’t allow anyone near him during baths except Seonghwa himself- and, on a good day, Seonghwa alongside one chosen helper, most often Wooyoung or San. 

One by one, Sang marked the boxes closed, until the list of what others could still care for dwindled into near nothing. 

The third and last box- bedtime routine- was ticked off not even two weeks later, before they all came to realize this could no longer hold. 

‘Alright, bun, let’s see what we’ve got tonight.’ Mingi murmurs from beside the crib, lowering himself onto the floor.  

He leans back against the crib rails so Sang can see him through the bars, a picture book balanced in his hands.  

The pages flutter under his thumb while he settles, the soft lamplight casting a golden pool over the room. 

Yeosang rustles in the folds of his sleep sack. The pacifier bobs peacefully at his mouth as his heavy-lidded eyes trail Mingi through the crib rails. 

Mingi clears his throat and turns the first page, his voice a low rumble, each word unfolding at an easy pace upon reading the rhyme.  

‘Once upon a time, an owl sat high up the tree, 
But shadows kept creeping across the sky, only for his eyes to see. 
He hid behind his feathers, and tried to be brave, 
Yet wished for a hand, or a hug to save.’ 

The younger’s attention drifts down to the first illustration- a wide-eyed owl sitting on a branch, gazing out from the page. 

‘Ooh…’ Yeosang breathes around the pacifier, the sound high pitched yet soft.  

He pauses, little brow furrowing as if he’s working something out, the paci bobbing with each suckle. 

Mingi hides a grin, eyes flicking from the book to the younger in the crib. 

‘Hoo,’ comes the follow-up, smaller, more certain- the sound piecing itself together in his lisped, clumsy way. 

The other releases a playful coo, eyes crinkling. ‘Ooh-hoo? My goodness, bun, that’s the best owl I’ve heard all week. Too bad I didn’t record it.’ 

The little one answers only with the snug suckle of his pacifier, attention clinging to the picture a moment longer before Mingi reveals the next- where a yellow moon watches over a busy beaver at the river’s edge. 

‘Owl fluffed up his feathers, one by one, 
He tiptoed along where the night had begun. 
Down by the water a friend worked late, 
And hoped that the beaver might open his gate.’ 

Mingi lets the cadence waver, no longer his own but Owl’s, thin with nerves yet carrying a tiny thread of courage. 

‘Beaver dear, beaver near, 
Will you keep me warm right here? 
Just until the daylight’s song, 
Let me stay the night along.’ 

The older huffs once, then speaks in a gruff imitation, making his tone short and busy, as if Beaver could hardly spare the breath. 

‘No, no, no, dear owl so small, 
My work must come before it all. 
The night is short, my chores are deep, 
So off you go, I cannot keep.’ 

Yeosang blinks, giving the page a once-over. 

‘Fwiend… no want?’ He lisps, eyes blinking wider while his pacifier wobbles with each syllable. 

Mingi juts his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout.  

‘Seems beaver’s too busy with his dam… but owl has more friends, doesn’t he? Maybe one of them will let him stay the night.’ 

The older keeps the story flowing, page after page, his voice dipping and lifting with each new rhyme.  

Between turns, he pauses to murmur a playful remark, met by agreeing hums from Yeosang, whose eyes grow heavier with each turn of the paper. 

By the time Mingi reaches the final page, the younger’s lashes flutter closed completely, body slack with the fatigue of play. 

‘Bunny near and owl too, 
Dreams are warmer shared by two.’ 

The older whispers, easing the book shut and setting it on the bookshelf, his hand finding the owl’s string for a slow pull.  

A hush of melody spreads through the room, joined by the warm bloom of the nightlight casting over the crib. 

Mingi leans at the doorway, offering one last peek inside before easing the door shut with careful fingers. 

The latch clicks soft, and his steps fade down the stairs, leaving the room bathed in lullaby and nightlight glow.  

- 

They had kept to this rhythm for weeks now, ever since Seonghwa’s new schedule loomed near. 

Bedtime was tactically handed over- stories read, blankets tugged snug, goodnights whispered by other voices-  

Though, the nights still belonged to Seonghwa.  

It was a choice they had made together, knowing it was wiser to move gradually than to strip everything away at once- Yeosang still deserved his presence whenever he could have it, and Seonghwa, in turn, wasn’t ready to miss their one-on-ones any more than he had to. 

And it mattered, for when Sangie slipped very small, the night never carried him all the way through. 

Like clockwork he wriggled awake- tummy grumbling for a bottle, squirming in a soggy diaper, or simply fussing for nothing more than warm arms to cuddle him back down.  

Those hours were tougher, the kind that asked for patience and presence in equal measure.  

Therefore, they remained Seonghwa’s alone, the one piece of care they knew better than to trade too soon. 

- 

Four weeks before Seonghwa’s weekends would be swallowed whole by training, Hongjoong decided enough was enough- the eldest was going to take a night for himself. 

‘Go,’ he said, ‘eat something good, soak at the spa, laugh with your old friends.’ He deserved it, after all- Sang had been in his arms nearly the entire day.  

‘We’ll be taking the nights soon anyway,’ Joong added softly, and with that, Seonghwa eventually relented. 

Hongjoong made him promise to put his phone on do not disturb, and he obliged, earning a smile as Joong insisted they’d manage with Sang. 

‘Even if the night goes sideways,’ Joong said, ‘- hyung deserves to be free of it for once.’ 

San has happily claimed that very same evening- and night shift, his dimpled smile bright with newfound excitement at the prospect of getting some one-on-one time with their Sangie. 

After Seonghwa feeds the younger dinner, San crouches close with a warm washcloth, wiping grains of kimchi fried rice from his chin and the dribbled streaks of water shining along his cheeks.  

‘There we go, all clean,’ he coos, brushing over his round face until it appears pink and fresh. 

San wastes no time claiming his prize, unclipping the highchair straps and pulling the younger into his arms with a proud grin.  

‘Up we go!’ The older chirps, the corners of his mouth carved upward as he hoists Sang half into the air with a chuckle.  

The little one lets out a shriek of glee, arms flapping wildly and fingers grabbing for San’s shirt. 

Hugging him back in tight, the older wiggles his brows.  

‘That’s right- you’re stuck with me tonight. How’s that for exciting, dumpling?’ 

From the hallway, Seonghwa shoots him a look, half fond and half warning.  

'Careful, Sannie,' he chides softly. 'Unless you want kimchi fried rice back in your face, I’d keep the circus tricks for tomorrow.' 

San only laughs, dimples flashing brighter. 'Got it, Mama. Gentle fun only,' he promises, settling Sang snug against his chest.  

The younger burrows into the crook of his neck with a hum of content, cheek pressed warm to San’s skin, and the sound alone makes him beam all over again. 

Seonghwa lingers at the door that separates the kitchen and hallway, dressed in a pressed button-up that Yeosang immediately claims with small, kneading fingers once San steps in closer, the little one balanced high on his hip. 

With a fond chuckle, Seonghwa pries them loose, adjusting the cuffs of his pressed shirt and draws his coat into place, the fabric falling smooth against his frame. 

His hand doesn’t leave without first grazing the younger’s cheek, thumb pausing just long enough to hold the warmth there. 

He hasn’t eaten yet- saving his appetite for dinner with a few friends from his old high school- and he’s already looking forward to catching up with them.  

Added to that, there’s the massage Hongjoong talked him into at the spa, swearing it was his own go-to whenever time allowed, promising the older would love it too. 

‘Have fun, love,’ he murmurs, leaning down to press a quick kiss against the round of Sang’s cheek.  

Yeosang chirps in response, reaching with grabby fingers that catch only the edge of his collar before he straightens again. 

With a small smile, Seonghwa turns toward the door, shouting his goodbyes to the others spending their time upstairs.  

His shoes click lightly over the floorboards, the hush of the hallway opening before him. 

The hinges creak as the door swings wide, a breath of cooler evening air rolling inside, carrying faint scents of grass and asphalt still warm from the day. 

San bounces the younger against his hipbone, an easy smile plastered on his features.  

‘Come on, dumpling. Let’s go wave to Mama, yeah?’ 

Without waiting for a reply, the older carries him to the wide front window, but Sang’s gaze doesn’t follow right away.  

Instead, it lingers down the hallway, fixed on the door that had just closed behind Seonghwa with curiosity. 

Yeosang simply peeks up at him, puzzled, not quite grasping what San is onto at that moment.  

Yet the glow on his hyung’s face is too inviting to resist, and soon a content hum curls a shy smile onto his lips. 

‘See? Look, Mama’s waving at you from outside, sweet pea,’ San coaxes, readjusting his grip.  

He slides the younger forward against his chest, one arm braced under his bottom, the other snug across his waist, holding him high enough to see clearly through the glass. 

But Sang’s attention snags on the reflection first- his own round face staring back at him.  

He taps at the pane with curious little smacks, lip jutting in fierce concentration when the twin on the other side mirrors him, every move the same. 

San chuckles and dips his brows in the reflection, pulling a silly face that earns him a screech of delight. 

Only then does the younger’s gaze slip past the glass- and his whole body jolts with surprise at finding Seonghwa there on the other side.  

He nudges his nose forward until it smushes flat, mouth parted as though he might reach him if only he pressed close enough, tongue nearly brushing the pane. 

San laughs under his breath and leans him back a little, steadying him with one arm.  

‘Easy, dumpling. He can see you just fine from here.’ With his free hand, he lifts into a broad wave, guiding Sang’s smaller one into motion beside it. 

‘Bye-bye, Mama, we’ll see you in the morning,’ San soothes, rocking him lightly as he speaks. 

The older keeps their hands lifted in tandem, broad wave matched by Sang’s clumsy flap.  

Outside, Seonghwa answers with one last smile, then turns, his figure shrinking as he walks the length of the porch.  

Step by step, his shoulders loosen, his stride unhurried while he makes his way down the sidewalk. 

And then- he is gone. Past the hedge, past the glow of the streetlamp, until no trace of him lingers. 

Yeosang blinks hard at the empty stretch, his nose pressed to the glass again as though Mama might reappear if he just looks long enough.  

But the space stays hollow, and confusion wobbles through him. Where was Mama going? Why wasn’t he taking Sangie along? 

A soft whimper trembles out first, quickly breaking into uneven sobs while his hands pat frantically at the pane, searching for the figure already vanished. 

San reacts in an instant, pulling him back against his chest, arms wrapping firm and secure around his body.  

He rocks him with patience, voice low and shushing against his ear. ‘None of that now, Sangie,’ he murmurs, cheek resting against his soft crown.  

‘Mama’s only gone for a little while. We’ll cuddle, read a story, and when you wake up in the morning, he’ll be here again.’ He promises. 

Despite San’s reassuring words, Yeosang doesn’t melt into the hug.  

He throws his head back instead, neck straining, cries ripping louder as his legs kick out and his body twists hard, fighting against the hold with all the strength he has.  

His face crumples, cheeks streaked wet, making it clear he wants nothing to do with the arrangement at all. 

Through the tears, his mouth works helplessly around the only word he knows to plead. 

‘Ma—ma—mm—ma—mam-ma…’ 

From the doorway, a voice slips in, friendly but cautious.  

‘How’s he taking it?’ Yunho asks, head peeking into the living room. 

San turns with the younger writhing against him, his limbs pushing and kicking aimlessly.  

A breath of laughter escapes him, tangled with a sigh, fond exasperation plain while he tilts his head at the bundle in revolt. 

‘See for yourself,’ he replies dryly, adjusting his grip while Yeosang kicks against him. ‘He’s… loving it.’ 

Yunho pouts in sympathy when he steps closer, leaning down to press a speedy peck to Sang’s damp forehead.  

‘Still, though,’ he says lightly, ‘-better to teach him his hi’s and bye’s now than wait until he’s left wondering in confusion later-’ 

‘-Isn’t that right, little one?’ Yunho hums, pout softening into adoration as he glances at the tiny, hiccupping face pressed to San, looking half-spent. 

The other sighs, adjusting his hold while Yeosang weakly squirms against him.  

‘I get it- it’s for the best, and we all agreed. I just can’t help feeling bad, making him this upset.’ He admits. 

‘Who knows? Maybe if Hwa hadn’t said farewell, he’d have been fine.’ 

Yunho shakes his head, disagreeing, his voice reassuring yet firm.  

‘No, San. This is the right thing to do. Yeosang deserves the chance to say goodbye to Hwa, especially now that he’s going to be leaving more often. It’ll hurt at first, but it’ll help him learn. It’s part of life.’ 

San offers a weak smile, gratitude plain, then exhales and glances down at the hiccupping bundle in his arms. 

‘Alright,’ he huffs with a faint grin, ‘I’d better get him ready- fresh diaper, shiny teeth, all snug in his sleep sack, and then a book to finish it off.’ 

Pressed to his chest, the younger stirs at the rumble of San’s vibrating voice against his ear, answering with a soft ‘Mmph-,’ a shaky little grumble tucked beneath his chin. 

The older smiles, his hand moving to trace circles over the small of his back.  

‘See? Sannie knows just what’s coming- those fussies are on their way, hm?’ 

Yunho lingers for a moment, nodding along.  

‘Alright then… sleep well, you two,’ he says softly, brushing his hand once more over Sang’s hair. ‘Goodnight, San. Goodnight, Sangie.’  

He aims it at San as much as Sang, knowing the little one rests easier if he believes everyone’s heading off to bed together. 

With that, he turns back towards the kitchen, the faint clink of dishes soon carrying through the hall. 

San exhales, adjusting his hold as he heads for the stairs. 'Come on, flower,' he says, carrying them upward. 

‘Hyungie will find you a cozy sleep sack to wear- how about the one with the puppies?’ he says as they climb, brushing a quick kiss into his hair. 

Yeosang doesn’t quite agree- what he’s protesting against, only he seems to know.  

A thin whine slips out as his palm thuds against the wall, little fingers fumbling at the ridges of the wood, trying to hook in and hold fast as if that could keep San from going higher. 

The older can’t help but laugh, shaking his head at the effort.  

‘What’s this now, huh? Trying to nail yourself to the wall?’ He teases, hitching the boy up tighter against his chest. ‘Not gonna work, tiny.’ 

He reaches the nursery not long after, Yeosang perched snug against his hip.  

With one arm anchoring the boy, he uses the other to tug the curtains closed, dimming the last stretch of the setting sun.  

He shifts toward the corner, fumbling with the salt-stoned lamp until its warm glow hums to life, pooling soft across the room- just enough light for San to move comfortably through Yeosang’s bedtime routine. 

‘Now that’s a cozy room, isn’t it?’ He says contently, the rhetorical cheer left hanging when Yeosang ignores him altogether. 

With the little’s teeth as brushed as they’re going to get- after half a dozen attempts and the toothbrush yanked away each time- San turns to the next step.  

He sets the younger down for a bit, the little one instantly caught by a loose thread in the carpet.  

He tugs at it happily, as if the whole world has narrowed to that tiny piece of string, while the other places the puppy sleep sack and pacifier on the changing table. 

From there, it’s on to the changing and diapering, followed by a small bedtime story to top it all. 

‘Alright, little explorer,’ San chuckles, scooping him from the carpet. ‘Time’s up- we’ve got a diaper to change and a sleep sack waiting.’ 

Yeosang answers with an unhappy whimper, body stiffening in protest.  

He wasn’t done yet, after all. 

The older hushes him under his breath, steadying him as he moves towards the changing table.  

One arm secures the boy close, his free hand cupping the back of his head, thumb brushing through his hair.  

‘One, two, three…’ he counts easily, lowering him onto the mat with care. 

The plastic gives a noisy crinkle when he lands, and in return, San presses a warm hand over his tummy, patting lightly as if to say it’s nothing to fear. 

He keeps one arm protectively over him while his other busies itself with gathering what’s needed for the change- pulling a diaper from the stack, dragging the pack of wipes closer and setting the baby cream within reach in case his skin is irritated or sensitive. 

The plastic whispers beneath Sang’s back, cold in patches, and he stares up with his mouth parted, wide eyes never leaving San.  

Every shift feels huge from where he lies, the older’s hands moving above him with calm certainty while his own limbs twitch uselessly at his sides. 

His eyes track each movement- the search for the wipes, the tug of a diaper from the stack- and though he doesn’t yet understand, the waiting swells uncomfortably against his chest. 

When he looks up, San’s features are calm in the amber light, softened by a smile.  

Sang blinks wide, thinking only that such a smile must belong to someone making something gentle, something safe, for him.  

The older looks down, finds the wide eyes clinging to him, and offers a small smile.  

‘Hi, baby.’ 

Yeosang's face curves in a slow, clumsy echo, and the sleepy warmth of it spreads through him until his eyes flutter heavier. 

San instinctively slips the pacifier to his lips, and the younger accepts it without fuss, suckling slow as his eyelids grow heavy and close on their own. 

It’s when fingers linger near the bare skin where his jeans had been tugged away that the fog in his head thins, a prickle of awareness tugging him from the drift. 

Lying down isn’t aimless- there’s a reason- and the thought makes his chest squeeze tight, helplessly distraught.  

In his fussy, drowsy state he bites down on the pacifier, shrinking at the strange contrast of his warm, soft legs against the cold, crinkling mat beneath. 

San dips nearer, his lips shaping hush after hush, a steady comfort above the fuss. 

The older’s touch tugs lightly at his ankles, slipping the white socks from his feet one by one before moving upward.  

Fingers find the snaps at the base of his onesie, clicking them open with ease.  

The soft pop-pop of each button makes Yeosang stir more, the edge of sleep peeling back.  

His mouth wobbles around the pacifier, a restless whine spilling past the plastic as his body twists.  

By the time the fabric is folded upward, the whimper swells into a sob, his face crumpling when San’s fingers brush against the taped edge at his waist. 

His legs kick, twisting sideways until he manages to roll onto his tummy, elbows digging into the mat. 

‘Where are we going, Sangie?’ He asks lightly, catching hold of the back of his onesie to keep him from crawling off.  

His tone is mellow, almost amused, even as he rubs a hand across the fabric to smoothen it. 

Yeosang cries harder, diapered bum sticking up from where he leans forward on his elbows, stubbornly refusing to roll back despite the ache that surfaces from the weight he has to hold.  

San simply hums, working from this angle, rather unbothered by the movement.  

‘Sannie isn’t shy of a challenge, love,’ he says, a faint grin on his face. ‘I can change you rolled around, sideways, upside down- whichever way you want.’ 

His voice softens, more deliberate now.  

‘But because your bum is upward, sweet one, hyungie can’t see where he’s wiping you well. So, unless you want even more fuss over whether you’re cleaned well or not, I suggest you roll back.’ 

He strokes a careful hand over Sang’s side, coaxing him tenderly until he tips onto his back again. 

The change sparks another whimper, then a sob bursts loud into the room, Sang’s face crumpling as he immediately flips himself back to his stomach.  

This time, his elbows give out beneath him, and he tucks his knees under his body, wiggling forward in a clumsy crawl. 

San blinks, a chuckle escaping. ‘Oh-so turns out you can crawl the proper way. My little butt shuffler.’ 

Yeosang pauses in place, head turning just enough to peek back at him, wide eyes wet and searching to see what the other will do about his clever plan.  

A hum rumbles through his chest, almost content for a fleeting moment, as though he’s won himself a reprieve. 

The edges of San’s mouth curl into a patient hum, unhurried. ‘Alright, your choice then.’ 

He works strategically, fingers fumbling for a moment before finding the diaper tabs at Yeosang’s side.  

One by one he peels them back, and with a practiced tug slides the wet diaper free.  

The motion earns him no victory- the younger only sinks his face into the mat, shoulders quaking, clearly crushed that his tactic hasn’t stopped the change. 

Unbothered, the other keeps his voice measured, offering guidance through anticipation.  

‘Alright, Sangie. Hyungie’s going to grab some wipes,’ he explains, reaching for the packet. ‘We’ve got to clean you up, love.’ 

The first cool swipe makes Yeosang jolt, legs kicking while he twists away, and San has to chase him with each pass.  

‘Stay still for me, dumpling,’ he says, his tone authorative yet soothing. ‘The more you wiggle, the longer it takes.’ 

Bit by bit, he works through the motions until he’s satisfied, tucking the last wipe aside. 

His eyes catch on the faint redness along Sangie’s skin, and he exhales. ‘Looks a little irritated down here. We’ll use some cream, alright?’  

He dips a finger into the ointment, quick and efficient, before rubbing it gently over the tender spots.  

Yeosang lets out a sharp cry, writhing at once from the icy touch and the way San’s fingers follow after, rubbing the cream in.  

One hand flails to the side, fumbling with the tube left within reach on the table, sending it wobbling dangerously close to the edge.  

San catches the tube just as it teeters.  

‘Oh-ho, sneaky hands, trying to outsmart your hyungie?’ He tuts, continuing where he left off. ‘Nice try, but Sannie’s faster.’ 

The playful spark doesn’t hold him for long.  

Yeosang’s body stiffens again, his cries breaking into something raw, loud, and desperate.  

His face crumples red, pacifier bobbing uselessly between sobs as fresh tears streak down. 

‘Almost there,’ he promises, reaching for a fresh diaper.  

He sighs at the awkward angle, trying to figure out how to fold it around Sang from behind, but after a moment of adjusting he manages it, taping each side secure.  

Yeosang manages to cry even louder, shaking his head against the mat, the muffled ‘Mam-mama’ slipping pitched from his lips. 

San checks the edges one last time to be sure it sits right, then softens into a sigh of his own.  

‘All done, little wigglebug. Let’s get your sackie on.’ 

He lifts Yeosang carefully into his arms, folds the sleep sack against the mat, and lowers him back down onto it, ready for the last step of the routine. 

He bends closer, brushing a thumb over Yeo’s wet cheeks, wiping away the tracks of tears as they fall.  

‘Shhh… all done now, baby,’ he murmurs, kissing the corner of his damp temple before coaxing his delicate arms, one by one, into the short sleeves of the sack. 

He keeps the long-sleeved shirt beneath, making sure their little one will be snug enough, safe and warm within the material. 

Then he collects his kicking legs, folding them into the sack with care before drawing the zipper closed in a single glide. 

San peppers his pouty cheek with smooches, smiling at the squirm. ‘That’s it, love. All zipped up and snug for bed.’ 

He brushes his lips one last time against the other’s cheek before lifting him up again, snug against his hip.  

‘Alright, tiny.’ He says in that low, affectionate voice, ‘-time for a book before bed.’ 

He carries him to the neat shelf tucked by the crib, scanning the familiar spines.  

‘Now, what shall it be tonight, hm?’ His hand pauses on a well-worn favorite, its corners softened from use.  

He pulls it free with a smile, angling it so Sang can see the cover. 

‘Aha- this one,’ he chuckles, holding it up. ‘Guess How Much I Love You. Sannie’s favorite. It’s the only way I get to sneak in how much I love you, sweet pea.’ 

He shifts the book in his hand, grinning down at him.  

‘Since you’re such a hard-to-get outside of regression, aren’t you, my little gremlin.’ He tickles Yeosang’s tummy, earning a throaty, wet giggle. 

The book is a simple classic- a story of two hares, Big Nutbrown Hare and Little Nutbrown Hare, taking turns to outdo each other in expressing love, arms stretching wide, ears flopping, always bigger and bigger until it reaches the moon.  

San adores it as much as Yeosang, mostly because it allows him to be dramatic with his storytelling, pulling faces and exaggerating the bunny gestures that never fail to draw out squeaks of delight. 

With the choice made, he settles down on the soft mat in front of the crib, leaning his back against the rails.  

Sang is eased onto his lap, tummy against his chest, the pacifier bobbing contently in his mouth.  

He tucks the blanket edge beneath him for extra comfort, cradling him close while he opens the first page. 

‘Alright, baby,’ he murmurs, angling the book so Sang’s wide eyes can follow. ‘Ready for our story?’ 

He opens the first page with a bright hum, lowering the book across his lap.  

‘Little Nutbrown Hare, who was going to bed…’ he begins, voice lilting into the familiar rhythm- 

But before he can finish that sentence, Yeosang squirms forward, small hands pushing at the book with a pitiful whimper. 

The other blinks, frown tugging at his brows. The little never pushed storytime away- least of all this one.  

He glances down at the boy on his lap, pacifier bobbing with another soft cry, and his chest tightens. 

‘What’s wrong, poppy?’ He asks gently, rubbing a hand over his back. ‘Fresh diaper, full tummy, warm sleep sack… what did hyungie miss?’ 

Instead of answering, the younger pushes at the book with more force, then squirms down from his lap.  

His bottom scoots across the floor in determined shuffles, the pacifier bobbing with every hiccupy breath. 

He makes it all the way to the edge of the hallway door, where he folds his legs beneath him and stretches up on his knees, tiny fingers reaching for the knob. 

The pacifier dips when he pulls it halfway free, his voice breaking raw around it. ‘Mah-ma,’ he pleads, finger jabbing weakly at the door. 

San stays where he is for a moment, the book slipping closed in his hands.  

His expression softens, the coaxing edge gone, replaced by something comprehensive, more tender.  

A pang of pity twists through him at the sight- his little dumpling, so desperate for Hwa that nothing else seems to measure up all that much anymore. 

He rises with a sigh and crosses the short space, slipping his arms around Yeosang before his fingers can fumble at the knob any further.  

He lifts him easily from the floor, tucking him close against his chest. 

‘Mama’s not home right now, remember, love?’ He coos, brushing a hand through Sang’s hair. ‘You’ll see him tomorrow.’ 

Yeosang’s eyes hold longingly on him, wet and questioning.  

When San’s truth doesn’t bend, his pacifier shifts with a muffled sound.  

‘Nwo… mah-ma?’ He points to the door once, then again, each jab of his finger another question mark, begging the answer to change. 

San kisses the top of his head, rocking him lightly. ‘No, love… Mama’s not here tonight. You’ll see him tomorrow, I promise.’ 

At the words, his lip trembles, his entire face quivering with dissatisfaction.  

He shakes his head, slow and stubborn, eyes flicking back to the door as though it might open if he just stares long enough.  

Then he glances up at the older, wide and wet, before turning back again- door, San, door- caught between disbelief and pleading. 

San sighs softly, brushing his hand over the trembling lip. ‘I know, baby. You want Mama so much it hurts, don’t you?’ He murmurs, eyes full of empathy and patience.  

‘But the sooner we sleep, the sooner you’ll see him again. Let’s go back to our book, hm?’ 

The suggestion sparks a sharper cry, Sang’s whole body jolting in protest.  

His face crumples further, tears spilling faster as he wails, pacifier jostling with every breath.  

‘Nooo- don’ whant a bwook!’ The words splinter around his lisp, as though the very thought of a story burns worse than the wait for morning. 

San’s brows soften, though his tone remains firm.  

‘Okay, I hear you, sweetheart. If you don’t want a story, hyungie will just tuck you into bed now, so you can rest.’ 

He lingers on the words, giving the younger a moment to change his mind, to lean back toward the story if he would’ve liked one after all.  

But Yeosang only sobs harder around his pacifier, shoulders shaking against him in a way that makes his answer final. 

It isn’t meant as punishment- San makes sure of that.  A choice is given: bedtime with a book, or without one.  

When the answer is no, he takes it as it is. No fluster, no wheedling if not necessary, guiding him toward the crib with easy steps while soothing Yeosang’s tears with the pad of his thumb and spoken reassurance. 

He lowers him carefully into the crib, fresh sheets waiting to catch his restless body.  

They surround him in soft folds, welcoming even if he doesn’t see them that way just now. 

San bends close, brushing his palm over the boy’s forehead to make sure he isn’t feeling cold without a blanket, then smooths a warm hand across his tummy.  

‘Goodnight, baby,’ he murmurs, voice sympathetic and attentive. ‘Sannie- and the others- are right here. You won’t be alone.’ 

Yeosang turns away from the comfort, rolling onto his stomach with a sharp twist.  

His fluffy tufts bounce while his face collapses into sobs, his body curling small, tight as a ball.  

The sound sharpens into one raw call for Seonghwa, then dribbles into mumbled noise, pacifier knocking against his teeth, words lost somewhere San can’t reach. 

He lingers, unable to help fussing at least a bit- adjusting the sheet here, stroking a hand over Sang’s back there, as if those small touches might ease the fresh sets of tears.  

He pulls the string of the owl music box, setting its humming lullaby adrift through the nursery.  

Then he flicks on the star projector, filling the ceiling with glimmers of blue, green, and gold- tiny constellations spinning slow and pretty over the room.  

He leans on the crib’s rail, letting his hand rest for one last stroke over Yeosang’s back.  

‘I’ll come check on you in a bit, dumpling,’ he promises softly. ‘Sannie’s close.’ 

With that, he straightens and makes for the door, leaving Sang to cry himself down. 

It isn’t neglect, nor hesitation from his side of the fence.  

San knows by now that when Yeosang’s wish for Mama is denied, no other hands will soothe him- not even the kindest or the most patient.  

Any effort to hold him close only fuels the fire, leaving him angrier, fussier, more tangled in his grief.  

Sometimes what Sang needs most is the space to unravel safely, until the storm runs thin and the calm can find him on its own. 

San hears every note of it downstairs. The babymic hums on the counter, spilling each muffled sob and broken plea into the room- and into his chest. 

It isn’t easy- it never is- but he manages to keep himself occupied with some general tasks that needed to be done anyway, cloth in hand while he wipes down the table, one corner at a time.  

When the wood gleams, he turns to the small pile of laundry, folding each shirt and sock with care, the monitor always close by his side. 

Only when both tasks are done does he set the folded stack aside and heads upstairs again, as he has promised.  

He slips into the nursery on silent feet, voice dropping into the petcall he knows Sangie can always hear.  

‘Hey, Sangie~’ he whispers.  

Yeosang turns toward the railing with a broken cry, cheeks blotched red and damp, little hands reaching skyward.  

His lashes cling in tear-wet clumps, and the older knows without question- he’s begging to be scooped close. 

And so, he gathers him with careful hands, folding both boy and sleep sack together into his arms.  

He steadies him by cupping under his waist and thigh, folding one around his upper leg so the other can loosely dangle inside the sack, while the upper one rests secure against his chest.  

With his other hand, he presses Sang’s folded little fist gently to his sternum, the gesture grounding them both. 

San tucks the boy’s head into the crook of his elbow, his free arm sliding to caress the back of his neck.  

He sways them in a slow rhythm, adding small bounces, shushing low against Sang’s hair.  

The weight in his arms grows heavier with exhaustion, but even so, the cries don’t stop.  

They spill out ragged and restless, thin with fatigue, carrying down the hall and into other rooms upstairs. 

The cries are enough to draw Woo to the doorway.  

He pads into the nursery with a scrunched nose, pausing at the sight of San rocking Yeosang close, the boy’s lashes clumped with tears, eyes half-shut but refusing peace, his body wriggling restlessly even in the cradle of arms. 

‘He’s one stubborn little nut,’ Wooyoung mutters, brows creased.  

He leans down a little. ‘Warm arms, soft shushes, your eyes half-closed- and you’re still carrying on? What kind of logic is that, tiny?’ 

Sang answers with a thin whimper, pacifier shifting as though he’s trying to argue his case, the sound wobbling out like a complaint only he understands. 

‘Hm, point made,’ he plays along, nodding before speaking again. ‘-but sweet pea, your hyungie is trying to do yoga in the other room- do you really have to file your complaints this loudly?’ 

The tone, silly and high, makes Yeosang’s sobs catch.  

He still hiccups, but the crying stalls for a beat, wide eyes blinking up at Woo as if the words might make sense. 

But the pause is fragile.  

Within seconds, the cries break raw again, wobbling back into sobs that drag straight to the truth- his yearning for Seonghwa. 

San exhales, giving Wooyoung a look that’s half helpless, half resigned.  

To anyone else it might seem casual, but the younger knows better- it’s the kind of glance that says there’s only so much comfort to give when Sang wants one person alone. 

Woo scans the room, eyes skipping across toys and shelves until they snag on a familiar shape- Boo, ears poking out from behind folded blankets.  

The thought clicks instantly, and he straightens, retreat already in motion. 

‘Be right back,’ he tosses over his shoulder, slipping into the hall with hurried steps toward Seonghwa’s room at the end. 

Not even a minute later, Woo slips back into the nursery, a pink shirt clutched in his hand.  

There’s a small, triumphant smile on his face, the kind that says he believes this might just be the solution. 

Without a word, he steps close and tucks the soft fabric beneath Yeosang’s cheek, where his face is twisted tight into San’s chest.  

The shirt spreads like a precious secret between them, waiting for the little to notice. 

San’s brow arches, surprise flickering.  

It’s the first time he’s seen Woo use one of Hwa’s shirts this way; he hadn’t been there for the bath weeks before, when the fabric had been used for the purpose of coverage altogether.  

Still, he says nothing, only watches as the change unfolds. 

Yeosang’s sniffles stutter, his nose burrowing deeper into the cotton.  

The worn scent is familiar, warm, and his sobs falter at once.  

He mouths weakly at the fabric, tugging it closer as if he could drink the comfort straight from it, until the cries ease into ragged breaths. 

Woo leans in, voice kept hushed so it doesn’t disturb the steadied calm.  

‘He doesn’t have a stuffy like I do, but mine smells like Joong hyung all the time- and it comforts me like crazy.’ His eyes flick to Yeosang, nuzzled into the cotton, then back to San. 

‘When I asked him how Boo still carries his scent even though it has been months, hyung denied it- said it must be the fabric.’ He rolls his eyes, taking another peek at Sang. 

The corners of San’s mouth edge upward, already guessing where the answer lays hidden. 

‘I caught him holding Boo to his chest while sleeping the other day, though. After an hour or so, it was back in my crib where it belonged.’ 

San smirks faintly. ‘Guess our emotionally-composed leader isn’t as tough as he tries to sell himself.’ 

His teasing lingers only a moment before he dips his chin toward the boy bundled against him, voice gentling as he presses a kiss into the tufts of hair.  

‘Smells like Mama, hm, little one?’ 

The words are rhetorical, sweet and low, a reward for the way Yeosang burrows deeper into the shirt with a sleepy hum. 

Woo slips closer, the usual edge of playfulness dimmed into something hushed and warm.  

He bends down, pressing a light kiss to Sang’s damp forehead.  

‘Sweet dreams, tiny,’ he whispers, the words landing in time with the last flutter of lashes giving way to sleep. 

San’s shoulders ease, a smile tugging warm across his face.  

‘Thanks for helping me out,’ he says softly, shifting the younger’s weight to one arm so he can wrap the other briefly around Woo’s waist.  

The quick embrace holds them cozily together- San, Woo, and the little one slumbering contently in their arms. 

He eventually tucks him down in his crib, watching his knees curl faintly towards his chest in the descent.  

His cheeks are warm, rosy with sleep, and his fingers clutch tight at Hwa’s shirt, refusing to let it go.  

San’s palm lingers on his belly, murmuring, ‘Sleep well, baby.’ 

He lingers a moment longer, fingers brushing over the tufts of hair. ‘See you soon,’ he adds, knowing well the night is likely to call him back with another bottle or diaper change. 

It’s a secret joy, the thought of night duty spent with a drowsy Sang curled close. 

And therefore, he closes the door with a soft click, slipping away downstairs with Wooyoung fast behind his steps for a movie night- yoga session long since abandoned.  

When the time comes, he will be ready to return to care for their little one. 

- 

San did take that first night shift, and to everyone’s surprise, it passed with far less trouble than before- thanks to Seonghwa’s shirt, and Wooyoung’s idea to offer it in the first place.         

The fabric stayed tucked close in Sang’s grip, pressed to his cheek through bottles, burps, and even the fuss of diaper changes.  

Whenever he stirred awake, the shirt’s scent did half the work, and San only had to nudge him gently back into dreams. 

Over the other weeks that followed, their rhythm of divided caregiving grew.  

The shirt became a steady companion in the crib, a comfort whenever Hwa’s arms could not be present.  

That didn’t mean miracles- diaper changes still sparked their battles, and Seonghwa himself was deeply yearned for when being fed fruits and dinners, despite the appearance of a shirt in reach. 

It also wasn’t without its rough nights- things could grow ugly pretty quick when the item failed to measure up, when only Hwa’s arms would do.  

And when it came to that, Seonghwa more than welcomed him in, despite the time of night, cradling him against the warmth of his chest in the hush of his own room. 

More than once, the bottle lay forgotten at their side while they drifted into slumber together, and come morning the others would find them curled close, sleeping the dawn hours away in peace. 

In the end, they learned to bend around the things Yeosang resisted week by week, choosing their moments with care- saving baths for the times when Seonghwa wasn’t on schedule, so Sang could soak without the torment of Hwa being close yet out of reach. 

They found their peace in balance.  

Age regression, for Yeosang, was meant to be a place of comfort and delight, with the harder waves passing through but never allowed to cling too long. 

And if compromise was needed now and then- whether in bath times, dinners at Hwa’s lead, or diapers changed by sacred hands- then they made it gladly, with nothing but love. 

- 

‘Mama’s home~’ Seonghwa calls as he steps into the living room, a small bundle wrapped in thin paper held carefully in his hand. 

At once, Sangie wiggles forward on his bum, the happy scoot carrying him straight to Seonghwa’s feet, smile bright and beaming. 

His hands tilt expectantly, reaching to be lifted.  

The eldest bends without hesitation, sweeping him up from the floor into his arms. 

‘Mama’s brought you a present, little poppy,’ Hwa murmurs, tapping the crinkled package against Sang’s tummy. 

The little one babbles back in a tumble of sounds- nonsense threaded with joy bouncing in his voice as if he already knows what treasure is hidden inside. 

From the couch, the others grin at the sight, warmth tugging at their faces as they watch the reunion unfold. 

Crossing the room, Seonghwa eases down among the others, the younger perched snug in his lap when he exchanges soft greetings. 

The gift still rests in his hand, thin paper crinkling softly.  

The others already know what waits inside- Wooyoung especially, his grin wide and brimming with anticipation, certain Sang will love it. 

‘Go on, little one,’ The oldest murmurs, guiding the package into his hands. ‘You can unwrap it.’ 

The younger beams, then immediately tries in his own way, mouth opening while he leans forward to nibble on the paper.  

The sight draws a ripple of laughter, Seonghwa helping him fondly, peeling back the edges with patient fingers. 

The last fold of paper gives way, and a small bundle slips into Yeosang’s lap.  

Curled and soft, it looks almost like a teddy flattened into the shape of a blanket-rounded ears at the top, a plump little body stitched in fluffy loops of caramel-brown.  

Its arms stretch wide in welcome, the whole thing no heavier than a cloud. 

Yeosang’s eyes widen, hands patting over the curly fabric in wonder. 

‘Who’s that sweet friend in your lap, love?’ The older coaxes, his smile blooming as he brushes back the tufts of hair from his forehead. 

The younger babbles, pressing his palms into the bear’s chest as though testing its softness. 

Seonghwa helps him curl the soft bundle closer. ‘Shall we have a smell?’ he suggests, lifting a corner to his own nose before guiding it to Sang’s. 

He burrows in, breathes deep- and then, out of nowhere, whispers a lisped and careful, ‘Tiwpy.’ 

The room goes quiet in surprise, every eye drawn to him.  

Wooyoung is the first to break, grinning wide.  

‘Is that what he’s called? Tippy?’ he asks, delight threading through his voice. 

Sang nods, shy but certain, arms hugging the bear closer.  

The name is his, and the others accept it with fond smiles, knowing it could have come from no one else. 

The bear isn’t only soft- it carries Seonghwa with it.  

Hidden deep inside, safely tucked beneath layers of fluff, is a little scent pouch crafted just for Yeosang.  

It holds the mixture he knows best- Mama’s laundry scent folded with the sweetness of black opium perfume, sealed in a way that keeps it safe for nibbling and chewing.  

Each year, the cover can be replaced, the scent renewed, but for now it drifts warm and steady, exactly as if Hwa himself were holding him. 

The older brushes a thumb over Sang’s flushed cheek, tilting his smile into something playful.  

‘You know, Mama only has so many worn shirts,’ he teases softly.  

‘-and though I’ll still let you borrow one every now and then, I think Tippy is a much nicer friend to cuddle close to, don’t you think?’ 

Yeosang glances up at him, eyes shining from where he searches for Hwa’s.  

Then, with all the warmth he can muster, he leans forward until his forehead presses to Seonghwa’s, a clumsy but certain gesture of thanks.  

Their noses brush, folding into a tiny eskimo kiss, and the oldest laughs softly, the sound full of love. 

‘Wuv Mah-ma.’ 

Seonghwa’s smile deepens, his forehead still pressed close.  

‘To the moon and back.’