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Rumi jolts awake, momentarily unsure what has pulled her so abruptly out of sleep, nearly drawing her saingeom from the Honmoon on pure instinct as she blinks her vision into focus.
Smack. Another open-palm slap to her face.
An excited squeal.
Rumi relaxes, a smile playing at her lips as she pretends to drop back into sleep.
A slight rustle, a rush of air, another giggle—
Rumi catches the hand flying in her direction, folds it into a fist to kiss all over the pudgy little knuckles, and pulls Ara down to her chest to break the squeals of excitement with a tickle attack.
Zoey and Mira, miraculously, sleep through all of it.
Exhausted, she thinks fondly, ignoring the heavy drag of her own body as she clambers awkwardly out of bed while holding a squirmy toddler against her chest. Their daughter is still far from being a solid sleeper, and though Zoey tends to take the brunt of it in the small hours, Mira'd had a beast of a time getting her down last night.
These early morning hours are Rumi's shift, and for a long while they had been idyllic, Ara cooing from her playmat while Rumi sipped her coffee and watched the sun rise over the city.
But then Ara had learned to crawl, and then walk, and now she was working on running and climbing and generally trying to off herself every moment of every day (Rumi had a new sympathy for what Mira and Zoey were dealing with from her in the days before her pattern reveal). Rumi would love to throttle their younger selves for allowing the architects free rein on the penthouse design, because it turned out to be impossible to babyproof.
And now she is on one-man defense in the Ara vs the stairs battle, whilst knowing that if she doesn't get some food into that little belly pronto she'd have a little demon (metaphorical. Mostly. Probably?) on her hands.
Rumi used to love multitasking. Used to swear she was really good at it. Even learned to juggle, which was a joke until she found out it turned Zoey on, and—
Shit. She drops the box of pancake mix and dives to grab Ara, teetering determinedly at the top of the stairs that drop down into the living room.
It might only be three steps, but they're made of marble, and the landing is wood, and one busted nose and split lip was enough for Rumi to be exceedingly paranoid about letting Ara experiment on her own.
"Not so fast, aegiya," Rumi squints at her disapprovingly. Ara, who either does not notice or does not care, kicks and squirms to be put down so she can go right back to the tomfoolery Rumi so rudely interrupted.
So begins the battle.
Rumi sets Ara down—into her playpen.
Rumi tries to go back to making breakfast.
Ara screams until she turns red.
Rumi picks her up. Ara wiggles insistently to be put down.
Rumi puts her in the playpen.
Ara screams.
By their fourth round Rumi hasn't even managed to pull a pan out of the cupboard, and she's ready to throw in the towel.
In desperation, she lures Ara into the kitchen by undoing the child locks on a few of the lower cupboards and giving her free range of the crockery. A drum made from an expensive pot and worn wooden spoon is a more reasonable interruption to work around than running laps around the living area.
Aside from the headache.
That's fine. Rumi's worked through worse.
But their daughter's attention span is notably shorter than even Zoey's, and it doesn't take long before she loses interest in her makeshift drum and sets about diligently pulling every item out of the unlocked cupboards.
She's quiet, though, and she's occupied. Rumi sighs in relief and turns to rummage through the fridge for the last few ingredients to whip up some pancake batter—
Thud.
An ear-piercing wail.
Rumi spins, heart in her throat, eyes darting about the living space until she finally spots Ara, starfished on top of that stupid in-floor fish tank; she must have been trying to climb the waterfall edge again, and it had gone—as anyone but a toddler could predict—poorly.
Exceedingly poorly. The goose egg developing on her forehead is visible even before Rumi is all the way across the room.
And, okay, it's not like Rumi is a stranger to injuries. Even before she was Honmoon-touched, she'd been a very "busy child", as Celine likes to say. Her life had been structured, regimented; an assortment of private tutors for her core subjects alongside hunter lessons with Celine, the only untouchable blocks in her very full calendar.
But outside of her lessons, Rumi had been a solitary figure with long hours to fill entertaining herself while Celine was pulled away to one commitment or another. And Rumi, always given to testing her own limits, had figured out just how hard she could play in the fields and forest around the hanok.
Climbing trees, searching for salamanders in the creek, scouring for fallen limbs in the forest and dragging them back to the courtyard to build forts and command pretend battles with her stuffed animals and the more tolerant chickens of their home flock—well, hardly a day had gone by that small Rumi hadn't come home covered in mud and blood and bruises.
She'd broken her arm at five, falling out of a tree, and had been so impervious to the pain that even Celine had gotten nervous and dragged her to an actual doctor's office for testing.
Totally normal, he'd reassured Celine after some basic exams. Some kids are just like that, particularly the more reckless types. He'd raised an eyebrow when Celine had hurriedly declined the "just in case" genetic testing and dragged Rumi from the office.
Now it's just one of the things on the list Zoey has in the back of her notebook, "weird stuff that might be a demon thing or might just be Rumi", alongside inhaling kimbap whole and the way she purrs when they rub behind her ears. Normal parts of their lives, demon-influenced or not.
It's still up in the air whether Ara is carrying much—or any—of Rumi's DNA, surprise gift from the Honmoon that she was, but what is already patently clear is that she has at least one mega-dose of recklessness from Zoey's side, and it is not accompanied by Rumi's resistance to pain.
Rumi had wanted to be a chill parent the way Celine had been (about this, at least); matter of fact about injuries, patching them up without a fuss and letting Rumi learn from experience.
Now, with Ara screaming bloody murder directly into her ear as Rumi scoops her up and nuzzles into her, Rumi feels the last remaining scraps of that dream shrivel and die.
Ara's distress tugs at her heartstrings in a way she has no defense against, and Rumi feels guilt welling inside her in a new and terrifying way, thick enough to choke on. Mom guilt is nothing to sneeze at. She has to clear her throat before she can start humming wordless comfort to her wailing child.
Although she's not even sure Ara can hear it, over the screaming. She pulls the toddler into her tighter, moves the hum into her chest until the vibrations are palpable.
It takes an age or three but finally Ara's tears begin to slow, petering out to shuddering breaths and intermittent whines as she remembers she's upset about something.
"Owie," she whimpers into Rumi's ear, and Rumi adds it to the (very short) mental list of words Ara can say that the doctor will, apparently, ask for at her 18-month check up. They hadn't had anything prepared for her one year appointment, and the squint of disapproval the doctor had fixed them with was so reminiscent of Celine's that she can still feel a shiver of shame down her spine when she thinks back on it.
"I know, aegiya," Rumi croons and sways. "Let's get you fixed up, hmmm?"
There's no blood, no real wound to clean up, but Rumi pulls a bag of peas from the freezer and props Ara on the countertop next to the now-ignored ingredients for breakfast, pressing it to the growing knot on her forehead.
But if Ara's attention span is tiny to begin with, it depletes at a notable extra speed when asked to sit still.
"Yum," she says, wiggling backwards to eye the bag of peas before the hand Rumi is using to hold it even has a chance to feel the chill. That word is already on Rumi's list. She deflates, pulling back in turn to examine Ara. Her forehead is still red, but the knot is no longer growing, having stabilized at the size of a medium-to-large egg.
"Yum," Rumi agrees. "Hungry?" she offers, feeling the grinding emptiness of her own stomach yawn open again now that she's given it a scrap of attention. "Why don't you stay right there and help make breakfast, hmm?"
It does not go swimmingly—there are eggshells and smears of eggwhite across the counters, a puddle of spilled milk doing its best to blend in with the marble, and a dusting of pancake mix across both Rumi and Ara's faces—but one tantrum later about not being allowed to stand on the counter, Ara is happily crouched down and shoveling frozen peas into her mouth while Rumi flips the first round of pancakes on the stove.
The smell is, predictably, what finally draws Mira and Zoey downstairs.
"Oh, thank god," Rumi says, then has to drop her spatula to lunge for Ara, already getting into position to throw herself off the counter into Zoey's arms. Zoey is, for one, still several feet away and two, blinded by a long yawn and unaware of Ara's impulsive decision to see if she has wings.
"Good morning," she says, pressing Ara into Zoey's unsuspecting arms. "Tag, you're it."
"Good morning, mandu," Zoey mumbles, eyes still half-closed as she kisses loudly all over Ara's cheeks until she squeals loudly enough for Zoey to turn and promptly deposit her into Mira's waiting arms.
By the time she makes it back to the stove, Zoey has attached herself to Rumi's back with a sleepy groan. As soon as they are still, she lets her muscles go lax until her grip around Rumi's torso is the only thing keeping her upright.
"Morning," she mumbles into Rumi's shoulder blade. "Are those really pancakes? Am I dreaming?"
"Did you get any time to dream last night?"
"No," Zoey whines. "At one point she was so restless she managed to set off the earthquake alert on my phone. I didn't even know that was possible, Ru."
"Good morning, trouble. What happened here?" Mira is talking to Ara, her voice more wry than concerned. Rumi feels Zoey's head lift from her back, turning to look as well, and then the vibrations of a low groan shiver through her.
"Fish tank," Rumi says simply. Given that it's at least the third time this month, no further explanation is required.
"Here, these are yours," she says magnanimously to Zoey as she plates the first stack, even as her own stomach growls. "You earned them."
"Um, the baby?" Mira checks, even as Ara is wiggling out of her arms, insistent on being put down.
"She's so full of frozen peas that if you give her anything else you're going to have to call the bomb squad and tell them you popped our baby."
"So why won't she eat them when they're cooked?"
"That is far from the top of the list of questions I have."
"What's at the top?"
"Is she going to give herself brain damage before she learns to talk?" Rumi doesn't even have to pause to think about it.
"Probably," Zoey says from where she's pouring an ungodly amount of fake syrup across her pancakes. "Because you filled her up with peas. She won't eat with us and she is definitely going to hurt herself again while we're trying to eat."
Rumi and Mira groan in unison.
"Three man defense?" Mira checks. Who knew battle formations would still be relevant to their lives after their rebuilt Honmoon sealed off demon incursions for good.
"We really need to move somewhere that is baby proofable," Rumi sighs. "We'll rotate. Mira, you're on deck first."
It is much, much easier with the three-to-one ratio; Rumi is able to lock in on cooking while Zoey wolfs down her food and then trades spots with Mira to take over Ara duty.
Ara, who is still obsessing over the access hatch to the in-floor aquarium, despite the fact that she's still proudly displaying her battle wound from no more than a half hour ago.
By the time Rumi sits down with an exhausted sigh to eat her own breakfast, Ara has forgotten how full of peas she is and appears at Rumi's side, mouth open like a little bird begging wordlessly for a bite.
Rumi complies, cutting carefully at the parts of her pancake not drenched in syrup. It only takes a few bites before Ara wanders away again and Rumi can enjoy the rest of her breakfast for herself—
Zoey leans in, mouth open and a sly grin pulling her lips taut. Rumi sighs again, indulgent, spearing a bite and holding it out to Zoey before suddenly pulling back, a frown furrowing her brow.
"Kiss tax," she demands. Zoey responds immediately, pressing a performatively loud smack to her lips before leaning back and opening her mouth again.
"Do you think maybe the Honmoon just like, cloned Zoey?" Rumi muses. Zoey, chewing with a now very full mouth, makes an indignant sound which is promptly ignored.
"I wouldn't blame it. She is the cutest," Mira agrees, and Rumi takes her turn to squeak indignantly. "Oh, shush," Mira scolds. "I know you're everyone's type but look—she even does that thing Zoey does where she gets worse at walking when her stomach is really full. Look at her."
Which is why they're all watching as Ara stumbles, goes down on her knees hard, and smacks the other side of her head on that stupid glass piano. They hold their breath, but the discordant clang it emits at the impact is apparently enough to distract Ara from crying, as she stares up at the monstrosity in wonder.
"Nope," Mira says, swooping in to scoop her up as Ara's eyes light up with a clear plan to go to town on the keys. "Too early for that. Let me look at your head."
"Do you think the doctor is going to judge us for how many bruises she has?" Rumi might be perpetually haunted by the spectre of their pediatrician.
"I think it's normal?" Even Zoey sounds a little doubtful.
"We need to move," Mira says from the ground, where she's laid down to entice Ara to use her as a jungle gym instead of something less forgiving. "I know we keep saying it, but this is really not sustainable. Even with all three of us we're barely keeping her alive because this place is impossible to babyproof. And wouldn't it be nice for her to have a yard?"
"Yeah," Rumi's agreement is wistful, fed by thoughts of mud fights and fort building and also two minutes for them to sit down and put their feet up while Ara safely entertains herself. "Do you ever think about how toddlers survived the stone age? Like, we think this is hard…"
"Well, a lot of them didn't," Mira deadpans, and Rumi throws a pillow at her. Ara squeals in excitement and uses it to smack Mira in the face with surprising force from her tiny little muscles.
"Well, actually, basically like this!" Zoey's voice settles immediately into her infodumping pace as she ignores everything happening on the floor. "They were more communal so they took turns supervising—all of the adults were responsible for all of the kids. And then once they were walking toddlers were absorbed into these multi-age playgroups where the older kids were responsible for the younger ones, and—"
"I know, you told me this last week, but… it just must have been so much harder when everything was stone?"
Zoey is, remarkably, struck silent by this, turning her big brown eyes to Rumi and blinking at her slowly.
"Heeeeey Rumi," Zoey's tone immediately puts her on edge, her muscles tensing for flight. "Do you think stone age means that… the whole world was made of stone?"
"…N-nooooooo, of course not!"
"Rumi?"
"Well they lived in caves!"
"Not usually, and answer the question, Ru."
"I mean, it's called the stone age because they were like, making everything out of stone, right?"
"Yeah," Zoey agrees slowly, "but what do you think the rest of the world looked like?"
Her miserable face must give her away. On the floor, Mira starts howling, ceasing all attempts at keeping Ara from smothering her with the pillow, which immediately muffles the sound of Mira's wheezing as Ara crows in triumph.
Zoey stares. Blinks. Opens her mouth. Closes it again. Closes her eyes and rubs at her temples. Yanks the hair ties off her wrist and pulls her hair up into her signature buns, ready to take on the world. Or at least, this brewing conversation that is clearly about to wreck the rest of their morning.
Rumi groans into her hands.
Mira's muffled laughter continues unabated.
"I don't—well if you think about the ice age!" Rumi blusters.
"No, we're not having this argument," Mira tries to say—Rumi thinks, it's hard to tell between her continued wheezing and Ara's attempt to smother her to death.
Zoey can't help but take the bait.
"She kinda has a point, actually—"
"No," Mira sits up abruptly, tipping Ara off of her but catching her before she hits the ground, setting her carefully on her feet. "No," she's pointing at them now. "Everything was not made of ice in the—you know what? Sure. Yeah. Forget the stone age, what about keeping toddlers alive in the ice age? You should've seen those babies, slipping and sliding all over the place."
"I bet even when they lived in caves they had animal fur rugs down to soften the ground. And I don't think it would be that much more challenging to keep them alive in the ice age. They're so small, you'd only have to kill like one caribou to outfit an entire childhood's worth of fur clothing."
"Are you being serious?" Mira is squinting at Zoey while holding Ara by the back of her shirt as she tries to crawl away." Rumi was at least homeschooled, but you're making it sound like the American education system has a lot to account for."
"It does." Zoey's tone shifts to a teasing sugar-brightness. "Some of us didn't go to private school, Mira."
It's Mira's turn to ignore her. "Hey Rumi, what do you think the world looked like in the bronze age? Or the iron age?"
Rumi winces. Okay, so maybe she's only now realizing how pretty much all of her history lessons with Celine were focused on the history of the Honmoon and the generations of hunters that had preceded them. And now that Mira mentions it she does vaguely remember hearing those other eras mentioned in passing—
"Rumi," Zoey sounds unusually serious as she cuts in. "When I made you watch the Flintstones with me, did you think it was a documentary?"
It's enough to set off Mira's wheezing again, rolling to all fours so she can pound at the floor dramatically. Ara gleefully scales her to sit on her back and kick at Mira's sides with her heels, trying to prod her forward like a pony.
"No!" Rumi can feel her face dropping into a pout. "It's a cartoon, Zoey, I'm not an idiot."
Mira makes a sound of disbelief that fades into a groan as Ara nails her in the kidney.
"But you did think the entire world was made of stone?" Rumi embiggens her eyes at Zoey and levels her with a pitiful look, begging for the subject to be dropped. Zoey softens, a touch, but does not otherwise find mercy in her heart. "Toddlers in the stone age would've mostly been falling on, like, soil or grass, which is much softer than the wood-and-marble floor sitch we have going on here."
"Yeah, they should've named it the Soil and Grass age. Totally misleading," Mira can finally take a full breath and return to deadpan as Ara has moved on to greener pastures (hiding under the coffee table). "Hey Rumi, did you know the world wasn't actually black and white before color television was invented?"
Rumi is saved from the rest of the conversation by another resounding thud, and then a wail.
"When did she even get over there?" Zoey leaps right over the back of the couch, scooping Ara up from the bottom of the stairs. "Safe!" she calls after she finishes her inspection, dangling Ara upside-down from her ankles, her tears turning to giggles.
"I'm telling Bobby to find us a realtor today," Mira's statement is firm, and Rumi nods along with it.
"I think we should find a place on Jeju, raise her there. Just like I was!" Rumi is too excited at the prospect to contain herself. "And I turned out just fine!"
Mira stares at her, thinking hard. "Let me check into private school options first."
"Alternatively, I came across an interesting homeschool curriculum on TikTok the other day-"
"We don't need, there are plenty of tutors-" Zoey and Rumi are speaking over each other until Mira cuts them both off with a frown and a scoff that Rumi is going to make her gargle saltwater for later.
"We are not using the same tutors you had, Rumi, and we are definitely not schooling our child using fucking TikTok. This is ragebait, right? You're ragebaiting me."
Rumi opens her mouth to argue—she's not, really; demon-related things aside, she had quite an idyllic childhood—when Ara's little voice breaks into the conversation with a giggle.
"TikTok!" she chirps.
They all stare. Rumi sighs and tallies the addition to Ara's word list. She has three moms, so the fact that Ara has now said "TikTok" before "mama" is driving her up the wall, never mind what the doctor is going to have to say about it.
Oh. Rumi brightens. Moving means a chance to start over with a new doctor. She's going to make sure they impress the hell out of—
"Fucking TikTok!"