Chapter Text
⭑ 𓂃 ˗ˏˋ ౨ৎ ˎˊ˗ 𓂃 ⭑
The last crayon was a beautiful shade of cerulean blue, and you didn’t want to let it go. The paper in front of you was a vibrant, chaotic masterpiece of swirls and shapes, a perfect reflection of the happy buzz in your head. Letting go of the crayon meant letting go of the feeling, and that was simply unacceptable.
“Come on, my star,” Seonghwa’s voice was a soft melody, a gentle counterpoint to the storm building in your chest. “We had such a good time coloring, didn’t we? Look at your beautiful picture. But now it’s time to be a good helper and put our friends away.”
You gripped the blue crayon tighter, the waxy texture familiar and comforting. From the corner of your eye, you saw him, your Mommy, patiently gathering the other scattered crayons from the tabletop and dropping them with soft plinks into the plastic container. Each plink felt like a countdown to an end you weren’t ready for.
“No,” you mumbled, the word thick in your throat.
“I know, little one. It’s hard to stop when you’re having fun.” Seonghwa’s hand, warm and steady, landed on your shoulder. “But we clean up our toys so we can find them again next time. It’s part of the game.”
It’s not a game, you thought, the frustration bubbling hotter. The happy buzz was turning into a sharp, staticky hum. He just didn’t understand. The picture wasn’t finished. The blue sky needed more clouds. If you stopped now, the whole thing would be ruined, forever incomplete.
“Y/n,” Seonghwa said, his tone firmer, though still layered with that infinite patience. “The activity is done. Hand me the crayon, please.”
Please. The word was a trigger. It meant a choice, and you felt like you had no choices at all. The static exploded into a white-hot wave of pure defiance. Before you could even think, your arm swung out, not at Seonghwa, never at him, but at the source of the plinks, the symbol of the ending.
Your hand connected with the side of the crayon container. It sailed off the table with a shocking clatter, hitting the floor and bursting open. A rainbow of crayons exploded across the hardwood, rolling and scattering in every direction, a chaotic mosaic of your anger.
The room went very, very quiet.
You froze, your own breath loud in your ears. The defiance evaporated, leaving only a cold, sick dread. You slowly looked up from the colorful mess on the floor to Seonghwa’s face. His expression wasn’t angry. It was… surprised. And hurt. The look in his eyes, a flicker of disappointment, was a thousand times worse than any shout.
Then movement came from the armchair by the fireplace. Hongjoong had been reading, a silent, observant presence. He closed his book with a deliberate, soft thump. The sound was more final than any slam. He placed it on the side table and stood up.
You’d seen Hongjoong, your Daddy, in many moods: playful, stern, endlessly encouraging. This was different. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t even moving fast. But as he walked across the room, each step measured and quiet, the air itself seemed to thicken and chill. His gaze wasn’t on the mess. It was locked on you, and the stern set of his jaw, the tight line of his mouth, spoke of a calm, deep upset that made your stomach drop.
Seonghwa saw it too. He moved instantly, stepping between Hongjoong’s path and your chair. “Joong,” he said, his voice low but carrying a clear, firm warning.
“He just threw that at you,” Hongjoong said, his voice dangerously even. He didn’t stop walking until he was right beside his wife, looking down at you over Seonghwa’s shoulder. The full force of his displeasure was a physical weight.
“He didn’t throw it at me,” Seonghwa corrected softly, but firmly. He placed a hand on Hongjoong’s chest, a gentle but undeniable barrier. “He’s frustrated. He’s in his headspace and he doesn’t have the words.”
“He has the actions,” Hongjoong countered, his eyes still on you. “And that action was disrespectful. To you. To this space. He needs to understand that isn’t tolerated. He needs a proper punishment, Seonghwa. This gentle talk isn’t getting through.”
The word ‘punishment’ from Hongjoong’s lips, spoken in that tone, shattered the last of your composure. The dread and shame morphed back into a overwhelming, helpless frustration. A sob ripped from your throat. You couldn’t stay in the chair. You slithered out of it, your body going boneless, and melted onto the floor beside the spilled crayons. The cool wood pressed against your cheek as the tears came, hot and fast.
“I w-wanted to keep c-coloring!” you wailed into the floorboards, the words barely intelligible between hiccupping sobs. “You’re m-making me stop! It’s n-not fair! Now it’s all r-ruined!”
You heard Hongjoong let out a slow, controlled breath above you. “This is what I mean. He’s not regulating. He needs clear boundaries and consequences.”
“He is new,” Seonghwa stressed, his voice dropping into a private, marital register, though you could still hear it. “This is his first time trusting people like this. He’s fighting himself as much as he’s fighting us. The balance is hard for him to find.” A long pause. Then, softer, “Let me handle this, babe. Please.”
Another beat of tense silence. Then, the sound of Hongjoong’s footsteps retreating, back toward the fireplace. The oppressive weight lifted a fraction.
You felt, rather than saw, Seonghwa lower himself to the floor beside you. He didn’t pull you up immediately. He just sat there, his presence a warm, steady anchor in the storm of your misery. After a minute, his hand began to rub slow, comforting circles on your back.
“Oh, little one,” he sighed, the hurt gone from his voice, replaced by that endless well of care. “That was a really big feeling, wasn’t it?”
The sobs began to quiet, worn out by their own intensity, soothed by his touch and his voice. You nodded miserably against the floor.
“Can you sit up for me? Let’s talk.”
It took a monumental effort, but you pushed yourself up, curling your knees to your chest. You couldn’t look at him, your gaze fixed on a scattered green crayon.
“We had fun coloring,” Seonghwa began, his tone conversational, not accusatory. “And then I said it was time to clean up. That made you feel angry and sad because the fun was ending.”
You gave another small nod.
“Feeling that way is okay. Everyone feels that way sometimes,” he said. “But what is not okay is what you did with that feeling. You made a mess on purpose. You scared me when you hit the container. And you were very disrespectful when you ignored my words and broke our rule about cleaning up. Do you understand the difference?”
The logic, presented so calmly, pierced through the residual fog of your upset. You hadn’t thought about scaring him. The shame returned, cleaner and sharper this time. “Yes, Mommy,” you whispered, your voice hoarse.
“Good boy for understanding,” he said, and the praise, even now, sent a tiny flicker of warmth through you. “Because of those actions, there needs to be a consequence. You are going to go sit on the bottom step of the stairs for a time-out. You will sit there quietly and think about how you behaved. When the timer goes off, we will talk again. Do you understand?”
Time-out. The words sparked a fresh panic, a childish fear of isolation. Your lower lip trembled, and a new tear escaped. “But I’m s-sorry! I don’t w-want to!”
“I know you’re sorry, my star,” Seonghwa said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. “And the time-out is not because I’m angry. It’s to help you calm down and remember. Five minutes.” He held up his hand, five fingers extended. Then he reached out and gently wiped the tear from your cheek with his thumb. “And if you sit there quietly and do your thinking like a good boy, without fuss, when you come back… we can see if there’s enough time to draw two more clouds in that blue sky before dinner. Okay?”
The offer was a lifeline, a promise of redemption and a return to the lost joy. It made the punishment feel less like a banishment and more like a difficult, but necessary, task. The crying stopped abruptly, caught in your throat. You sniffled, looking at his kind, firm face, and nodded.
⭑ 𓂃 ˗ˏˋ ౨ৎ ˎˊ˗ 𓂃 ⭑
The bottom step is cool and hard through your thin sweatpants. You curl in on yourself, arms wrapped around your knees, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You can’t see them. The stairway wall cuts you off from the living room. But you can hear everything.
The soft, repeated plinks of crayons being dropped back into their container. A sigh.
“I still think that wasn’t enough.” Hongjoong’s voice is low, a quiet rumble that carries. It’s not the angry tone from before. It’s thoughtful. And that’s somehow worse.
“We talked about this,” Seonghwa responds. His voice is closer, probably still kneeling by the crayon mess. “He’s new to this. To us. He’s still figuring out how to be in this headspace with other people. It’s fragile.”
“That’s exactly why,” Hongjoong insists. The sound of his footsteps, pacing near the fireplace. “If we’re lenient now, he’ll learn that big, disrespectful outbursts are how he gets his way when he’s feeling little. We need to set the harder lines now. Clear expectations. Clear, immediate consequences. Then, once he’s learned the structure, we can soften. It’ll be a reward for him, even. He’ll feel safer knowing exactly where the walls are.”
A long pause. Only the sound of more crayons being collected.
“And what if those walls feel like a prison?” Seonghwa’s voice is quieter now, but it has an edge you rarely hear. “What if he just shuts down? Or worse, decides this whole dynamic isn’t worth the risk? We didn’t bring a little into our home just to punish him, Joong. We wanted the laughter. The cuddles. The joy of caring for someone. You wanted that too.”
“Of course I did.” Hongjoong’s reply is swift, defensive. “I do. You know I do. I’m not some… disciplinarian monster. I just… I saw him knock that container toward you, and I saw the look on your face. It got to me. I can’t stand the thought of anyone disrespecting you, especially not someone we’re supposed to be protecting.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. You press your forehead harder against your knees. A burden. You’re a burden. You’re causing problems between them. The thought is a cold, sharp stone in your gut. Hot tears well up again, silent this time, soaking into the fabric of your pants.
“I know it did,” Seonghwa says, his tone softening. “And that means you care. That’s good. But you have to trust me on this. My approach isn’t about being permissive. The time-out is a consequence. It’s a loss of privilege and a moment of forced reflection. It’s just not a… a scary one. He needs to learn that our authority is safe. That even when we’re firm, we’re not a threat. Can you try to see it from his side for a minute? Imagine being that vulnerable again. Feeling that big, uncontrollable frustration with no adult tools to manage it. And then the two people you’re relying on to guide you seem to be at odds because of you.”
Another silence stretches. It’s thick, heavy. You imagine them looking at each other, having a whole conversation with just their eyes the way they sometimes do. You hold your breath.
“Fine,” Hongjoong says finally. The word is a surrender, but not a bitter one. It’s tired. Resigned. “Your way. For now. But, Hwa… we have to be on the same page eventually. He can’t play us off each other. He can’t think you’re the soft touch and I’m the bad guy.”
“He won’t,” Seonghwa says, confidence returning to his voice. “Because we will be on the same page. It just might be a page I’ve bookmarked for a little while longer. Now help me find the burnt sienna. It rolled under the armchair.”
The conversation shifts. The tension bleeds out of the air, replaced by the mundane sounds of cleaning. A chair scrapes. A soft grunt as someone bends down. The final, definitive click of the crayon bin lid closing.
But the stone in your gut hasn’t dissolved. Their words loop in your head. Harsher punishments. Harder lines. Disrespectful. Because of you.
You wipe your face on your sleeve, but the tears keep coming, a quiet, shameful leak. You want to be good. You want to be the little one who brings laughter and cuddles, not arguments and strife. The promise of two more clouds on your drawing feels like a lie you don’t deserve. How can you color again when you’ve made everything so tense and wrong?
You hear their footsteps move toward the kitchen. The murmur of voices continues, but it’s indistinct now, just a low hum of domesticity. You’re alone with the echo of their disagreement.
The timer on Seonghwa’s phone hasn’t gone off yet. The five minutes feel like an eternity. You’re supposed to be thinking about your behavior, about the mess and the disrespect. And you are. But mostly, you’re thinking about the hurt on Seonghwa’s face, the stern disappointment in Hongjoong’s eyes, and the fact that your name was in the middle of a tense, hushed argument between the two people you most want to please.
A floorboard creaks. Light footsteps approach the stairway. Not the brisk, solid tread of Hongjoong’s boots. The softer, nearly soundless step of Seonghwa’s socks on hardwood.
He doesn’t come around the corner to see you. He stops just on the other side of the wall. You can see the faint shadow of him on the opposite wall. He’s leaning against the doorframe, just… being there.
“Two more minutes, little star,” he says, his voice gentle, aimed into the empty living room but meant solely for you. It’s not a check-up. It’s not a reprimand. It’s just… a connection. A reminder that you aren’t forgotten in your exile.
The simple acknowledgment breaks something open inside you. A fresh, silent sob shakes your shoulders. You clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. You don’t want him to hear. You don’t want to be more trouble.
But he must sense it. The shadow on the wall shifts. You hear him take a slow, deep breath.
“It’s okay to feel big feelings,” he says, his voice still that soft, conversational tone, as if he’s talking to himself. “Even the sad and scary ones. And it’s okay if it takes time to learn what to do with them. We have time.”
He’s not just talking about the tantrum. He’s talking about this. About the overheard conversation. About the stone of guilt in your stomach. He knows. Of course he knows. He always seems to know.
The shadow pushes off the wall. “One more minute. You’re doing so well sitting so quietly.”
His footsteps retreat back toward the kitchen.
The timer on his phone dings, a cheerful, innocent sound that feels utterly disconnected from the turmoil inside you.
You don’t move. You hear the soft murmur from the kitchen stop. You hear two sets of footsteps coming back into the living room. They stop.
“Y/n,” Seonghwa calls, his voice clear and warm. “Time’s up, sweetheart. Come here, please.”
The command is gentle, but it is a command. It pulls you to your feet. Your legs are stiff. Your face feels puffy and tight from crying. You shuffle slowly around the corner, your eyes fixed on the floor, unable to lift them to meet theirs.
The crayons are gone. The table is clear. Your beautiful, chaotic drawing is still there, the cerulean blue sky glaringly blank where the clouds should be. Seonghwa and Hongjoong are standing side-by-side in the middle of the room. Not close together, but not far apart. A united front.
You stop a few feet away, shoulders hunched, waiting.
⭑ 𓂃 ˗ˏˋ ౨ৎ ˎˊ˗ 𓂃 ⭑