Chapter 30: The Big Announcement
The laughter settled into a warm, buzzing contentment. Hyukjae straightened up, his hand lingering on Donghae’s cheek. He looked out at their gathered people, all still smiling, eyes sparkling with the single-baby news. Something shifted in his expression, a crackle of barely-contained glee.
“Actually,” Hyukjae said, his voice lifting above the murmur. He waited a beat until he had everyone’s attention again. “Appa’s not the only one who needs a time-out for being wrong.”
Donghae’s brother paused, his cup halfway to his lips. Mina tilted her head.
“What do you mean, wrong?” Hyukjae’s mother asked, her eyes narrowing.
Hyukjae’s grin was pure, unadulterated mischief. He looked down at Donghae, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, his own smile growing. They’d practiced nothing, but the moment felt perfectly staged. Hyukjae squeezed his hand.
“When we said we were having a baby,” Hyukjae announced, his tone deliberately casual, as if remarking on the weather. “We were technically only half right.”
The room froze in a different way. Confusion replaced celebration. Jisung, from his perch by the Lego castle, scrunched his nose. “Half a baby?” he whispered, horrified.
Donghae let out a soft laugh. “No, Sungie, not half.” He took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of the correction, the sheer scale of it. He placed his free hand over his stomach. “The doctor said everything’s healthy. Really healthy. But the measurements were tricky.” He looked around at the faces of their family. “Because there are two sets of measurements.”
Silence.
Mina’s jaw went slack. Hyukjae’s mother’s hand flew to her chest.
“Two,” Hyukjae said, the word a solid, joyous bomb in the quiet room. “Twins.”
The second wave of reaction was seismic, a physical shockwave of sound. Mina shrieked, a high, delighted sound that made Jisung cover his ears. She launched herself across the room, nearly tackling them both in a hug. “Two? Two! Oh my god! Do you know what that means? Double the baby smells! Double the tiny socks!”
Hyukjae’s mother simply sank onto the arm of the sofa, her eyes glistening. “Twins,” she repeated, wonder in her voice. She looked at Donghae with a reverence that made his throat tighten. “You miraculous boy.”
Practical questions erupted from all sides—due dates, sexes, how Donghae was feeling. The noise level doubled, matching the news. Through the happy chaos, Jisung pushed his way to the front. He stood before Donghae, his small face a storm of intense calculation. The role of big brother had just been exponentially promoted.
“Two babies,” he stated. He held up two fingers, then looked at his own hand as if it had betrayed him. “But I only have two hands. How do I carry them both if they cry at the same time?”
The simple, logistical worry cut through the adult exhilaration. Donghae leaned forward, his voice gentle. “You won’t have to carry them both at once, silly. You’ll have help. And you can talk to them. One on each side.”
Jisung considered this, then nodded, his duty expanding to accommodate the new parameters. “Okay. But I’m teaching them both dinosaurs. And piano.” His expression turned suddenly grave. “Appa, we need a bigger car. And a bigger apartment. My room can maybe fit one crib, but not two. That’s just math.”
Hyukjae burst out laughing, pulling his son against his side. “We’re working on the math, boss. I promise.”
The party stretched into the evening, the air now electric with a new, giddy future. Plans were sketched on napkins. Names were debated and discarded. Through it all, Hyukjae’s touch was a constant anchor on Donghae’s back or shoulder, as if he needed to physically connect to the reality.
Later, when the last guest had left and Jisung was finally asleep, dreams likely full of double strollers and twin tyrannosaurs, they stood in the quiet, messy living room. Paper plates and empty cups littered the surfaces. The warmth of the day lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of spent candles and leftover food.
Hyukjae wrapped his arms around Donghae from behind, his broad palms spreading over the subtle, firm curve of his stomach. He rested his chin on Donghae’s shoulder. “So,” he murmured into the quiet. “That happened.”
“It did.” Donghae leaned back, letting the full weight of his body be supported. The fear, the constant, quiet companion, whispered about double the risk, double the fatigue, double the chance for something to go wrong. He felt it. Then he felt Hyukjae’s steady heartbeat against his spine, the solid proof of his unwavering presence.
“It’s a lot,” Hyukjae said, as if reading the tremor in his silence.
“It’s everything,” Donghae corrected softly. He turned in the circle of his arms. In the dim light, Hyukjae’s eyes were dark pools of unwavering focus. “Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” Hyukjae admitted without hesitation. A blunt, honest confession. He traced the line of Donghae’s jaw with his thumb. “And so happy I feel like my chest might crack open. It’s not one or the other. It’s both. All of it, at once.”
Donghae understood that exact, conflicting swell. He reached up and pulled Hyukjae down into a kiss, not light or teasing, but deep and lingering, a slow melding of breath. It was a pact. When they parted, Hyukjae kept their foreheads pressed together.
“We should clean up,” Donghae whispered, not moving.
“Tomorrow.” Hyukjae’s voice was rough. He slid his hands down, gripping Donghae’s thighs, and lifted him effortlessly. Donghae gasped, wrapping his legs around Hyukjae’s waist, clinging to his shoulders. “Right now,” Hyukjae said, walking them carefully toward the hallway, “I just need to be with you. And them.”
He didn’t carry him to the bedroom. He carried him to the doorway of the spare room, the future nursery. He stood there, holding Donghae aloft, both of them looking into the shadowy space. The blank walls seemed to pulse with potential, waiting for two of everything.
“This is our life,” Hyukjae said, his voice a vibration through both their bodies. It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration, awe-filled and heavy with responsibility. “All five of us.”
Donghae tightened his hold, pressing his face into the warm column of Hyukjae’s neck. He smelled like home, and citrus cleaner, and the impossible, sprawling future. The fear wasn’t gone. It was simply absorbed, transformed into the fierce, protective beat of two hearts, echoed somewhere deep inside him, surrounded by the unwavering strength of the arms that held them all.
It was simply absorbed, transformed into the fierce, protective beat of two hearts, echoed somewhere deep inside him, surrounded by the unwavering strength of the arms that held them all. The next morning, practicality arrived with the sunlight. Jisung’s blunt math haunted Hyukjae over his coffee. He stared at the walls of the apartment as if they were actively shrinking.
“We can’t do this here,” he said, his voice flat. Donghae, slicing strawberries, followed his gaze. The cozy living room, once a sanctuary, now seemed cluttered, its corners too close. “Two cribs. Two changing tables. Their stuff, our stuff, Jisung’s stuff. It’s a geometry problem with no solution.”
“So we solve it,” Donghae said, placing a strawberry on Hyukjae’s tongue. The gesture was simple, a quiet antidote to the looming chaos.
Hyukjae’s solution was characteristically decisive. He spent evenings after work scrolling real estate listings, his architect’s eye critiquing layouts. He wanted space, light, and a yard. He found it in a three-story townhouse at the end of a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac. It had a small garden out back and a window seat on the landing. When he showed Donghae the listing on his tablet, his finger tapped the screen. “Look. Four bedrooms up top.”
Donghae scanned the floor plan. “Four? That’s… one for us, one for Jisung, and two left.” The reality settled, luxurious and daunting. “They’d each have their own room.”
“Exactly.” Hyukjae’s eyes were bright with the thrill of a perfect plan. “No doubling up. No logistical nightmare from day one. Room to breathe. Room to grow.” He paused, watching Donghae’s face. “What do you think?”
What Donghae thought was that it was a massive, terrifying commitment, a permanent anchor thrown into the future. He looked at the clean lines of the virtual tour, the empty rooms waiting for a family’s noise. He thought of Jisung running up the stairs. He thought of two separate cries echoing from two separate doorways. “I think,” he said slowly, “we should see it.”
The townhouse was better in person. Sun poured through the south-facing windows. Jisung claimed the window seat instantly, declaring it his “fortress of observation.” Hyukjae paced the empty bedrooms on the top floor, measuring imaginary furniture with his strides. “This one gets the north light, softer. Good for sleeping. The other gets the morning sun. They could choose later.”
“They’re newborns, Hyuk,” Donghae laughed, leaning in the doorway. “They won’t have an opinion on architectural orientation.”
“They will eventually,” Hyukjae said, as if it were obvious. He pointed to a smaller room across the hall. “Guest room. For now.” He met Donghae’s eyes, a question in his. “We could make it the nursery first. Keep them together while they’re tiny. Then it becomes a bedroom for one of them later. The other gets the guest room. Everyone wins.”
The logic was sound. The vision was clear. Donghae walked into the empty guest room, his footsteps echoing on the bare hardwood. He imagined a white room. A clean, calm space where the overwhelming world could be held at bay. A blank canvas for two new lives. “White,” he said, almost to himself.
“White?” Hyukjae came up behind him.
“For the nursery. I want it white. Like a fresh start. Like silence.” He leaned back against Hyukjae’s chest. “Is that crazy?”
“No,” Hyukjae murmured into his hair. “It’s peaceful. We can add color with things. Mobiles. Rugs. Jisung’s artwork.” He squeezed him. “White it is.”
The purchase moved with dizzying speed. A month later, they stood in the same room, surrounded by drop cloths and the sharp, clean smell of primer. The walls were already a bright, blank white. Donghae wore an old t-shirt of Hyukjae’s, splattered with paint. He was carefully cutting in along the crown molding with a small brush, his movements precise and meditative.
Hyukjae was rolling paint onto the broad wall in long, satisfying strokes. The silence between them was comfortable, filled only with the wet drag of the roller and the soft sound of their breathing. This was a different kind of pact, built not on words but on shared labor, on building the literal container for their future.
“Jisung is going to demand a mural,” Hyukjae said, breaking the quiet. He dipped the roller. “Probably of a pterodactyl carrying two babies.”
“He already proposed that,” Donghae said, not looking away from his line. “I negotiated it down to a decal. Possibly removable.”
Hyukjae laughed, the sound rich in the empty room. He paused, roller hovering. He watched Donghae, his focused expression, the careful grace of his wrist. The afternoon light caught the dust motes dancing around him, making him look like he was painted into the scene, fundamental and necessary.
“What?” Donghae asked, sensing the weight of his gaze.
“Nothing.” Hyukjae went back to rolling. A few more strokes. “Just thinking how this is the most important room I’ve ever designed.” His voice was low, stripped of its usual confident edge. “And I’m not following any of the rules.”
The paint dried to a flawless, silent white. The move was a frantic, three-day circus of boxes and disassembled furniture, ending with the three of them collapsed in a heap of pillows on the new living room floor, surrounded by towers of unopened cartons. Jisung declared it the best camping trip ever.
Slowly, order emerged. Donghae’s pregnancy progressed into a new phase. The constant nausea was a memory. His energy returned, tempered by a new, significant weight that centered low in his abdomen. He could feel the subtle, fluttering movements now, a sensation like bubbles popping deep under his skin. It was unmistakable. It was alive.
The second trimester scan was scheduled for a rainy Tuesday afternoon. The new clinic was closer to the townhouse. Hyukjae drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Donghae’s thigh. The silence between them was different than before. It was layered with a quiet confidence, a familiarity with the routine of hope and vigilance.
In the examination room, the cold gel was a shock. The technician was a different woman, older, with a no-nonsense manner. She found the heartbeats immediately—two distinct, galloping rhythms filling the speakers. “Strong,” she said, her voice devoid of drama. She took measurements, clicking keys. “Baby A is here. Baby B is here. Both growth is excellent. Right on track.”
Donghae exhaled, a tension he hadn’t fully acknowledged leaving his shoulders. Hyukjae’s grip on his hand relaxed from desperate to firm. They watched the grainy images, two separate beings now clearly defined, curled in their own private orbits.
Doctor Cho, their new obstetrician, came in after. She was a beta in her fifties with a calm, direct smile. She reviewed the images, nodding. “Everything looks textbook perfect,” she confirmed. “Any questions from you two?”
Hyukjae asked about dietary adjustments for a twin pregnancy. Donghae listened, his mind half elsewhere. A different question, more personal and suddenly urgent, sat on his tongue. He waited until Hyukjae was done.
“Doctor,” Donghae began, his voice quieter. He felt Hyukjae’s gaze shift to him. “Is… is it okay? To be intimate. During all this.”
Doctor Cho didn’t blink. “Unless you have specific complications like placenta previa—which you don’t—sexual activity is perfectly safe throughout a healthy pregnancy.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, putting it in the same category as walking or swimming. “It might require some positional creativity as things progress. Listen to your body. It will tell you what’s comfortable.” She smiled, a brief, professional curve of her lips. “Any other concerns?”
Donghae shook his head, his cheeks warm. “No. Thank you.”
The ride home was quiet. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets glossy under the streetlights. Donghae watched the new neighborhood slide by, the tidy gardens, the warm windows. His mind replayed the doctor’s words. Perfectly safe. Yet a vast, silent distance seemed to have opened in their own bed over the past months, filled with fatigue and his own spiraling self-consciousness.
That night, after Jisung was asleep in his new, dinosaur-walled room, Donghae stood under the shower in their new bathroom. He looked at his body in the steam-fogged glass. The smooth curve was undeniable now, a pronounced swell that changed his center of gravity. His slender frame had softened, his hips wider. He traced the line of it with his palm, feeling the tight, warm skin.
He missed Hyukjae’s hands there. He missed the weight of him, the specific, claiming pressure. He felt like a vessel, a useful, miraculous container, but not like someone to be desired.
Wrapped in a towel, he found Hyukjae in the half-unpacked bedroom, sorting through a box of books. The room was a chaos of cardboard and half-made beds, a reflection of their suspended state.
“The doctor said it was fine,” Donghae said, his voice startling in the quiet.
Hyukjae looked up. “What was fine?”
“Sex.”
Hyukjae paused, a book in his hand. He placed it slowly on the shelf. “Okay.” His tone was careful, neutral.
“I just… I needed to know.” Donghae tightened the towel around his chest. The words felt thick, clumsy. “Because I miss you. I miss… that. But I look in the mirror and I just see… I feel like a whale, Hyukjae. I feel huge and unattractive and entirely un-sexy.”
The confession hung between them, stark and ugly. Donghae stared at the floor, at a stray piece of packing tape stuck to the hardwood.
Hyukjae crossed the room in three swift strides. He didn’t touch him at first. He just stood there, his intensity a physical force. “Are you kidding me?” The question wasn’t angry. It was breathless, disbelieving.
Donghae finally looked up, meeting his dark, blazing eyes.
“Donghae.” Hyukjae’s hands came up, framing his face, his thumbs stroking his damp cheeks. “Look at what you’re doing. You’re building two whole people. Inside you.” His gaze dropped to Donghae’s covered stomach, then back to his eyes, his expression one of pure, unadulterated awe. “You are the most profoundly attractive thing I have ever seen in my life. Every day, you become more so. It’s taking every bit of my self-control not to touch you constantly, not to worship this—” one hand slid down, splaying possessively over the curve beneath the towel “—every single second I’m near you.”
Donghae’s breath hitched. The words were a balm, a fire.
“I’d make love to you every day if I could,” Hyukjae continued, his voice dropping to a raw, husky whisper. “Just to feel how powerful you are. Just to be close to them. To you.” He leaned in, his forehead resting against Donghae’s. “You’re not a whale. You’re a goddamn miracle. And you’re mine.”
He kissed him then. It wasn’t gentle. It was deep, consuming, and laden with months of pent-up reverence and desire. Donghae melted into it, the towel slipping loose. Hyukjae’s hands slid to his hips, holding him with a certainty that erased every whispered doubt.
Later, in the nest of their unpacked bedding, Hyukjae kept his promise of worship. His touch was meticulous, patient, mapping the new terrain of Donghae’s body with a devotion that felt like prayer. Every shift, every sigh was met with attuned attention. The distance vanished, burned away by a heat that had nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with reunion.
After, tangled together in the dark, Hyukjae’s palm rested firmly on the warm skin of Donghae’s stomach. A tiny, distinct flutter kicked against his hand. Once. Then again.
Hyukjae went utterly still. “Did you feel that?”
“I feel them all the time now,” Donghae murmured, smiling in the darkness.
“No. From the outside.” Hyukjae’s voice was choked. “That was from the outside.” He waited, his entire being focused on that single point of contact. Another soft, insistent nudge pressed against his palm, a secret knock from inside their world.
A shuddering breath escaped Hyukjae. He buried his face in Donghae’s shoulder, his hold tightening. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The message had been received, a physical telegram of life from the sacred, white room down the hall.
The message had been received, a physical telegram of life from the sacred, white room down the hall. The following weeks were marked by that silent, intimate language. Hyukjae would come home, drop his bag, and wordlessly place his hands on Donghae’s stomach, waiting. The twins, perhaps sensing the devoted attention, rarely kept him waiting long.
“It’s like they know your voice,” Donghae murmured one evening, reclined on the new sofa.
“They should.” Hyukjae’s voice was a low rumble against his skin. “I talk to them all day at work. I give them updates on structural integrity and client complaints.”
Donghae laughed, the sound jostling the small feet currently wedged under his rib. “They’re going to think the world is made of concrete and deadlines.”
“Solid, dependable things,” Hyukjae countered, pressing a kiss just below his navel. “I’m building their foundation.”
Their new reality solidified around them, day by day. Boxes were unpacked. Pictures were hung. The white nursery remained serene and empty, waiting. Everything was, as the doctors confirmed at each check-up, progressing perfectly. The babies were thriving, two strong heartbeats pacing each other like dedicated runners.
Jisung’s primary fixation became their genders. He asked over breakfast, his brow furrowed in serious thought. “But which ones are in there? Boys?Girls? One of each?”
“We don’t know yet, Sungie,” Hyukjae said, flipping a pancake. “We can find out at the next big scan, if you want.”
“I want to know,” Jisung declared. “For strategic planning. The dinosaur lesson plan is universal, but maybe the room décor needs options.”
Donghae sipped his orange juice. “What if they’re girls who love dinosaurs?”
Jisung paused, his fork hovering. He considered this with profound gravity. “That’s allowed,” he finally decreed, nodding. “Girls can like T-Rexes. They have good grips. But if they’re girls, Appa, you have to promise no only-pink things. Pink is a color, not a whole personality.”
Hyukjae held up a syrup-dripping hand. “I solemnly swear. No monolithic pink assaults. We’ll have green dinosaurs and maybe some purple ones. Fair?”
“Fair.” Jisung took a bite, satisfied. The matter was settled. For now.
The scan a week later revealed two healthy, wriggling forms. “Do you want to know the sexes?” the sonographer asked, her cursor hovering.
Hyukjae looked at Donghae, who nodded, then at Jisung, whose eyes were wide. “Yes,” they said in unison.
The woman smiled, adjusting the wand. “Okay then. Let’s see… Baby A, here, is definitely a little boy.” She moved the transducer. “And Baby B… also a boy. You’ve got two sons.”
A powerful, silent current passed through Hyukjae’s hand where it clutched Donghae’s. Two sons. The words reverberated. Jisung let out a gust of air, a mix of awe and sudden, colossal responsibility. “Two brothers,” he whispered. “I’m gonna need a bigger helmet.”
The rest of the day passed in a happy haze of blueberry pancakes (Jisung’s celebratory request) and speculative names. The white nursery now had a definitive future—it would be a room for boys. The news felt right, a solid click in the machinery of their fate.
Everything was perfect. Too perfect, a quiet, superstitious part of Donghae’s mind whispered. He swatted the thought away.
It was a Thursday. The sky outside was a flat, cloudless grey. Donghae was sorting tiny socks, a ludicrous pile of them, when he heard the front door open well before five. Footsteps were heavy on the hallway tiles.
“Hyuk? You’re early.”
Hyukjae appeared in the doorway of the living room. His tie was loose, his hair slightly disheveled. His sharp features were flushed, a high color riding his cheekbones. He didn’t enter the room. He remained on the threshold, a living barricade.
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was strangely thick. “Left early. Didn’t feel right.”
Donghae set the socks down. “What’s wrong? You look warm.” He started to get up from the couch, a movement that required a bit of heave these days.
“Don’t.” The word was a harsh snap. Hyukjae took a deliberate step back, his hands clenching at his sides. “Stay there, Hae. Just… stay over there.”
The command, so uncharacteristically sharp, froze Donghae halfway up. He settled back slowly, his heart beginning a quick, shallow rhythm. “Talk to me. Is it a fever?” He could smell it now, cutting through the room’s clean scent—something hot, metallic, and profoundly alpha. It wasn’t just sweat. It was a scent that vibrated in the air, dense and demanding.
Hyukjae shook his head, a stiff, pained motion. He leaned against the doorframe as if his knees might buckle. “Not a fever. It’s… it’s a rut. Coming on fast.” He sucked in a ragged breath, his dark eyes glassy and fixed on the far wall, not on Donghae. “I should have seen the signs. The headache this morning… the restlessness.”
A cold trickle of understanding dripped down Donghae’s spine. A rut. He’d never been through one with Hyukjae. They’d discussed it clinically, a biological fact to be managed. Hyukjae had always been so controlled, his alpha nature a steady, banked fire, never a wildfire.
“Okay,” Donghae said, his voice carefully calm. He began to maneuver himself off the couch again. “Okay, it’s okay. We have the suppressants in the bathroom cabinet. I’ll get them, and some water, and—”
“No!” Hyukjae flinched, actually recoiling from the suggestion of Donghae moving closer. “You don’t understand. I can’t… I can’t have you near me right now.” His knuckles were white where he gripped the wooden frame. “The instinct… it’s not clean, Donghae. It’s possessive. It’s rough. I look at you and I don’t see…” He choked, shutting his eyes tightly. “I don’t see my omega who’s carrying our children. I just see mine. And I want to claim. I want to bury myself in your scent until nothing else exists. And that… that could hurt you. Hurt them.”
The raw, agonized honesty in his voice was more terrifying than any growled threat. He was a man at war with his own biology, and he was losing.
“Hyukjae,” Donghae said softly, firmly. He stood now, his hands resting on the pronounced curve of his stomach. “You would never hurt me. You know that.”
“You don’t know that!” The outburst was guttural. Hyukjae pushed off the doorframe, taking several stumbling steps back into the hallway, putting more distance between them. His whole body was taut, trembling with the effort of containment. The scent in the air deepened, spiking with a desperate, musky urgency. “I don’t trust me right now. I need you to go. Go to Mina’s. Take Jisung. I’ll lock myself in the bedroom until it passes.”
“And leave you here alone, sick and in pain? Absolutely not.” Donghae took a step forward. It was a statement. The stubborn omega, the one who had weathered dismissal and heartache, the one who believed in healing through presence, not absence, squared his shoulders. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Donghae, for god’s sake—” Hyukjae’s plea was broken, his control fraying visibly. A low, involuntary sound ripped from his chest, part growl, part groan. He backed into the wall, head thudding against it. “Please. Just listen. This isn’t me. This is the animal. And the animal is screaming that you’re vulnerable, that you’re ripe, and that makes it ten times worse. I can’t think straight.”
“Then stop thinking.” Donghae moved into the hallway. He didn’t approach directly; he moved slowly, like one would toward a majestic, wounded creature. He stopped a few feet away, well outside of grabbing range. Hyukjae’s fevered eyes tracked him, wide and pleading.
“I am your mate,” Donghae said, each word clear and deliberate. “I am not vulnerable. I am strong. I am carrying our sons. And I am not afraid of you.” He took another step. The scent was overwhelming now, a physical pressure. It should have been frightening. Instead, it ignited a deep, answering calm in his core, a primal certainty. “You are not an animal. You are Lee Hyukjae. My alpha. And you are in pain.”
He saw the conflict tearing through Hyukjae—the raw need warring with a protective love so ferocious it was paralyzing. Hyukjae’s breath sawed in and out of his lungs.
“Let me take care of you,” Donghae whispered. He extended a hand, not to touch, but as an offering. “Trust me. Trust us.”
Hyukjae stared at the outstretched hand as if it were both a lifeline and a trigger. A full-body shudder wracked him. The last thread of his resistance snapped with an almost audible sound. The pleading in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it was subsumed by a devastating, focused need.
“Donghae,” he rasped. It was a surrender. A warning. A prayer.
Then he moved.