ChessterKey

...The dim firelight barely reached the stairs to the second floor, stretching their shadows into absurdly long figures that filled the nearly lifeless emptiness of the room. The clink of metal against porcelain cut through the crackling of the flames, and tiny spirals of steam melted away over a cup of warm milk.

—...and once he found out he'd learned a new word, there was no stopping him. — Ranboo's unfocused gaze wandered over everything — the room, the children, the frost glistening on the windows, the flickering candlelight — carefully avoiding Tubbo, who sat across from him, barely touching his light supper. The shadow of his bangs fell habitually over his eyes, and his lips, always pressed together, hadn't so much as twitched in the past hour.

Michael, apparently catching on that they were talking about a new source of entertainment, proudly held up the last oatmeal cookie and confidently turned toward Tubbo.

—Dad, cookie!

He smiled, but when he got no reaction, he shot a puzzled look at Ranboo, then nearly laid himself flat across the table in an effort to shove the treat closer into view.

Todd shot her brother a sour look. Then she dropped her spoon into the bowl with a clatter, shoving it away.

—Feh! — She grunted in annoyance, and the brush of her piglin tail thumped softly against the chair leg. —Don't want soup!

—Todd. — Ranboo exhaled softly, feeling his shoulders drop. —...We talked about this — you'll get something sweet too, but only for dessert. Your brother already ate his soup.

She folded her arms with a showy huff, turning away in protest.

—Cookie! — Michael repeated, delighted, as if trying to lighten the mood — or simply overjoyed at his growing vocabulary.

Ranboo finally let his gaze drift to Tubbo, but looked away just as quickly.

—She's... impossible to reason with. I don't know what to do about it. — The hesitation in his quiet monologue was barely noticeable. —Neither porridge, nor soup... Do all kids go through this?

He allowed himself a faint smile, imagining that his husband had, in fact, given him a small nod in return.

—Cookie, Dad! — Michael's voice took on a note of indignation — or was it desperation? — and he held the slightly crumbled little circle out toward the enderman.

—You really want to share?

—Forgive the intrusion, Mister President. — A flowing shadow had materialized behind Tubbo, leaning in toward his shoulder as if the very fog had decided to come to life — which, admittedly, wasn't much of an exaggeration. —The results on the task you set yesterday are finally ready.