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Mark Lee first knows hurt when he’s seven years old.
He’s riding his bike up and down the street, purposefully steering towards the dry leaves just to listen to the sound they make beneath his weight. The air is neither warm nor cold. It’s autumn, his favorite season, and he thinks that he will never be happier than he is right now.
He swerves into the path of some leaves and grins in anticipation of the noise they’ll make when they crumble. The sound doesn’t come.
Instead, the front wheel of his bicycle falls through the leaves and into a pothole. Mark flies off his bike, landing a foot or two away from the leaves and crying out as his bare knees scrape the asphalt.
There are tears in his eyes. For a moment, he considers letting them fall, but quickly decides against it. This has happened before, and he knows that the pain will pass soon. Besides, crying is for babies. He’s seven.
Sniffing, he rises to his feet, dusts off his shorts, and pulls his bike out of the pothole. He doesn’t bother riding it back home, instead choosing to wheel it back and endure the judging stares of his neighbors.
Mark pitches the bike against the side of his house and races inside to nurse his scrapes. With each step, his knees burn and ache, but he marches through the hallway until he finds his parents’ bedroom, and then he bursts inside with the confidence and drive of the policemen he idolizes on TV.
His father is there, as he’d expected. But there’s a woman there, too, with frizzy hair and smudged lipstick, and Mark doesn’t know what to think.
“Mark,” his father breathes, sitting up in his bed. “What are you doing in here? I told you to go outside and play.”
“I scraped my knees,” Mark says weakly. “I came in to fix them up. Who’s she?” he asks, jerking his thumb at the woman asleep in his mother’s bed.
“She’s my friend,” his father says, frowning. “She’s very tired, so she’s come over to take a nap. We have Neosporin and band-aids in the kitchen. You can go fix your scrapes in there.”
Mark stares at the woman in the bed for a few seconds longer. She doesn’t appear to be wearing a shirt, but he can’t tell with certainty because the blanket only rises to her chest.
“Mark.” His father’s voice is stern now, and Mark startles, glances at the cross on the wall, and turns to leave. “Don’t tell your mother,” he calls as Mark shuts the door behind him.
“Don’t tell her what,” Mark mumbles to himself, running a hand over his right knee. It stings so sharply that he has to pull his hand away, and when he does, there’s blood drying on his fingers.
He fixes up his knees with little trouble, and then he gets on his bike and rides far, far away from his house. He doesn’t know why, but he wants to leave.
‘Don’t tell your mother’ becomes a mantra from his father for the next three years. And then, one day, his father stops reminding him.
Mark Lee is eleven when he finally tells his mother. His father is practicing his sermon at the front of the church while Mark rounds the pews, pacing them out of boredom. His mother sits in the back, a little black purse settled in her lap. She won’t be getting up anytime soon, judging by both the purse and Mark’s older brother taking a nap on her shoulder.
As he slides past his mother in the pews, his father begins to preach about forgiveness. Mark freezes and takes a seat next to his mother.
He opens his mouth to speak and turns his head, but when he looks his mother in the eyes—when he sees the pure and unwavering adoration staring back at him—he furrows his eyebrows and closes his mouth.
“What is it?” she asks gently, careful to keep her voice below the echo of her husband’s sermon.
Mark takes a deep breath. He thinks that now, as a scrawny eleven-year-old who isn’t even smart enough to do long division, this is the bravest he’ll ever feel.
“Dad is sleeping with another woman,” Mark says, rushing the words out. He’s not even sure how his mother manages to comprehend what he’s saying, but somehow, she does.
Her grin doesn’t even waver, but Mark can see hurt in her eyes.
“I know, baby,” she says, and her lips purse into a sadder, dimmer smile. “Trust me, I know.”
“Then…” Mark stares at his hands and feels an urge to pick at the hangnail on his thumb. He can’t help but think that his voice is entirely too loud. “Why haven’t you left? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
“For you,” is all his mother says, her voice soft and sweet as ever. And then she’s standing and pulling Mark next to his brother so that he still has a shoulder to rest his head on, forcing Mark to watch helplessly as she leaves the church, her fingers itching at the base of her wrist.
His father stops speaking mid-sentence and stares after her. His gaze snaps back to Mark, and his eyes narrow.
“Forgiveness is a powerful thing in the eyes of God,” he says a hand curling around the collar of his shirt. He tugs it a few times to let it give way. “A good neighbor will always forgive those who have wronged her.”
His father sets the notes in his hand on the pulpit and turns to leave. Mark’s eyes follow him all the way up until he disappears into his study. He doesn’t show any signs of an intent to return.
This is all his own fault, Mark realizes. At only eleven, he will go down as the one to destroy his family, and there will never be any sympathy for him.
His mother leaves eventually. Mark doesn’t blame her, but he does follow her.
It starts like this: his friends at school are talking about auditioning for something, and when Mark wonders aloud what they’re discussing, they shove a flyer in his face and wave it around. He snatches the paper away from the hand holding it and begins to read.
‘Do you think you have what it takes to be a K-pop idol? Find out! Friday, April 13th, SM Entertainment will hold auditions in Vancouver to find their next big K-pop star! Details located below. SM Entertainment has debuted groups like Super Junior, Girls’ Generation, SHINee, f(x), EXO, and more!’
The boy next to him asks for his flyer back. Mark clutches it close to his chest and tucks it into his backpack, promising the boy that he’ll bring it back tomorrow, but that he needs to bring this home.
His father tells him that it’s a stupid dream, that as musically gifted as he may be, he’ll never compare to the likes of SHINee or EXO. Besides, he can’t even dance. He shouldn’t waste his time on an audition he knows he won’t pass; instead, he should study for his classes, or maybe even read the Bible with his dear father.
His mother tells him very plainly that that’s a load of bullshit, and that she’ll pick him up early from school for his audition. And when he’s in line, waiting to sing the ballad that his mother had chosen for him because she’s positive he’ll pass as a vocalist, he doesn’t feel nervous.
‘Can you try this,’ they say, ‘ can you move like that? Read these lyrics, read them like a rap…”
Mark walks out crying when the audition is over. His mother holds him while he confesses that he wasn’t good enough to pass, that he had heard some of the people he was up against and that were so much better than him. She smooths Mark’s hair and drives him to an ice cream parlor, treats him to a sundae with extra fudge on it, and tells him that everything will turn out fine.
Two weeks later, Mark sits at the dinner table, picking at his ddukbokki because it’s too spicy, and it doesn’t even matter, anyway, because he wanted a hamburger in the first place. His brother is poking his arm incessantly with his fork, and Mark is nearly fed up enough to throw the fork across the room.
His mother’s phone rings, and she answers it without hesitating. She listens to the chatter on the other end for a while, then says, “Alright, thank you,” in Korean and hangs up.
She glances at Mark. Her eyes are shining.
“Mark got into SM Entertainment,” she says, then continues to eat her dinner like it’s not that big of a deal.
To his right, Jordan falls off his chair, babbling about how this is so unfair, Mark gets to go to Korea and I don’t.
“You’re older than me,” Mark reminds him, trying his hardest to bite back a smile, but the tears in his eyes start to overflow and he can’t take it anymore. He smiles so hard that it hurts.
“We’re moving,” his mother says, stands up from her seat at the table, fixes Mark’s father with an accusing glare. “I’m moving. You can stay here.”
“Am I going?” Jordan perks up and braces himself on the table. “Mom, am I going? Can I go? If Mark’s going, I want to go.”
“If you want. Eat your dinner, baby.”
That same night, Mark falls asleep smiling under a stack of blankets that pins him to his bed. He begins to realize that he never should have doubted his mother.
Mark Lee is almost thirteen when they arrive in South Korea.
The morning they leave is the hardest one. Mark has been preparing for this all week, but somehow, he managed not to feel sad when saying goodbye to his friends and packing up his belongings. He barely felt anything when he hugged his father goodbye. But now, as the plane lifts into the sky and up, up, out of Vancouver, he finds himself struggling not to cry.
His mother’s hand rests firmly on his knee, and she passes a package of peanut butter crackers over to him before asking what’s wrong.
“What if I don’t like it there?” Mark mumbles through a mouthful of crackers. “What if everyone hates me, and what if my Korean isn’t good enough? What if they never debut me? What if I do debut, but it’s as a soloist, and then I don’t have any friends to make from being around them all the time? What if—”
A cold hand covers his mouth. On the third seat from him, Jordan is trying not to laugh at him. “You’re worrying too much about nothing,” his mother tells him, then wipes the crumbs on her hand with Mark’s pant leg. “And you’re getting cracker crumbs everywhere. I taught you better than that.”
Mark swallows and leans his head against the window. He doesn’t realize that he’s falling asleep, but when he does, they’re preparing to land in Korea in an hour or two, and his mother is mildly annoyed at him for sleeping so long.
Mark Lee is officially thirteen when he steps foot in South Korea. It is early August, and the breeze traps cold in his skin as he stands in the shade of the plane. The airport is just as cold. As he steps onto the sidewalk in wait for a transit bus, his mother moves the three of them into a sunned patch of concrete, and Mark basks in the warmth that it brings.
Bus 156 stops off at many places in Seoul, but as it turns out, it’ll stop at the SM building before it’ll stop at his family’s apartment complex. He watches the city run past his window and tries to think about how it will feel to finally be alone. He’s not sure whether or not he wants to know.
His mother kisses his forehead. Tells him to call and text when he settles in that night. Makes him promise to eat healthy things for dinner and not just dessert. Wishes him the happiest of birthdays, startles Mark with the sudden change of date.
And then Mark Lee, age thirteen (or maybe fourteen, he’s not sure yet), steps off the bus and charges into SM Entertainment with a heavy heart and an even heavier suitcase.
(They tell him that he’s in the wrong building, but that’s alright, because there’s a boy with a name like his who towers over him and offers to drive him over to the dorms.)
“I’m from Chicago, by the way,” the boy says in English when Mark climbs into his car and pulls the seatbelt across his body. Mark freezes. “You have a bit of an American accent. Where are you from?”
“Vancouver,” he says, eyes wide.
“I was close,” the boy shrugs. “I’m Johnny. Or Youngho. You can call me whatever.”
“I’m Mark.”
The drive to the dorms is shorter than Johnny had made it out to be. Or maybe Johnny’s so good at conversation that Mark doesn’t even notice how long it takes to get there.
“Alright, this is it,” Johnny says, pulling into the parking lot of what looks like a glorified apartment complex. “Do you need help unpacking?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Mark says, but Johnny gets out of the car anyway.
“I’ll show you around, and then you can get settled into your room. You don’t have a roommate yet, but there’s a kid scheduled to come around April who’ll probably end up rooming with you.”
Mark wants to ask questions. He doesn’t.
There’s a body sprawled across an entry couch when Mark walks in. It’s Lee Taemin, and he’s screaming into a pillow that covers his face. He doesn’t seem to notice anyone.
“You can leave your suitcase in the lobby. Taemin will protect it,” Johnny says. The screaming stops abruptly.
“I’ll do what?!”
“Protect it,” Johnny shrugs, and Taemin falls off the couch with less grace than Mark expects.
“The new trainee is here today,” Taemin says, eyes wide and mouth hanging open like it’s the last thing he’d ever expect. He scrambles to stand and greet Mark, but Johnny is already steering Mark away into a hallway and up a staircase that seems like it never ends.
“Sorry about Taemin. He’s… Taemin. Anyways, there’s not actually a tour, but…” Johnny stops in front of a door and pushes it open, revealing a hallway lined with doors that have great spaces between them. “You’ll see. You live in the SRB—that’s SMRookies Boys—dorms with me until you debut. Actually, you couldn’t have joined at a better time. They accepted auditions from a whole bunch of boys, and they’re all set to move in sooner or later. I think they might even debut us together.”
“That’d be cool,” Mark grins as Johnny comes to a stop in front of a big wooden door that looks identical to the others in the hallway. It feels different to Mark, though, and he can’t quite place why.
“Here’s our dorm. It’s a little empty right now, but…” Johnny turns the knob and pushes inside. He ushers Mark in, closes the door behind him, and gives Mark a few minutes to marvel at the size of it. It’s nothing too fancy or expensive, but it’s huge, with an insanely large living room, a kitchen that’s big enough to hold probably five or six people cooking, and an even bigger dining area. There’s a hallway pushing out that’s lined with individual dorm rooms.
“Here’s your room,” Johnny says, leading Mark to the first door on the right in the hallway. “Mine and Ten’s the one across from yours.”
“Ten?” Mark asks, and Johnny winces, pushing inside Mark’s room carefully.
“Don’t say his name, or he’ll—” Johnny cuts himself off when he turns on the light. He lets out a long sigh, then says, “Christ.”
There’s a boy hanging off the side of a bed. Mark starts to notice a pattern in this building.
“Hi, Mark,” the boy says sweetly, “I’m Ten.”
“Get the fucking flag out of his room, for God’s sake,” Johnny groans, eyes fixated on the blue and pink and white flag that’s taped unsecurely to the wall. “Don’t scare him.”
“He’s not scared! Look, he’s laughing, he finds it amusing. He thinks I’m funny.”
“Mark, are you scared right now?” Johnny asks, turning to Mark, who shrinks in on himself, shaking his head.
“Hey, Mark, I’m transgender. That’s why the flag is on your wall.”
Mark’s tongue is heavy, and he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, so he shrugs. “Cool.”
Ten sits up and turns around to face Johnny. “See? He’s fine with it!”
“Would you just… Get out of his room, so I can bring him his bags and let him unpack?” Johnny does a little pout that has even Mark swooning, and Ten seems to float off the bed with hearts in his eyes.
“Good to meet you, Mark,” Ten says, and then he’s gone. Johnny remains in the doorway.
“I’ll have someone bring your stuff up soon. Are you hungry?”
Mark rubs his eyes. They burn with exhaustion. “Tired, actually,” Mark says, “which makes no sense because I napped on the plane.”
“Then nap, and I’ll get your suitcase up here at some point today so you can unpack.” Johnny turns off the lights, and the room goes dark as soon as he pulls the door shut.
Mark texts his mother. Made it safely. I think I’m gonna like it here.
She responds with a choice variety of heart emojis, forcing a laugh out of Mark as he presses his phone into the mattress, shuts his eyes, and falls asleep again.
Training is less intense than Mark thought it would be. He only really has to practice two hours a day, and he finds that he’s learning fast. He also finds that they could care less about a vocalist; they want him as a rapper, and it would be nice if he could dance, too.
He learns to rap from a man in his thirties or forties with sunspots peppering his face. Mark doesn’t remember his name, but he thinks that the man must’ve been in an older group that disbanded years ago. He faintly recognizes the man’s voice when he raps.
He’s good at rapping. He struggles to sing better than the others, and he’s not really the best dancer, but when he looks at the progress of the other trainees and then his own, he is the best.
And he’s happy with that.
...Seo Hyein is not.
She’s feisty, Mark knows that much, but he doesn’t expect her to stand outside the door to his dorm waiting for him to come back from lessons.
“Listen, what are you trying to pull?” Hyein is leaning against the door to Mark’s dorm, and he can’t even push past her to get inside. He’s trapped. “Hina’s this close to debuting in the new girl group, and you becoming better at rapping than her is convincing them that they need to push her debut back.”
“Hina?” Mark asks, because he knows the name, but not the face.
“Y’know, Hina?” Hyein gestures around with her hands. “Tiny, cute, looks like a cat? Nakamura Hina?”
“Oh!” Mark says, nodding, and then he realizes that Hyein was just speaking English. “...You speak English well,” he says, and Hyein rolls her eyes.
“Of course I speak English well, idiot, I’m from England.”
Mark opens his mouth, and then he closes it. “I’m three years older than you. You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”
“You’re a man,” Hyein says, like it explains everything. “Anyways, tone it down so Hina can debut. And maybe I’ll think about introducing you to the other boys.”
“...Other boys?”
“They’ll be here in two months. Seulgi told me so.”
“She’s the dancer, right?”
“God, is Johnny the only one you know here?” Hyein asks. “Mark Lee, you have a lot to learn.”
“Don’t say my whole name,” Mark says, furrowing his eyebrows. “It sounds weird out loud, Seo Hyein.”
“Herin,” Hyein says. “Call me Herin.”
“Like the bird?”
“No, that’s with an o, not an—oh, screw you, Mark Lee! I’m not gonna joke around with you and be your friend!”
“That’s an aggressive way of saying you want to be my friend,” Mark says, and then Herin shoves him with a loud huff and turns her back. She’s walking away before Mark has a chance to say anything else.
“I’m not your friend!” Herin calls, opening the hall door to leave.
“You are now!” Mark calls back, and this is it, he’s in. He’s friends with a fourth grader, and he feels great.
(Ten makes fun of him when he finds out. He doesn’t care.)
Suddenly, it’s December, and cold creeps into Mark’s dorm at night, forcing him to curl into himself and huddle all his blankets together for warmth. Nights pass quickly, and days even quicker, slipping through Mark’s fingers before he has a chance to cherish them.
Herin likes to sneak into Mark’s room when he’s not there, and Ten lets her. She’s taken a liking to Ten after seeing him around but not really knowing who he was, but now that Ten’s her only access to Mark’s room, they’re inseparable. Mark would hate to admit it, but he thinks it’s kind of cute.
It’s Christmas Eve, and Mark is expecting a call from his mother any time now as he waits curled up on the couch. The fireplace glows next to him, and Johnny is in the kitchen making cookies. He tells Mark it’s to keep the younger from getting homesick, but really, Mark couldn’t feel more at home right now.
Ten lies across from him on the couch, his flag wrapped around his shoulders as he tries (and fails) to guess what’s in the present on his lap.
“A hat,” Ten says, shaking the box. “Mittens? Something made of fabric.”
“Closer,” Herin says, giggling when Ten pouts and mimes throwing the box at her.
“Johnny, hurry up so I can open this! And I want to see Mark’s reaction to what you got him!”
Mark scratches his head. “He got me something?”
“We all did,” Ten says, gesturing between himself and Herin. “And—”
Ten stops speaking when he sees Johnny sprint into the room and vault himself onto the couch next to Mark at a dangerously fast pace. The couch shudders beneath his sudden weight, and Mark squeaks in surprise.
“Alright,” Johnny says, beaming. “Ten, open your present.”
With a smile that’s so bright Mark can hardly see, Ten rips the paper off the box in his hands and gingerly pulls something woven out of the box.
It’s a handmade scarf from Herin, and when Ten unfolds it, he finds that pink, blue, and white have been carefully woven into the design just for him.
“You little brat,” Ten says, lip quivering. He looks dangerously close to tears as he pulls Herin into his side and gives her a noogie that Mark feels secondhand. “I love you. Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Herin murmurs, and then Johnny shoves a box into her hands that she almost immediately tears to shreds. She pulls out a little snow globe, crystal clear and engraved with gold at the base. It’s small enough to fit in her hands, and when she shakes it, little golden sparkles rain down on the replica of Big Ben inside the glass. Her eyes go wide, and she sniffles, holding the snow globe to her heart as her eyes sparkle. “...Thank you, guys. It’s perfect.”
“You’re ten, you’re not supposed to be sappy with us,” Mark says.
Ten balls up his flag in his fists and hurls it at Mark’s face. “No, I’m Ten. Johnny, open your present.”
Johnny’s present ends up being a little journal, and from what Mark can tell, it’s all filled up with notes from Ten. Though Mark and Herin wanted to get Johnny something for Christmas, Ten refused, telling them he had it covered. Now, as Johnny wipes tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, Mark understands why.
When it’s Mark’s turn, Johnny stands and lifts a tall box from behind the fake Christmas tree. The box is at his feet now, and he unfolds the top slowly, cautiously, like whatever’s inside might break if he’s not careful.
Mark reaches into the box. It’s too dark inside for him to tell what’s there, but his fingers close around something glossy, something polished, and his thumb brushes up against something that’s cold and metal.
He discards the box and blinks. In his hands is a guitar, just big enough to fit comfortably in his lap. Mark runs his hand along the neck of the guitar and hooks his thumb around the strings. “A guitar?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows. “I don’t know how to play.”
“I’m gonna teach you,” Ten says, grinning. “You looked jealous that time you saw me playing. I figured you wanted to learn.”
“You were right,” Mark admits, glancing down at the guitar in his hands. He doesn’t know anything about it other than the fact that it’s beautiful.
“Good, I’ll start teaching you this week. Get some sleep. That goes for both of you.” Ten grabs Johnny’s wrist and leads him into their room.
“Night,” Herin says, wrapping Mark up in a hug. “This was a good Christmas.”
“It was a great Christmas,” Mark says. He repeats the night over and over again in his head as he tries to sleep. He doesn’t get a call or a text from anyone in his real family, but that’s alright, he thinks. That’s alright.
This makeshift family that he’s created, the one that runs on bad puns and tired muscles and long nights of wishing for extra dinner? It’s not bad, not bad at all. To Mark, it’s perfect. And that’s all that really matters for now.
Mark doesn’t know what he expects to come home to, but it’s definitely not a stranger unpacking his belongings in his room. It’s several strangers, actually, and Mark is able to count nine in total. But the one who’s apparently lodging in his room is his biggest concern.
He’s… Kind of cute, actually. His cheeks are chubby, and his lips are full. He looks like a doe. “I'm Lee Donghyuck,” he says when Mark tiptoes into his room. “But the CEO wants to call me Haechan.”
“Why Haechan?” Mark asks. “What does it mean?”
“Ah, you’re foreign.” Donghyuck pulls a set of sheets over his mattress and turns to Mark. “Sound it out.”
“Full sun,” Mark says, just barely a beat too late to keep Donghyuck from giggling. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not, I just think it’s cute.”
“I grew up speaking Korean. I’m not that bad,” Mark says, taking a seat on his bed. “I’m Mark Lee.”
“Say it in English.”
“Mark Lee,” Mark says slowly, and Donghyuck mouths the words to himself. “I’m from Canada.”
“Mark Lee,” Donghyuck repeats, rolling the r. “I hope you like rooming with me,” he says, “because we’re stuck together ‘till we debut.”
“Great,” Mark says drily.
He’s not sure what to think of Donghyuck. He hopes the other trainees are nicer than he is.
It’s hard to get past Donghyuck when he’s learning the names of all the other trainees. They don’t seem to warm up to him the way they warm up to Donghyuck, and it’s too disheartening for Mark to continue to try.
There’s a boy with a nervous smile everywhere he goes who has shaking hands and who hides behind his bedroom door every chance he gets. His name is Jisung, and he’s Herin’s age, and Mark swears on his life that he’ll make sure this kid grows up well.
Two boys named Jaemin and Jeno seem to have taken a liking to the younger female trainees. They don’t talk much to Mark, but Jeno will sometimes speak in broken English to Mark just to make him more comfortable. It’s sweet, Mark thinks. Jeno is a sweet guy.
The older trainees are nice. A little too nice. They baby Mark and the younger kids—buy them food, keep the dance instructors from being too mean to them, give them hot water privileges for the shower. The works, Mark thinks. Jordan never treated him like this, he realizes, but Jordan was kind of a shitty older brother to begin with now that Mark has Johnny and Ten. And now, he’s got the older trainees, too.
They’ve picked favorites. Mark can tell that much. Taeil adores Donghyuck, to the extent that he lets him get away with everything. It’s infuriating. There’s a pattern. Taeil and Donghyuck, Yuta and Jaemin, Doyoung and Jeno, Taeyong and Jisung…
And himself, but he doesn’t really count, not when he sees the way that Johnny looks at Donghyuck like he’s the best younger brother in the world. And Ten has better things to do, like lose sleep and dance and beg for the higher-ups to let him do something.
Speaking of Ten, he’s… Persistent, as always. Mark’s walking down the hall to get to his practice room when he hears screaming coming from a floor up. He rides the elevator up to investigate, and he doesn’t like what he finds: Ten, shuffling back towards the elevator, a grimace twisting his mouth, which is stained dark red. His face is caked in makeup, and there’s a wig adjusted to frame his face. Artificial bangs hang in his eyes, and they keep him from noticing Mark until they’re face-to-face.
When he does spot Mark, he lets out a quiet gasp and rips the wig off his head and throws it to the ground. He rubs the palms of his hands across his face, but it only smudges the makeup. Mark realizes that his eyes are shining not because of the glitter around them but because of the tears filling them.
“You saw nothing,” Ten hisses, a fat tear rolling down his cheek. He wipes it away aggressively. “Nothing, Mark.”
“Nothing,” Mark repeats, but the words fall on deaf ears.
“If the boys find out about this—” Ten pauses to sniff loudly. “If Taeyong finds out about this, God… They’ll never look at me the same. They’re not like you and Johnny and Herin, okay? They don’t know. And they won’t understand that I’m not a girl.” And then, quieter, almost under his breath but just loud enough for Mark to hear: “They think I’m a real boy right now. I don’t want to mess with that.”
“Shut up,” Mark says. The words fly out of his mouth before he can even realize he’s saying them. “Shut up, you’re just as much of a guy as I am.”
“Not for long,” Ten laughs. It’s a bitter laugh, one that Mark never wants to hear again. “They’re taking me off my testosterone. They said it was fine before debut, but now they want to debut me in their stupid fucking girl group and I can’t do it. I’m not going to do it. I listened to their sample. I heard the lines they would give me. I let them make me up like a girl and I didn’t even bite back when they said I should stay like this. But I can’t do that again. I won’t.”
“What do you mean? You’re not… You’re not gonna debut?”
“I’m walking,” Ten says, and there’s some blank, emotionless resignation in his voice as he shrugs. “There’s nothing else I can do.”
“What about Johnny,” Mark says. His voice wobbles. “What about me? And Herin? You’d never see us again.”
“I’ve made up my mind. I’m not debuting as a girl.”
“I’m telling Johnny,” Mark says, eyes glassy with tears, and Ten scoffs.
“Like he’ll stop me.”
“He will,” Mark promises. He turns, not even bothering to wait for the elevator, and bolts down the stairs.
Mark goes to bed that night with his pillow covering his ears. All he can hear is shouting coming from Johnny and Ten’s room.
“They’re so loud,” Donghyuck groans, rolling over in his bed and hiking his blanket further up his body. “Can’t they be decent and wait until tomorrow to argue?”
“Shut up,” Mark murmurs, and Donghyuck falls silent at the same moment that the shouting does.
Ten doesn’t leave. But he doesn’t debut, either.
The lights in the practice room are bright. Too bright, Mark thinks, wiping his brow and blinking owlishly at his reflection in the mirror. There’s a secretary standing in the doorway, tapping her foot impatiently against the frame of the door. Her arms are crossed.
“Who are you here for?” Taeyong pants.
“Mark.”
Dread fills Mark. He’s in trouble, he has to be. He’s only thirteen, and he’s going to be kicked out of SM Entertainment before his career even begins. He swallows his panic and follows the woman to the elevator.
She leads him to the CEO’s office when they stop on the top floor. “Aren’t you coming in?” Mark asks, eyes blown wide as she crosses her arms and sits down in the lobby outside the office.
She kicks one leg over the other and tilts her head. “Why would I? I don’t want to see you cry.”
“Great,” Mark mutters through gritted teeth. Heart pounding, he closes his hands around the office door and pushes inside.
Kim Youngmin sits behind his desk, tapping his fingers on his keyboard. His nails scrape loudly against the keys. Mark winces under his stare.
“Sit, Mark,” he says, and Mark does. “You’ve shown much promise. You’re proving to be one of our company’s best rappers.”
“Thank you,” Mark says, eyes trained on his lap.
“I’d like to debut you soon, Mark.”
Mark’s eyes widen. The cold air dries out his contacts, but he’s in too much shock to blink. “What?”
“I’m beginning a project called Neo Culture Technology. NCT, for short. And this will be the group you debut in. You’re the first person I’ve told of this, so keep it under wraps, alright?”
“Who else is debuting?”
“So far, most of the boys in your dorm. I’ll consider more.”
Mark swallows.
It’s stupid, what he’s about to do. So incredibly stupid. And yet he can’t think of any better way to go out.
“Ten,” he says. “You’ll debut Ten in this group.”
“This is a boy group. She—”
“You will debut him,” Mark says, firmer this time. “As a boy.”
“You have no leverage here. I’m debuting her in the same group as the remaining female trainees, and she’ll be known as this company’s best female dancer.”
“Alright.” Mark stands and pushes his chair closer into the desk. Here, under the gaze of his CEO, he feels powerful, feels confident, and even though this is a horrible, terrible idea, he has the upper hand. “I’m walking. So is Ten.”
It kicks in about a second too late, just as the door closes behind him. Mark hears Youngmin scrambling to him before he sees him. “Wait!” he shouts. “Wait, fine, I’ll debut her.”
“Him.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Say it,” Mark says slowly. “Promise me you’ll debut Ten in the same group as me. And that you’ll debut him a boy.”
“I’ll debut... Him,” he says, spitting the words like they’re poison on his lips. “I’ll do it. But you’ll regret this. I swear it.”
Mark nods and surveys his work. Youngmin is thoroughly disheveled. His eyes are wide and frantic.
“I don’t doubt I will,” Mark grins. He turns and saunters back to the elevator.
“What’re you smiling at?” Johnny asks when he bursts into the practice room with a smile on his face.
Mark beams. He gets a feeling that his smile is even brighter than the stage lights above him. “You’ll see,” he says, heart pounding as he thinks about what’s to come. “Just wait.”
There’s a predebut project. It’s called “you’re going to participate in a stage to showcase your talents, and you’re going to like it, or else,” and Mark finds out about it via Donghyuck screaming into a pillow.
“This is the worst thing to ever happen to me!” Donghyuck wails, forcing Mark to rip out his earbuds and sigh loudly.
“Would you shut up? What are you even talking about?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” Donghyuck scream-talks into his pillow. “I was just contacted and told that we’ll all be in a showcase to prepare for our debut. All of us. And I have to do a duet.”
“With who?”
Donghyuck rolls over and flops onto his back. “I don’t know! There’s no one I want to do a duet with!”
“I’ll do a duet with you,” Mark says, because he’s dumb and doesn’t know how to handle these kinds of things.
Donghyuck sighs. “Alright, Mark, let’s do a duet.”
“What’re we gonna sing?”
Donghyuck begins to hum a tune that’s familiar to Mark. He can’t think of the lyrics.
“Is that what you want to do?” Mark asks.
Donghyuck stops humming. “It’s got a nice melody, and it has a rap for you. I think it’d be nice.”
“Alright, then we’ll do that. Find me a guitar lesson for it online and I’ll start learning it.”
Mark falls back onto his bed and plugs an earbud in. He leaves the other ear open to anything Donghyuck might say next, but the younger surprises him by rolling over and hiking his blanket up. “Goodnight, Mark. Thanks for doing a duet with me.”
Mark pauses. He hadn’t actually expected to be thanked. “Night, Donghyuck.”
“Hyuck,” Donghyuck says, and Mark mistakes it as a part of his music at first.
“What?”
“You can call me Hyuck, if you want.”
Mark turns his head to glance at Donghyuck’s bed, where he lies covered by a mound of blankets. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft as his eyes begin to droop. “Goodnight, Hyuck.”
If there is a world without Lee Donghyuck in it, that’s where Mark wants to be.
Donghyuck can’t stop causing problems and whining and complaining, and Mark is sick of it. Presently, he’s telling Mark off for not getting a step right.
“We have time until the showcase! I can fix this, just let me get the rap down!”
“They’re coming to check our progress in two hours,” Donghyuck hisses, and Mark’s eyes blow wide as he whips around to face Donghyuck.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mark says—no, nearly shouts, judging by how loudly his voice echoes off the practice room walls. “Donghyuck, what the h—”
“Don’t be mad,” Donghyuck says, quiet, and Mark’s eyes soften for just a second before he next speaks. “I figured we didn’t have enough time to fix all your mistakes.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Mark sneers, using his hands to brace himself on Donghyuck’s chest and push back. “Like I’m the only one making mistakes. You can’t even sing that well.”
Donghyuck reels back. Not with the force of the push, but with clear hurt in his eyes. “Oh, okay,” he says. “Well, fuck you, Mark Lee. I have more talent in my pinky finger than you’ll ever have.”
“Alright, Donghyuck, tell me that when you learn how to dance. It’s okay, though, maybe you could be a visual?” Mark feigns thought, then lets his face fall. “Oh, wait. Never mind.”
“Fuck you,” Donghyuck says, the words dangerously low in his register. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re the one who started this,” Mark growls, and Donghyuck turns and huffs and stomps out of the practice room, leaving Mark to stir in his own thoughts. Maybe even his regrets.
He keeps practicing.
Donghyuck comes back in about an hour. His eyes are red and raw. From what, though, Mark doesn’t want to know.
They work better now. It doesn’t make sense, but as Mark’s guitar on the backing track begins to play, they move together, sing together, perform together.
The trainer who comes in to check their progress says they have good chemistry, tells them they work well together. Mark has to keep himself from laughing out loud at the scowl on Donghyuck’s face.
“Shut up,” Donghyuck mutters when the trainer leaves and the door clicks shut behind him. “You’re laughing at me.”
“And? You were rude to me. You deserve it.”
“Didn’t your parents ever teach you manners?”
Mark falls silent.
“What’s wrong? Do you have mommy issues? Oh, or daddy issues?” a wicked grin curls onto Donghyuck’s lips. Mark’s eyes begin to well up with tears, and he blinks them away, feeling the sting of release as a few begin to slip down his cheeks. “You know once you debut you’ll never see your family, right? Maybe they’ll realize how little they really need you..”
A lump settles in Mark’s throat, and he forces it down to speak. “Too far,” Mark says, voice cracking from hoarseness. He pushes past Donghyuck and towards the door, opening it and slamming it behind him as he leaves.
The dorm is crowded when Mark stumbles inside, tears falling down his face as he cries quietly. No one seems to notice but Ten, who’s quick to wrap his arms around him, to lead him into Johnny’s bedroom, to set him down on the bed and pull him close.
“It’s alright,” Ten says, his hand finding its way to the small of Mark’s back. He runs circles there, soothing the stuttering of Mark’s breath as the younger tries to form words. “Hey, breathe.”
“I miss—” the force of his breath numbs his teeth, and his throat is cold as his tears drip into his open mouth. “I miss my mom.”
“What happened?”
“Donghyuck,” Mark says, like it explains everything. It doesn’t, though, so he elaborates. “He’s just so mean, I don’t get it. Why is he like that? Why —”
“What did he do?” Ten runs a hand through the scruff of Mark’s hair. As strange as it may feel, it’s comforting.
“Said some nasty things about my family. About my parents, but… I don’t care what he says about my dad, but my mom— ” Mark pauses for a breath. “...What if he’s right, what if I’m useless to my family? And what if I’m letting my mom down?”
“Hey.” Ten turns Mark’s head so that they’re facing each other, and suddenly Ten is speaking English, murmuring his words just under the current of Mark’s breathing. “You’re not letting anyone down. You’re debuting soon.”
“They’re going to push back the debut,” Mark says, rubbing his face to rid it of tears. “I made them promise to debut you with me, and they said I’d pay for it. There’s no way they won’t push it back.” Mark sniffs loudly, wiping his nose on his sleeve. It’s a little disgusting, but hopefully Ten doesn’t mind. “What if we never debut?”
“You’ll debut. I don’t know about me, but if I’m what’s holding your debut back, you’re going on without me.”
Mark shakes his head. “I’m not debuting without you.”
“We can talk about all that later,” Ten says, leveling his eyesight with Mark’s. “Listen. You’re making your mom proud. I know it. And you’re making me proud, too. Always.”
Ten pulls him even closer, so close that his body no longer hangs off the bed. Instead, he’s curled up on the mattress, and Ten pulls a blanket over him.
“Nap. I know you’re tired.”
“I’ll get in trouble—” Mark begins, but Ten threads his fingers in Mark’s hair and begins to rake his fingers across his scalp. Mark finds that his eyelids begin to droop without his consent.
“I won’t let you get in trouble,” Ten murmurs.
Mark closes his tired eyes and lets sleep wash over him. Strangely, he feels safe here, wrapped up in Ten’s arms. The security is unusual, but he likes it.
Everything in this moment is perfect.
The glare of the lights, the rush of performing, the sweat that drips down the back of his neck—everything is perfect. He’s performing with everyone right now, singing a song from The Little Mermaid that has him panting for stale air.
His stage with Donghyuck is soon, but he pushes his worry to the back of his mind and dances like his life depends on it. To his right is Ten, a bright smile on his face as he spins around and presses the microphone close to his lips. He glances over at Mark for a split second, and his eyes convey joy that Mark understands far too well.
His rap is coming up in a few lines, he thinks, so he tries to regulate his air, tries to dance less and breathe more.
And then he’s at the center, rocking back and forth as his members—his friends —dance in a line behind him. The microphone nearly touches his lips, and with each puff of breath, hot air bounces back onto his face. Tears well up in Mark’s eyes, because this is it, this is his moment, and he’s at peace. On this stage, he’s in his element.
Of course he feels at home rapping to a song from The Little Mermaid. Of course, because he’s a child at heart, and so is everyone else on this stage.
A hand touches his back as he finishes. It’s Jeno’s, and he squeezes Mark’s shoulder before moving away for the final chorus.
They all form into a line, Mark squeezed hastily between two bodies as a marimba plays in the background. In front of him is Yuta, and behind him is Ten, who grabs his limp hand and squeezes it quickly before they all delve out from the line.
Mark glances out into the crowd just as Donghyuck takes center. He steals the show.
Walking among the crowd is Johnny, dressed in the graphic T-shirt that Mark had begged him not to wear. He’s holding a teddy bear that’s big enough to cover his chest, and his head is engulfed in a giant hat shaped like a fish. Mark tries not to laugh at how at-peace he looks.
Johnny spots Mark and raises the stuffed bear in a makeshift salute just as the final note plays and the music cuts off.
Mark waves out to the crowd with a wide grin. He feels his heart beating beneath his skin and knows he’s awake, that this isn’t a dream.
The lights go down. A hand grabs his and leads him backstage just as a piano is wheeled onstage.
“We did well,” Ten says, breathless, hugging Mark close to his chest. “We did so well, Mark.”
“Did you see how happy the crowd was? Imagine when we have actual fans,” Mark says, head buried in Ten’s shoulder.
“I think they’re gonna let us debut soon,” Ten says, his hand petting the back of Mark’s neck as they lean against the side of the hallway offstage. “Did you see the CEO? He looked proud.”
A piano begins to hum, softly at first, then growing louder. A chorus of three voices joins the melody, and Mark finds he can pick out the different tones and recognize their owners.
“Listen to them,” Ten whispers, eyes bright and sparkling. “Can you hear him playing?”
Mark nods, grinning as he tries to peek out at the stage and see the performance. It’s no use.
“God, he’s so talented. I love him.”
Mark freezes. Turns. Meets Ten’s eyes. “Johnny?”
“Yeah, he’s playing.”
Mark’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to make sense of the words. His lips pucker for a few seconds before he speaks next, twisted like he’s received bad news. “You love him?”
Ten nods, like it’s not news, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
And maybe it is, maybe it was, but it hasn’t been to Mark until now, as Ten stares longingly at the stage. He can’t even see Johnny playing, but that doesn’t seem to matter. The melody is sweet and soothing, and the vocalists do it justice when they sing.
“I thought you knew,” Ten says, leaning against the wall. “You’re cool with it, though, right?”
“Yeah,” Mark breathes. “Of course, it’s just… I didn’t know that was allowed here.”
Ten’s face darkens. A frown settles into his mouth, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he turns his attention to Mark. “It’s not,” he says, his voice deeper than usual. “Okay? Just… If you ever think you’re like us, tell me, okay? You’ll be safe with me around. But it’s not allowed at all.”
The change in Ten’s mood is over as quickly as it began, and so is Johnny’s song. Mark realizes with guilt that he hasn’t even paid attention to the stage. For the past however many minutes, he’s stood alone, an unfortunate victim to his own pathetic thoughts and curiosities.
But it’s not a good time to dwell on that now; now is the time for celebrating, for smiles, for nervousness and stage fright and for Donghyuck’s hand to clap his shoulder as he urges Mark onto the stage. His legs are heavy like lead, and they move without his permission.
The lights are blinding in a way that they hadn’t been before. He’s alone, here—isolated from Donghyuck—and he doesn’t like the way that feels. His chest is filled with a kind of coldness, some void anxiety that he doesn’t have time to ponder, because the loudspeakers play the opening strum of the guitar and Donghyuck opens his mouth and sings a beautiful song like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe Donghyuck is better at this whole stage thing than he is, Mark thinks.
As Donghyuck finishes his verse, Mark rests an arm on his shoulder and brings the microphone close to his lips. He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes wide, and takes the leap.
And he soars.
The feeling in his chest, the cold pressure built up on itself, it all seems to vanish, replaced by something like adrenaline, but a hundred times better. He can feel his heart racing with each syllable, and he glances over at Donghyuck, hoping to find a mirror of himself as the younger follows his rap.
What he finds is much better. Not a mirror, no, but so much more than Mark had expected. Donghyuck’s eyes are shining, and he beams as he meets Mark’s eyes, raises his eyebrows in a sort of challenge that has Mark pushing his hair out of his eyes and turning to face the crowd of executives with a new, determined energy.
But then his verse is almost over, and the high wears off, and all he can do is look back at Donghyuck, at the shine in his eyes as Mark bellows, “One, two, three, scream!”
Donghyuck cuts in with vocals sweeter than honey, and Mark wants to melt at the energy, the excitement, the rush. He realizes then that this is a moment to remember, that this is how he knows that he’s doing what he was born to do, and he beams in the stagelight as the adrenaline in his chest softens into something gentler, something fonder.
Mark Lee is sixteen when he finds his purpose.
Donghyuck comes closer, so that they share the same stagelight, and he rests an arm on Mark’s shoulder. “I wanna be a billionaire,” he sings, and Mark indulges him.
“How bad?”
“So freakin’ bad.”
The stagelight goes dark. There’s muted applause, but once Mark and Donghyuck stumble offstage, giggling to each other like schoolgirls, the applause becomes deafening, and Mark thinks yes, they really were that great.
“Are you going to be nice to me now?” Mark asks when Donghyuck attaches himself to his arm with no intentions of letting go.
“I’ll think about it,” Donghyuck murmurs, cheek pressed against Mark’s shoulder. In his chest, Mark’s heart does somersaults. “Maybe.”
And that’s good enough for Mark.
“Hey,” Donghyuck says, rubbing his eyes groggily as he passes Mark in the hallway. The corner of his lip has crumbs of cereal on it. “Dress nicely today.”
“Why?”
“Dunno. Jisung heard it from Lami, who heard it from Koeun, who heard it from Hina, who heard it from Herin, who heard it from Yeri, who heard it from Seulgi, who heard it from—”
“Get to the point.”
“Leeteuk told Seulgi that we would be on a new series that starts filming today.”
“Series?” Mark shakes his head. “They wouldn’t do that without telling us.”
“Suit yourself,” Donghyuck shrugs, continuing on his way. He pauses in the middle of the hallway, as if he’s forgotten something, and calls over his shoulder: “Don’t actually suit yourself. Dress nice, but not that nice.”
“I got that.” Mark laughs, retreating back to his room to find something to wear that isn’t a pair of day-old pajamas.
Hour later, he’s ushered into a room with all the male trainees who are younger than him. In front of him is a wide, open stage, and he’s told to sit, so he does. Donghyuck follows soon after, and then Jeno, then Jaemin, then Jisung.
The female trainees arrive a few minutes after Mark sits down. They enter in a line, prim and proper, and Mark realizes that for the first time in his trainee life, he can name them all off as they walk: Koeun, Hina, Lami.
There’s a fourth girl that’s missing from this setup, and Mark frowns when he realizes that she’s not here. “What?” he frowns at Donghyuck, who stares at him with a puzzled look, his eyebrows furrowed as he glances between Mark and something behind him.
And then something hits Mark, sending him toppling off his seat as he fights to throw whatever it is off him.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Herin says, standing as she dusts off her shorts. Mark rolls his eyes and hugs her.
“I’ve been busy.”
“I heard.” Herin takes a seat with the girls. She’s a few feet away from Mark and safely out of earshot.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Jeno mouths, eyes wide as he not-so-subtly nods his head in Herin’s general direction.
Mark furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head. “No, she’s more like a sister,” he whispers back. And then, to himself, he murmurs, “Besides, I don’t even like girls.”
Next to him, Donghyuck shifts uncomfortably, eyes wide as he stares at his feet. He must’ve heard him, Mark surmises, a hand flying to Donghyuck’s shoulder as he speaks in a hushed tone.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, heart pounding as Donghyuck’s eyes soften. “I meant I’m not old enough to, y’know, like a girl like that.” Mark gestures around him with his hands just as their manager walks onstage, her hands folded like she’s a teacher ready to explain something.
“Quiet down,” she says, and Donghyuck leans over, a hand cupped between his mouth and Mark’s ear as he whispers.
“I understand.” He pauses for a moment. For breath or for dramatics, Mark can’t decide. “But really, Mark, not even a crush? Just a little one?”
He elbows Donghyuck and earns a quiet, yet bright laugh that rings through the room. Mark relaxes into his seat as the manager berates Donghyuck for his disruption.
Everything is fine, he realizes. No harm done. Crisis averted.
Mark smiles to himself and begins to entertain the idea that maybe everything isn’t as life-and-death as it seems.
Herin, Mark learns, is relentless; she doesn’t change her ways for anyone, especially not Donghyuck. So when Mark finds her loitering in their room, making imaginary snow angels with the carpet between their beds, he just sighs and accepts his fate.
“What are you doing here?” Mark asks, met with silence that’s soon graced with laughter.
“I’m helping you pack. Ten said you have no fashion sense, and he’s right.”
Mark shuts his door and crosses his arms. “Pack for what?”
Herin sits up and scoots backwards so that her back is pressed against Mark’s nightstand. She has a disbelieving grin on her face that means trouble for Mark. “Do you seriously not know?”
Mark gestures for her to keep talking. Herin stretches her arms out so that they lace behind her head, and she grins lazily. “We’re going camping. Leeteuk told us so, but apparently someone doesn’t listen well.”
“When?”
“We leave tomorrow afternoon. Two whole days in the woods. No training, no lessons.” Herin pushes herself up off the ground and marches to Mark’s closet. “And I’m gonna help you pack!”
Mark frowns. “Like hell you are.”
“Language.” She pulls the closet open and drags Mark’s suitcase from it, letting it flop down pathetically onto the carpet as she begins sorting through Mark’s shirts. “What kind of sister would I be if I didn’t help you get yourself together?”
“Oh, so we’re siblings now?”
Herin pauses and peeks out from behind the closet door. Her eyes are wide, her brows knit cautiously, like she’s afraid to respond. “I mean, I always thought so.” Herin glances down at the floor. “Haven’t you?”
Mark Lee is sixteen when he realizes that he has a little sister and that all this hasn’t been his imagination reading too closely into his surroundings. He smiles as his voice softens. “Of course,” he says, and Herin beams. “Now, are you gonna help me pack?”
Herin scrambles to pull shirts off their hangers. She tosses them haphazardly into the suitcase, babbling for Mark to fold them while she sorts clothes, and Mark thinks that this is the one thing that’s made her happiest in all their time together: this, the confession that they really are family.
He smiles to himself as he leans down to fold clothes. He’s done well, he thinks, and that’s good enough for now.
The thing about living in the city is that Mark doesn’t realize how suffocating it really is until he’s gone. The glass window panes and concrete sidewalks disappear soon into the car ride, and as they do, the air seems to grow a little fresher. They’re over halfway through the journey, now, and the leaves of trees whir past the window before Mark can even try to recognize the type of tree.
Donghyuck is asleep, his head lulled to one side so that it rests on Mark’s shoulder. He doesn’t have the heart to push it away, even when the shoulder of his shirt grows wet with drool.
Jeno’s sharing an earbud with Jaemin, who’s putting all his energy into annoying Jisung. The youngest sits between Jaemin and Donghyuck, and he presses himself as close to Donghyuck as he can in an attempt to escape from Jaemin.
“Are we almost there?” Jisung complains, pouting as Jaemin pokes the side of his face. Mark has to cover his mouth to keep from laughing.
“Almost,” their manager calls from the front seat. She points at a sign as the car passes it. “See? The campground is straight ahead.”
The sign is bright and loud and it hurts to look at, but Mark braves the glare and glances at it for as long as his eyes let him. Indeed, it reads that the campground is straight ahead, and Mark blinks, rubbing his eyes as he turns away from the window. Beside him, Donghyuck yawns and stretches, his neck rolling to one side and cracking loudly.
"Have a nice nap?" Mark asks, eyes still burning as Donghyuck tries to fully wake himself.
Donghyuck hums in confirmation, then smacks his lips together. "Eugh, my breath smells now."
"Maybe if you brushed your teeth—" Jisung starts, only to be put in a half-headlock with Donghyuck's left arm. "Ow, I didn't mean it! I swear, I didn't—"
"Calm down!" their manager hisses, turning in her seat to glare at Donghyuck and Jisung. Even though he's not the target of her fury, Mark still cowers in his seat. "Look, we're here."
The van rolls to a halt in a dirt parking lot, and Mark grins as he takes in the trees around him. He's not even outside yet, but he can already feel the forest clearing his head.
Jeno is the first to get out. He pushes the door open, unbuckling his seatbelt and hopping out of the car to do a quick lap around the car and stretch his legs. Jaemin follows, then Jisung, and Mark hurriedly unbuckles his seatbelt to open his door.
The second his feet his the ground, fresh air fills his lungs—cleaner, crisper than the air in the car—and Mark smiles at the feeling. Within seconds of Mark closing his eyes to take in the forest, another van rolls up beside the first one, and out come the girls, grinning and laughing at some joke Hina's made.
"When are we unpacking?" Mark asks, partly because he's sensible and rational and partly because his shorts are itchy and he wants to change into another pair.
"After we set up the tents," his manager says, smiling as she watches one of the crew members struggle to pull a rolled-up tent from the trunk of the van. It's tossed carelessly onto the ground, and Mark, feeling unhelpful, picks it up and carries it on his shoulder like it's a log.
"C'mon, Mark, I'll help you set one up," Donghyuck says, grabbing his free arm and dragging him toward a trail. Clearly, he's been here before, because he leads Mark into an opening where there are markings placed for tents. Mark drops the tent onto the ground and begins unrolling it from its bag.
"You're being nice to me," Mark says, amused as he stands with the frame of the tent that's now waiting to be unfolded. "You are, aren't you?"
"What makes you say that?" Donghyuck says, grabbing the other side of the tent. It's simple, simpler than Mark had imagined; they both pull one end of the tent, and it pops into place. They gently settle it onto the ground. "I'm just helping a friend."
Mark grins. His eyebrows are raised. "Sure," he says, for which Donghyuck elbows him.
"I'm not! See, this is why we weren't friends!" Donghyuck pouts, then shakes his head. "Aren't friends."
"You called me your friend, like, thirty seconds ago."
"Words change, Mark Lee," Donghyuck says, frowning as he presses his pointer finger to Mark's chest and pushes. Surprisingly, Mark stumbles backward, grinning as he goes.
"That doesn't make sense!" Mark laughs, his hands tossed in the air in confusion as Donghyuck links their arms and begins to walk them back towards the trail from which they came.
When they return to the campground, all the tents have been taken, meaning roommates have already been assigned, and Mark figures that means Donghyuck is sharing a tent with him tonight. He doesn't hate the thought, but he isn't thrilled, either, and he can’t figure out why.
“They want me to be mean to you during the rest of the trip,” Donghyuck says in the privacy of their shared tent after a long afternoon of filming. “The public likes our dynamic. The one where we’re competitive. Cat and mouse.”
“Competitive doesn’t mean mean,” Mark reminds him, eyes trained on the roof of the tent. The faint light of the stars filters through the fabric, and the light hits Mark’s eyes at an angle that causes him to squeeze them shut.
“It does the way they want it. And if we do what they say, maybe we’ll debut faster.”
Mark laughs bitterly. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“What? Why?”
Mark’s hand crosses over his eyes to block the starlight. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
Donghyuck only hums in response, but it doesn’t sound like approval. It sounds skeptical, like he’s up to something, and Mark frowns, praying to some unknown deity that Donghyuck won’t push any further as they lapse into silence.
Mark can’t tell how much time passes before Donghyuck speaks again. Seconds, maybe, or even minutes. “When do you think we’ll debut, Mark?”
‘Whenever the CEO decides to like me,’ Mark wants to say, but instead he swallows the sourness on his tongue and chokes out a quiet, “Soon.”
“That doesn’t sound fun.”
“Why not?” Mark asks, turning onto his side so that he faces Donghyuck. His silhouette does bicycle kicks in the air as he talks.
“Well, I still want to be a kid. I’m fifteen. I want to grow up a little more, y’know? Learn the ropes. Get better at singing.”
“You’re already great at singing. Better than me and all the other boys. And I thought you would’ve wanted to debut by now. Aren’t you getting cramped in those dorms?”
“I mean, it’d be nice to debut, but…” Donghyuck’s legs flop down onto the ground, his arms crossed over his chest. “I know the life that comes with being an idol, and I’m not sure if I’m old enough to be ready for it. I’d rather the girls debut before me. They’ve been waiting long enough.”
Some faint thought sparks in the back of Mark’s mind. He lets it blaze, but pays it no attention and instead abandons it to reply, furrowing his eyebrows as he does. “I guess I didn’t think about it like that. They set me apart from the rest of the younger trainees here. They think I’m older than I really am.”
“Well, that’s dumb. Maybe you should try not caring. Or thinking like one of us.”
“I don’t think I can do that,” Mark admits, more to himself than to Donghyuck. “I just want to debut. I want to be on a stage again.”
“Well, maybe we can be on a stage during this show,” Donghyuck says, stretching his arms before he rests them behind his head. Even in the dark, Mark thinks that if he were just a little closer to Donghyuck, he could count the beauty marks on the side of his face.
He dismisses the idea, pushing it to the far reaches of his mind where he forbids himself to go. Therein lie terrible, horrible thoughts: unkind words and dried tears, pretty boys and girls with angelic voices and gentle hands that brush tears from his cheeks.
Mark swallows the lump that’s somehow formed again in his throat. “Yeah, maybe.”
Donghyuck doesn’t answer. Within a few minutes, he’s snoring, and Mark is left staring at the side of his face as he sleeps.
Without knowing, Donghyuck’s given him something to think about in the silence of the night, while no one can disturb him and his thoughts: how far do the repercussions of his deal reach? When the girls debut— if they debut, even—they’ll be held accountable for Mark’s actions, and now Mark knows for certain that he is the root of this problem.
(Or maybe it’s Ten, he thinks selfishly. But he can’t blame Ten, can’t put this on him when he already has so much to begin with. He won’t be held accountable for Mark’s choice, anyway; it was made for him, and it’ll be carried out for him, Mark promises himself.)
He’s too young for this—entirely too young, and he knows it. Still, that doesn’t stop Mark from rolling onto his back and threading his fingers into his hair, palms pressed into his eyes as his mind consumes him.
The next day is their last, and the crew tells them they’re going to get their most important footage yet. They play games, eat meat, and Jaemin is revealed to be some kind of double agent in a game that no one even knew they were playing. Mark doesn’t really understand the last one, but he goes along with it anyways and pouts when Jaemin is promised an extra serving of dinner.
When dinner time rolls around, they’re ushered towards a group of logs around a campfire, and they’re each given a stick, a marshmallow, a piece of chocolate, and some knockoff graham cracker that Mark stares at dumbly. He knows what he’s supposed to do with this, of course, but he’s not sure why the graham cracker is so mushy. It’s not right.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Donghyuck asks, waving the stick in the air helplessly. Jaemin pokes the fire with his, and Jisung nibbles on his marshmallow.
“It’s for s’mores,” Mark says, and the entirety of the group looks at him like he’s insane. The word is echoed two, three, four times, and then Herin snaps her finger and nods.
“Isn’t that one of your stupid western snacks?”
“They’re not stupid,” Mark grumbles, breaking the poser graham cracker in two and sandwiching the chocolate between them. “Just… Watch. This is how you make a s’more.”
He pokes the stick through the marshmallow and lets it hang over the fire. For a moment, it browns, and the childish part of Mark wants to reach out and caress the fire, but he lets his free hand lie itching at the log beneath him for fear of burning it.
He’s doing well, he thinks, and he’s certainly captivated his audience. He’ll be hailed as a hero for this—a bringer of good food, a master of culinary arts.
And then the marshmallow catches fire. Jaemin shrieks, falling backwards off his log, and the camera pans to capture him flailing on the ground in a pathetic attempt to sit back up. Mark rolls his eyes and waves the still-ablaze marshmallow in the air, then blows on the stick. The flames die.
“Ew, it’s all black and burnt now,” Jisung says, eyes furrowed and lips curled as he examines the marshmallow on Mark’s stick.
“It’ll still taste good, I promise. Look.” Mark slides the marshmallow between the cracker and chocolate. It’s sticky when he tries to grab it, but still, his stomach growls, so he cranes his neck forward and takes a bite.
When he swallows, everyone else has already jabbed their marshmallows into the fire, excitedly waiting for whatever happens next. Somehow, none of theirs catch fire, and Mark pouts as they make their s’mores without the burnt marshmallow crust.
Donghyuck elbows him. “This is… Really good. Like, really good.”
Mark beams. Near the camera, his manager fixes him with a glare and a frown. Donghyuck seems to see this, though, and makes a face at their manager before pressing himself into Mark’s side and resting his head on Mark’s shoulder.
(His heart shouldn’t speed up the way it does in that moment. It’s because of the fire, he tells himself. It’s taking his breath away with how beautiful it is.)
Donghyuck puts his hands over his microphone, then Mark’s. “Screw them,” he mumbles, his fingers dangerously close to Mark’s heart. They brush up against his chest, separated from skin only by the thin fabric of Mark’s shirt, and Mark thinks he might die. Donghyuck tightens his hand around Mark’s mic. “We’re friends, whether they want us to be or not.”
Mark’s face is warm—from the fire, of course—and his heart is pounding, but he relaxes into the feeling of Donghyuck at his side and lets himself wonder if this is the beginning of something stronger than a friendship.
Mark’s unpacking his bag when the knock sounds at his door. Donghyuck is out—to train, probably—and he’s all alone, humming a Red Velvet song as he unfolds clothes and puts them away. (Herin really shouldn’t have packed this much, but he appreciates the effort at the very least.)
“Come in,” Mark says, pausing his humming for just a moment to welcome whoever’s at his door. It creaks open worryingly slowly, and Mark turns to face the figure in the doorway just when a pair of arms wrap around him and pull him flush against a warm chest. Mark squeaks in surprise, arms frozen in the air as the stranger hugs him tighter. He tenses.
“We’re debuting,” Ten murmurs, and Mark relaxes into the embrace, his hands pressing lightly at the small of Ten’s back as he drops his head onto the older’s shoulder.
“We’re debuting,” Mark echoes, and he reminds himself to remember this date: October the twenty-somethingth, the day he was confirmed a career. “Who told you?”
“They told Taeyong first, and he relayed it back to me.” Ten’s grip on Mark loosens, but not enough for Mark to pull away if he wanted to. “Johnny’s not with us this time around, but there’s another unit, and he’ll be along soon with a few others. I’m in there, I think. And then there’s another unit, for the kids, and you’re in it—actually, you’re in every damn unit, Mark, holy shit —”
“I’m what?”
“Every single one. You’re debuting. And then you’re debuting again, and then one more time.”
Mark’s not crying. His eyes are watering, maybe, but he’s not crying, because he’s sixteen and crying is for babies. “When?”
“By April. Sicheng—you know him, right? He’s in the second unit, and then there’re apparently these two boys from China who’re going to debut in the kids’ unit with you, and it’s supposed to have a really cute concept, so you’ll fit it well, and—”
“You’re rambling,” Mark laughs wetly. Ten sighs, pulling away from the hug and bracing his hands on Mark shoulders.
“Yeah, well, I’m happy. You did it. We did it.”
“Is Donghyuck debuting?”
Ten furrows his eyebrows. “Hm?”
“Donghyuck,” Mark repeats, anxiety creeping into his tone. “Is he debuting?”
“I think so,” Ten says, and Mark can feel the radiance of his own smile. He is a star, brilliant and bright, and he will burn up in the brightest supernova of all.
After Ten leaves to spread the news, Mark sits alone in his room, his suitcase long forgotten by now. Donghyuck stumbles into the room at half-past eight. (Mark only knows this because he’s been staring at the clock for far too long, willing the minutes to go by impossibly faster.)
Donghyuck’s eyes are visibly tired even in such a darkness as this, and he greets Mark with a quiet ‘hello,’ his hand flying up to wave with half as much effort as he usually uses.
But all it takes is for Mark to stand, his arms open as he steps towards Donghyuck, that supernova smile still clear on his face as he whispers, “We did it.”
That’s all it takes for Donghyuck to come undone his arms, for him to understand exactly what he means as Mark’s arms wrap around him tightly. Mark squeezes his eyes shut and nestles the crook of his chin behind Donghyuck’s shoulder. He smells of pine and metallic deodorant, but Mark doesn’t mind. Not when Donghyuck is like this with him, vulnerable and grateful and elated.
This Donghyuck is the one he believes he will be close to. Not the mean one, not the witty one, but the one slumped in his embrace with praise and curses spilling from his lips. It’s a strange combination, but Mark enjoys it, enjoys this side of Donghyuck that he hasn’t seen before. It’s nice, it’s something he can feel in himself, and it’s beautiful, tangible. He never wants to let it go.
And he won’t, he thinks, hugging Donghyuck closer to himself purely from his own selfishness. He won’t.
There’s some regularity to his schedule, now; training in the mornings, school in the afternoon, more training in the evening. It’s February—mid February—and he’s been told to mark his calendar for his debut: April 9th. Ten’s birthday comes and goes, and they celebrate it quickly and quietly. There’s no flashy party, no trainee videos or birthday songs or anything, really. He gets a slice of cake, and Mark wishes him a tearful happy birthday, and then they cart him into a company car to be whisked away for surgery.
Before, when Mark had been young and naive, he’d thought this would be a good thing. In recent months, though, he’s learned that it most definitely is not.
Ten calls him at half past three one morning, crying into the voicemail receiver because of how badly it hurts. Johnny didn’t pick up his first call, Ten says, so Mark was his next shot.
“I hate it,” Ten croaks, his voice raw and hoarse. “I hate it, it’s hideous, it’s so ugly, and everything hurts, and I don’t understand why I couldn’t just keep wearing a binder instead. I can’t dance for, like, a month. I want to go back. I really, really want to go back, Mark.”
It drives Mark to tears to listen to the rest of the message, but he suffers through it, and then while Donghyuck snores in the bed across from him he opens Ten’s contact and whispers out a message for him to hear when he wakes up.
“You are strong, and you are brave,” he murmurs, “and I know you’ll get through this and everything else. You always do. I love you.”
It works well, because later, as Mark’s taking a break after being yelled at by his dance instructor, Ten texts him thanking him with a picture of himself deranged from pain meds. It makes Mark laugh far too loudly, and soon the whole practice room is peering at him curiously.
It’s worth the embarrassment, though, to see the smile on his brother’s face, and Mark thinks with certainty that it will always be worth it for him.
Mark comes home the day before he debuts to Donghyuck crying, curled up into a ball in his bed, his covers shielding him from the rest of the world.
“Donghyuck,” Mark says, closing the door softly behind him. Donghyuck quiets and stills. “Hyuck, what’s wrong?”
“Allergies,” Donghyuck says, his voice low and flat. “Go to bed.”
Mark rolls his eyes. He flops down beside the Donghyuck-shaped lump in the blankets and puts a hand on what he hopes is Donghyuck’s shoulder. “Hyuckie,” he says, testing the name with a sternness in his tone that drives Donghyuck out of the covers.
“What,” Donghyuck deadpans, exasperated, and Mark squeezes his shoulder.
“Can you come out? You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong.”
Slowly, Donghyuck emerges from his blanket cocoon. His eyes are puffy, and his nose is red. There are tear tracks dried on his face, and he tries to wipe them off to no avail.
Donghyuck frowns. “There’s nothing wrong. It’s stupid.”
“If it were stupid, you wouldn’t be crying.”
“I’m not crying. I told you, I have allergies.”
Mark laughs and puts an arm around Donghyuck, pulling him in for another hug. The feeling he’d felt all those months ago—the selfish, greedy feeling—bubbles up in his stomach, warm and light and demanding, but Mark is determined not to give in to it this time.
Donghyuck appreciates the gesture of Mark’s arm around him and apparently wants to take it a step further. He rests his forehead on Mark’s shoulder, and within minutes, the fabric of Mark’s shirt is stained with tears. The smell of Axe and wood is once again wafting around Mark, and it bothers him a little less this time.
“It’s not fair,” Donghyuck says against his shoulder, his voice a soft murmur in comparison to its usual volume.
“What’s not fair?”
“Everything I’m feeling,” Donghyuck says. “I’ve been so good, I’ve worked so hard, and now it’s all going down the drain. All because I like b—” he stops himself from saying anything else and returns to crying on Mark’s shoulder. Softly, he backtracks: “Because I like someone.”
“Nothing’s going down the drain,” Mark says, confused but willing to help. “You’re debuting in July. And again in August. You’re going to be fine.”
“If someone finds out...” Donghyuck is speaking more to himself than Mark, but it speaks volumes in the place of what he really wants to say.
“You’re allowed to have a crush,” Mark says, his arm tightening around Donghyuck. “Idols date all the time. Maybe she’ll like you back. It’s totally okay.”
“Not like this,” Donghyuck says, pulling away to rub the tear tracks off his face before turning and flopping onto his side, facing the wall with his back to Mark. “Not like this, Mark Lee, you have no idea.”
“Okay,” Mark says, because maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he does, but he won’t know if Donghyuck doesn’t tell him.
By the looks of things, that isn’t happening anytime soon.
“Can I lie down with you?” Mark asks, his question hesitant and soft.
Donghyuck startles, turning his head to stare up at Mark with wide eyes. His lips are settled into a small pout, and his eyebrows are furrowed. “What?”
“Can I lie down next to you,” Mark deadpans, pointing at the empty space next to Donghyuck.
Donghyuck’s unresponsive for a few seconds, but then he shakes his head a little and trains his gaze back on Mark. “...Sure.”
And so Mark settles under the covers, an arm thrown loosely over Donghyuck as he makes himself comfortable.
Donghyuck scoots backward to shift into a new position, but accidentally ends up flush against Mark. Mark’s arms wrap around him as a force of habit. “Sorry,” Donghyuck yelps, stuttering the word as he tries to wriggle out of the position, but Mark rolls his eyes and tightens his grip on Donghyuck.
“It’s alright, this is fine. Sleep.”
And it seems like he does, at least for a few minutes. The breaths that leave him are soft and gentle, and they even out with every second that passes. But he wakes within minutes, inhaling sharply and letting out a little noise to signify he’s woken up. Then he’s silent again, one of his hands snaking up to wrap around Mark’s wrist loosely just to make sure he’s still there.
“Are you excited for tomorrow?” Donghyuck asks, and though his voice is quiet, the silence of the room swallows it and echoes it back off the walls.
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Mark’s phone is snug in his pocket, and once the music video releases, he plans to call his mother and hear her thoughts. But that’s hours away, and his excitement shouldn’t cloud his concern for Donghyuck.
“Dunno. I’d feel nervous, but that’s because I have a lot on my plate. You’re gonna do great.”
“You gonna get me a win?”
Donghyuck laughs. “Duh. And then we’ve gotta get ourselves a win when we debut in the other unit. And then the other one.”
“Funny that we get to debut together twice,” Mark says.
“Fate’s weird like that, I think. Maybe I did well picking you as a roommate that one time.”
“You picked? I thought you just put your stuff down in a random room.”
Donghyuck’s radiating heat in his arms. Mark’s breath splays back off Donghyuck’s neck and towards Mark’s mouth, and it’s so hot that Mark winces at the feeling. Donghyuck laughs, his back still pressed against Mark’s stomach as he does. It kind of tickles, actually.
“They let us pick. They gave us little profiles and let us choose who we wanted to room with.”
“And you picked me?”
“I picked you,” Donghyuck hums, and he sounds calm, content.
“Why?”
“Well, I looked at your personality, and you seemed like my polar opposite. I like that. I like a challenge.”
“What’s the challenge?”
“Getting along,” Donghyuck says, his other hand finding its way around Mark’s wrist. “I beat the challenge, I became your best friend, and now everything’s different. We work well. We could be better, but the way we work together, it’s different than everyone else does. It’s like we forget what we normally do and tune into the same wavelength.”
“Like that predebut stage,” Mark says, a smile curling at his lips. He thinks he’s a genius for remembering. “We were arguing, but when we were up on stage, it was like we were brothers.”
The word ‘brothers’ sounds strange coming from his mouth. Wrong, weird, however he thinks of it, it’s just not right. There should be something else, something closer that doesn’t bind them by blood.
“Not brothers,” Donghyuck says, and Mark doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s wrinkling his nose. “Closer, though.”
“I can’t think of anything closer.”
“Soulmates,” Donghyuck laughs, but it sounds forced and fake. Mark’s heart pangs for some strange reason, but he feigns a laugh and waves off the feeling.
“Are you feeling any better?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Mark. Nothing I couldn’t handle on my own, but… Yeah, you made it better.” He turns around to face Mark, one of his hands reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes. “I like your black hair. It suits you.”
“Really?”
Donghyuck hums and nods. His eyes are soft, and they catch the light at the perfect angle. If Mark looked hard enough, he could probably spy a star in them. “You should keep it. Or dye it back whenever you can.”
“All I know is that they’re doing something weird for Firetruck. Two different colors, I think.”
“Can’t be worse than Sicheng’s. He showed me what they want to do to him, and it’s like an ice cream cone. White and yellow all over.”
“That sounds cute. He’s a cute guy, isn’t he?”
“If he heard you say that, he’d slap you,” Donghyuck laughs, finally shifting to get comfortable. His head falls onto Mark’s arm, the one that’s around him, and even though he’ll get pins and needles soon, Mark can’t find it in him to pull it away. Especially not when Donghyuck looks about three seconds away from a nap.
“Can I sleep?” Donghyuck asks, his eyes still closed and the side of his face smushed against his nose. His cheeks are cute, Mark thinks. He’s really cute.
“Go right ahead,” Mark says. He stills then, closing his eyes and lying his head next to Donghyuck for what he hopes will be a nice nap for the both of them.
And it is, he thinks when he wakes up later to a dark room and a beautiful boy still dozing in his arms. He falls back asleep to the current of Donghyuck’s breath, his heart warm and his eyes heavy. This is right, this is where he is supposed to be, and he doesn’t ever want to leave.
The first show is the hardest. It’s late, and Mark is tired, and the bags under his eyes are dark enough to earn disapproving tuts from the makeup stylists. He promises them that he’ll get a good night’s rest to keep their concern at bay, but he knows full well that’s a lie.
The choreography is fucking stupid, he thinks. And he doesn’t much like his rap, because his mother knows what ‘long ass ride’ means, and she’s already told Mark that just because he doesn’t live under her roof doesn’t mean there won’t be repercussions for swearing. He expects there’ll be a bar of soap waiting for him when he comes home for Chuseok.
...That is, if he comes home for Chuseok.
He’s not used to the mics or the flashy clothing, and they seem to weigh him down to the stage, stalling his movements and forcing him off beat. He’s close to ripping his microphone off by the time the first chorus hits.
But he glances across the stage to Ten, who flashes him a quick grin and a wink, and then nods out to the crowd. In the front row, there’s a girl with a neon green sign that reads in big bold lettering, “MARK, SO HANDSOME!”
She’s full of shit, Mark thinks, but it sends adrenaline pounding through his veins, and he dances with a newer, sharper presence. He is here, with his leader and his brother and his members, and he thinks that this really is what he was made to do. Knows that this is what he was made to do.
They don’t win. They don’t even come close, but that’s alright, because Ten puts him in a headlock and rakes his knuckles against Mark’s scalp in a noogie of death and says, “I’m so proud of you.”
And then it’s all okay.
“Can you walk?” Donghyuck asks, helping Mark waddle forward in his… Kilt? Skirt? Whatever it is, Mark hates it and hates that he can’t move in it, especially when he’s dancing a choreography like this one.
But at least his rap is nice this time around, so maybe the song isn’t that bad. And Donghyuck’s vocals power him through, sweet and smooth like liquid gold, so he won’t have nearly as much trouble onstage.
“I’ll be alright,” Mark says, waving off the concern. He turns to Donghyuck and runs a thumb along his cheek. “They didn’t match your foundation. You’re darker than that.”
Donghyuck’s eyes seem to darken at that, and a frown settles onto his lips. “I know. I’m used to it. They like light people.”
“I think you’re prettier without the foundation,” Mark says, rubbing his thumb on his skirt and gripping Donghyuck’s shoulder. “Don’t let the makeup noonas tell you otherwise. You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Donghyuck breathes, letting Mark guide him towards the rest of their members as they begin to take the stage.
“You’ve got this. You’re Lee Donghyuck. Haechan.”
“I’m Haechan,” Donghyuck repeats, sounding less nervous, less quiet. “Oh, Jeno’s going to be so pissed.”
And then they’re on stage, and red lights are strobing, and Mark can’t find it in himself to be nervous; he’s done this once before, and he’ll do it again. This time, though, instead of his brother, Haechan is beside him, and they’re invigorated, dancing close, dancing far, stealing glances and winks and smiles and pulling the last bit of energy out of the other, and it is perfect.
Here, with his best friend, he is taking on the world, one stage at a time. They’re not looking for a win, they’re looking for recognition, for “ Hey, that NCT 127 group has a lot of talent,” and by God, they’ll get it. If not now, then soon, when the kids debut and Donghyuck’s vocals shine through once again, this time brighter and younger and filled with life.
But for now, this is the closest to perfect he’ll get.
The morning he’s ripped away from his safety is brighter than the others. Today, he’s sitting at the counter with Ten and Taeyong, snacking on some fruit for breakfast as they wait for the others’ alarms to start going off. There are bags under Taeyong’s eyes, but his smile is bright as they joke and jest about nothing in particular.
Mark wants to ask Taeyong what he’s doing on his phone this early, but he surmises that he’s probably reading the news and that asking to borrow his phone to text his mother will be fruitless. Taeyong’s the only one technically allowed to have his phone in the whole group (since his grandmother is ill and he needs to be updated), but he only uses it to play games and read the news. Pathetic, really, since he could vote and stream, but the apps are blocked on his phone by the company.
It doesn’t matter, though, since everyone has secret phones that are so poorly kept hidden that their managers know about them. They don’t seem to care.
Mark stabs his fork into a cube of watermelon and waves it in the air, inching it right under Ten’s nose. “Want some?”
Taeyong’s eyes widen, his vision zeroing in on the fruit by Ten’s mouth. “I wouldn’t do that if I were—”
“Get that shit out of here!” Ten shrieks, smacking the fork out of Mark’s hand with the back of his own. The fork clatters to the floor. The melon goes flying, slamming against the wall and splattering pink juice across the paint before falling off and flopping onto the hardwood with a loud squelch.
Mark loses it.
He’s on the chair one moment and in the floor the next, clutching his stomach as it convulses with laughter. Ten’s right beside him, in hysterics, slapping the floor with his palm as if it were his knee. It even pulls a few laughs out of Taeyong, who chuckles loudly before snorting and returning to reading the news.
Today will be a good day, Mark decides, because laughter is the best way to start the morning.
And then Taeyong clears his throat, eyebrows raised as he addresses the room. “What’s this article, Ten? Have you read it?”
Ten sits up. “Read it to me, I wanna see how bullshit it is.”
He braces his hands on the table and is halfway through pulling himself to his feet when Taeyong reads out the headline. “NCT Ten, fraud extraordinaire? SM dancer reportedly born a woman, changed to man under dangerous surgeries and drugs, says company informant.”
It seems to happen in slow motion, and there’s too much to process that happens in that moment.
Mark’s hands fly to his mouth, his eyes wide and his heart sunken into his stomach. Ten screams— a loud, terrified scream of agony that morphs into a sob as his fingers slip from the counter and he falls motionless to the floor. And then the cries begin, pitiful and anguished as he murmurs incoherent nonsense to himself.
Mark is frozen; for so long, Ten has been his rock, indestructible, but now he’s crumbling, tearing apart at the seams, and Mark has no idea how to fix it. In a way, this feels like his fault. He should’ve been better prepared for this.
His arm falls over Ten’s huddled form, hushing him quietly like he’s a baby. “Get Johnny,” Mark calls over his shoulder to Taeyong, who nods, horrified, and begins to sprint towards Johnny’s door. In the distance, doors crack open and heads peek out to investigate.
“No,” Ten whispers, to Mark rather than himself. His voice is angry and low, and Mark’s never seen this color on his before. “No, I don’t want him to see me like this. I want to know who did this. And I need to get away from this.”
“I’ll get you somewhere,” Mark says, his hands sliding under Ten and lifting him into the air. He’s lighter than Mark expects.
First, he tries the bathroom, but it’s occupied by someone. Mark scurries towards his room just as Johnny emerges from his room, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slacked into a frown.
The door is unlocked, and Donghyuck is sleeping, so Mark settles Ten onto his bed and scoops the still-asleep Donghyuck into his arms. He’s pretty like this, Mark thinks, but he doesn’t have time for these thoughts now, not when this much is at stake. His objective is to keep Ten away from the rest, and he’ll carry it out if it kills him.
He hurries out of his room and lowers Donghyuck onto the couch in the living room, pulling a blanket over Donghyuck and dropping a quick kiss on his forehead before speeding back into his room.
He doesn’t have time to ponder what he’s just done, he tells himself. He can think about that later. Never works fine, too.
“Mark?” Donghyuck calls out, his voice light and croaky from sleep. Mark ignores the call and retreats back into his room, slamming the door shut and locking the door behind him as he races to the bed and drops to the floor just next to Ten.
He’s still curled into a ball, his hands covering his face as the tips of his fingers dig into the roots of his hair.
“I’m a fraud,” Ten says, so quiet that the words barely make it through the barrier of his hands. “I’m a fraud, and I knew it, but I decided to chase this shitty dream and endanger my family’s future.”
“I thought you didn’t talk to your family,” Mark says.
“Not them. You, Johnny, the rest,” Ten whispers. “Herin, if this gets far enough. I won’t let it get that far. I’ll leave before this hurts you any more than it already will.”
“You’re not leaving,” Mark says, his eyebrows furrowed as he reaches forward and pulls Ten’s hands away from his eyes. “I’m not letting that happen.”
“It’s for your own good.”
“You wanna know what’s best for me? You, here, staying. I don’t care what it takes, I’m not letting you leave.”
“Mark—”
“No,” Mark says, his hand falling to the side of Ten’s face as he thumbs his tears away. “You’ll stay, and you’ll get through this, because you always do. It’s just like I said. This’ll pass.”
“They’ll make me leave for a bit, I know that. But Johnny—”
“—Will be fine without you for a couple of months, maybe a year if that’s what it takes. When you come back, you’ll be better than ever. Nobody’ll have shit on you.”
“They won’t have shit to say, either. They’ll have already said it. I’m immune.”
“Immune to everything but fruit,” Mark says, and Ten laughs. The junction between his cheek and nose crinkle—Mark has read about this, something about a special kind of smile—and he snickers, his hand covering his smile as he does.
“Now everyone knows, though,” Ten says, the laugh lines disappearing. A frown settles into what was once a grin. “They won’t look at me the same.”
“If I hear anything out of line, I’ll make sure they know why they’re wrong. And I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re not a fraud, or anything else you might think.”
“It’s just… It’s hard,” Ten says. He reaches out and grabs Mark’s free hand, squeezing it gently. “Because I’ve worked so hard for this, and I finally have what I’ve wanted since I was a thirteen-year-old girl who stayed late at dance practice, but what did it cost? What do I do now? It’s hard, Mark.”
“I know,” Mark says, his voice low as he purses his lips. “I know, and I’m not gonna act like I know what to do, because I have no idea. But I’ll be there through everything that I can be with you for. You’re gonna be okay.”
Ten hums. Mark’s running out of things to say. “And for what it’s worth, you’re more of a man than I’ll ever be.”
Ten laughs, bright and loud, contrasting the single tear that rolls across his face and sinks into Mark’s pillow. “You’re a good kid, you know that?”
“I try.”
“You are, and I love you. Thank you for putting up with this.”
Mark hums. “D’you think you can talk to the others?”
“I’ll wait till the manager gets here. I’ll talk to him about it before anyone else. For now, though, I think I’m gonna nap. You can join me, if you want.”
Mark obliges, folding his arms onto the bed and resting his chin on them as a sort of makeshift pillow. It’s comfortable enough for him to close his eyes and sleep, and by the time he wakes up, Ten isn’t in the bed. Mark wanders the dorm with sleepy eyes as he looks for him, only to come across his manager.
He’s broken the news with teary eyes from his manager and the unfortunate crowd of members: Ten is gone, and he won’t be back for a long, long time.
Not even Donghyuck can console him then, and that evening, he performs onstage with tears streaming down his face. No one asks why, no one tries to help him. There’s no use, not when the only thing that could possibly make this better is the one he’s crying for.
It’s twelve in the evening, and Mark is required to be in bed now, but he can’t sleep. Instead, he’s stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the bags under his eyes and the little flag that Ten had once drawn into the corner of the medicine cabinet mirror with erasable marker. He’d only left it there because he knew no one else would be able to recognize the pink and blue and white, the true meaning behind the design. It hurts to stare at now.
But then he looks closer, shifts out of his own view and leans close to the mirror. There, in the corner next to Ten’s flag, scrawled in dry-erase marker with chicken scratch handwriting, is some kind of text that Mark tries to decode: “HC.YT.”
And then he realizes. Haechan, Yuta.
Ten’s not alone. This wasn’t here this morning, so it had to have been drawn later in the day in some sort of act of solidarity. And that’s exactly what Ten would want—support.
It’s all Mark wants for him, too, and he goes to bed with a bright smile on his face as he entertains the fantasy that Ten will come back and that everything will be well, just as it should be.
Mark’s first introduction to the Dreamies is through the first listen of their debut song. Donghyuck sits to his left, Jaemin to his right, and Jisung and Jeno across from him as their new manager explains the system on which their unit will be operating. Two unfamiliar boys sit across from each other. One has blond hair and looks on the younger side of twelve years old, while the other is dark headed and grins with a snaggletooth. It’s cute. Chenle, he learns, is the blond, while the latter is named Renjun.
Mark looks forward to debuting with these boys, since they’re closer to his age. That is, until their manager clears her throat and says, “So, Mark’s the leader. Any questions?”
Mark begins to raise his hand, but Donghyuck pulls it back down. It’s too late, though, because the manager sees it and addresses Mark.
“Why me? I’m not a good leader.”
“You were on Mickey Mouse Club,” Jeno says, lacing his fingers. “And you're the oldest. It makes sense.”
“But why not Donghyuck? Or you? You’re the next by seniority and would make better leaders.”
“Injun is older than both of them,” Jaemin says in his usual pouty voice. “March of 2000. He’s the second-oldest.”
“That’s me,” Renjun says. His voice is smoother than Mark expects. It reminds him of honey.
“Then why can’t you be the leader?”
The manager folds her hands. She’s already starting to get annoyed, but Mark doesn’t regret asking the question. “Because you’re the leader. Any questions?”
Mark stares at his clasped hands and refuses to look up at anyone else. “No.”
He has so many questions, though, and once they’re dismissed, Mark retires to his room to ponder them.
“What’re you pouting about?”
Mark rolls over onto his stomach, buries his face in his blankets, and lets out a quiet but agonized wail. The bed shifts beside him, and Donghyuck stretches out over his limp body, his muscles convulsing as he laughs.
“What could possibly be bad enough to make you scream over it?”
“I’m not good enough to be a leader,” Mark says, aware that Donghyuck’s joking but unable to care. “I’m just not what they think I am. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know how to lead.”
Donghyuck pulls himself up from his position on Mark’s back. He curls into the other’s side, facing him and brushing his hair out of his eyes. “C’mon, really? You’re Mark Lee.”
“Yeah, well, Mark Lee has no idea what the hell he’s gonna do.”
“Hey,” Donghyuck says, his hand settling on the side of Mark’s face as his thumb and pointer finger dig uncomfortably into his cheek and stretch it. “Look at you. Look, you’re adorable. Do you think the higher-ups are gonna put a lot of pressure on a face this cute over something as trivial as leading a group?”
“Yes,” Mark groans hopelessly, eyes squeezed shut in a futile attempt to confine the pounding of his head.
“No,” Donghyuck corrects, his hand relaxing, sliding down Mark’s jaw and falling limply onto the pillow. “Everything is gonna be fine. And I’m going to be right here behind you through all of it.”
“Yeah, until the next time we argue.”
Donghyuck laughs a little, like the thought is too outlandish to ever believe. “I’m not planning on starting shit with you anytime soon, Mark. I sort of value your friendship, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“You’re just saying that to shut me up,” Mark says, cracking a smile.
“Maybe. But I know won’t argue the way we did ever again. We’re more mature than that now.”
“Promise?”
Donghyuck hums. His hand travels beneath Mark’s blanket cocoon until it finds his hand and slips its pinky between Mark’s own. “I promise. And I promise you’ll be a great leader, just watch.”
With this new reassurance (that he tells himself to take with a grain of salt but really takes with all the hope in his heart), this new hope, he shuts his eyes, slots the rest of his hand into Donghyuck’s, and nudges the blanket over the other’s body as the dull ache in his head softens, quiets, his breathing evening with the tide of sleep that washes over him.
Mark Lee is eighteen when he debuts for what he promises will be the final time. His eyes are tired, so tired, and the lights from the stage are present behind his eyelids with every turn of his head, every blink and every pause for recollection. The screams of the crowd are deafening, and the thundering feet on any side of him thrum alongside his pounding headache.
This is the most beautiful chaos, he thinks, and he’s caught right in the midst of it.
At his side, Jeno can’t stop smiling, and it’s real, genuine, not at all like the fake one that Mark and Donghyuck have plastered on. They know what comes after this, they know the horrors of the fans, the invasions of privacy, the sleepless nights. And soon, so will Jeno and Renjun and Jaemin and Jisung and Chenle.
That fucking fansite is in the general crowd again, screaming while she waves the same sign that’s taunted Mark since he debuted, and Mark huffs out a sigh and has to attempt not to roll his eyes in anticipation of the trouble she’ll bring as they leave the venue. And then he doesn’t have time to think anymore, because his rap is coming up and he needs to even his breath. So he does, and he performs like he’ll never get to sing this song again, like he’s getting a win no matter how this turns out, and he’s perfect.
There’s only one more chorus left, and after his rap ends, everything blurs by: the lights dimming and cutting to black, the shrieking crowd, the hand that intertwines with his and leads him offstage, Donghyuck’s arm wrapping around him and holding him up as his legs weigh him down. There’s an inkling in his mind that something is wrong, something is out of place, but his tongue is lead in his mouth and can do nothing but vie against itself to ask for water.
Eventually, though, he’s in a car, sandwiched between Renjun and Donghyuck, either of his hands in theirs. Donghyuck’s holding his water bottle to his lips, instructing him to drink, and he does. The coolness is more shocking than it is refreshing. He smacks his lips together and furrows his eyebrows, then tries to move into a more comfortable position.
“Herin wants you to text her back, Mark,” Jaemin calls from the seat in front of him. “She told me it’s important.”
They pull up to the dorms and come to a halt. The car shudders as everyone tries to get out at once, but Mark stays seated in the middle seat as he checks Herin’s text. Donghyuck’s water bottle, which is secured on top of his knee with his right hand, falls loudly onto the floor when the message finally loads.
Herin, 8:30 - I know who outed Ten. It was CEO Kim. Kim Youngmin.
And then he’s launching out of the car, his now-unbuckled seatbelt cutting harshly along the skin of his neck as he steps onto the pavement and shivers at the sudden cold. He limps forward, and Donghyuck’s arms wrap around him in an attempt to walk him towards the dorms. Mark shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders to signal Donghyuck to leave him be.
“That’s not where I’m going,” he says, pressing Herin’s contact to call her. She picks up within a few rings. “You’re sure?” Mark asks.
Herin sighs on the other end of the line. “Positive. I was doing a shoot and one of the makeup noonas told me.”
“Alright. I’ll take care of it.”
Herin inhales sharply, loudly enough for Mark to hear her and know that she’s surprised. “Mark—” she begins, but Mark ends the call, shoves his phone in his pocket, and takes off running towards the company’s main building.
“Mark!” Jeno calls from far behind him, and Mark doesn’t have to look back to see the distressed look on his face that matches everyone else’s. His manager is going to mangle him, but the only thing running through his mind right now is revenge, justice, something to make his brother come home, and he won’t stop until he gets it.
There are footsteps behind him now, heavy as they hit the pavement and loud as the ring out through the evening. It’s probably nearing curfew, now, but Mark doesn’t stop running.
“Mark,” Donghyuck shouts, his voice bouncing with each step he takes. Mark guesses he’s far behind him. “What are you doing?”
“Something important!” Mark calls back just as he reaches the building and pushes in on the glass door. His head is pounding again, and his legs shake with the swaying ground beneath him, but he still strides through the lobby and presses the button for the sixth floor as his chest heaves.
A hand comes between the elevator doors just as they’re about to close. They jerk back open. Donghyuck strides inside, followed by Jeno, followed by the rest of the unit as Mark leans against the wall to make space.
“You’d better tell me what the hell you think you’re doing, or else,” Donghyuck growls.
“Language.”
“Mark,” Renjun says, mouth curled into a kind of frown that Mark hasn’t seen him wear before. Oh, he thinks. This is it. He’s fucked up spectacularly. “Why are we here?”
“Because you followed me,” Mark shrugs, thumbing at the corner of his mouth as he leans more of his weight against the elevator door. “And I’m here because I have business to take care of.”
“Bullshit.”
“Donghyuck,” Jeno says, his voice sharp as his hand swats Donghyuck’s side. “Mark, can you please tell us? We can cover for you, I swear, but only if you tell us what’s going on and why you came here.”
“The CEO outed Ten. We have a bit of a rocky relationship, and I’m about to do something that I’m gonna regret in the morning, but…” he pauses, swallowing as the elevator dings and the doors slide open painfully slowly. “Go back to the dorms. Just wait, I’ll be there soon to cook you dinner. You guys can bid for my shower time.”
“I’ll cook,” Jaemin says, his hand tugging at Mark’s sleeve. “Chenle can help me make ramen. C’mon, let’s just go back. We can just say we went on a run. We won’t get in as much trouble then, right?”
Mark turns back as he steps out of the elevator, blocking the doorway to keep the others from following him. “Go back. Tell the managers you were just following me. Tell them I’m with the CEO on important business and that it couldn’t wait. They’ll know.”
“You shouldn’t have to talk to him about this,” Donghyuck hisses, hand splayed across a door to keep it from closing. “You’re eighteen, for fuck’s sake.”
Jaemin folds his arms. “I think he knows what he’s doing.”
“But he’s—”
“He’s right,” Jisung says. Mark’s shoulders tense, because he knows what’s coming, and he prays the doors close before he has to endure it.
There are a few seconds before hell breaks loose, and Mark takes them to turn away and begin walking towards the wooden doors behind which he has let loose arguments far worse than this.
Renjun clears his throat. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, okay? Let’s just go back and make some noodles and go to bed early.”
“I can’t possibly be the only one here who doesn’t think this is okay,” Donghyuck says. “Right? Right?”
“Hyuck, I think you are,” Jeno says.
Donghyuck huffs. “We’re gonna get caught by a manager and get dish duty in the cafeteria. Right? Right, Jisung?”
“I’m an idol, they can’t do that to me anym—”
“Right, Jisung? We—”
“Can you stop using me like some pawn in your argument? Seriously.”
“But—”
“No!” Jisung says, loud enough for the sound to bounce off the door Mark’s pressed against. He still hasn’t turned around yet, and the elevator doors ding and begin to inch shut. “Just stop! You’re both being immature right now! It’s not your choice what Mark does, and look, he’s already about to go in. It doesn’t make any difference. We wouldn’t be able to stop him from going in even if we wanted to, so just stop.”
No one says anything after that, and the doors roll to a close. And this is the part that Mark had forgotten to warn them about; the arguing, the tension, the late nights and the eye bags and the breaking point when everyone is too tired to continue ignoring things and finally snaps.
Mark pushes in on the door. He doesn’t have time to ponder things he should’ve said and done before tonight.
Kim Youngmin waits for him in his swivel chair, nose buried in the depths of a legal pad but his desk chairs pulled out like he was expecting Mark. He probably was, though Mark doesn’t know how or why. Probably to get another rise out of him, but Mark won’t let that happen this time. He’s older now. Smarter. And he still has the upper hand.
“I think you know why I’m here,” Mark says, watching as his eyes flit up to scan over the figure in the doorway. “May I sit?”
“Of course.”
He does, flinching involuntarily at the way the leather sinks beneath him from the buildup of air within the chair. Youngmin’s eyes are sharp and narrowed, like he’s analyzing Mark’s every move. For good reason, probably.
Mark doesn’t give him the pleasure of honorifics. He doesn’t deserve that. “Why did you do it?”
His eyes widen. “What are you—”
“Trying to find any reason for you to have taken my brother away when you knew that he was the only thing keeping me here,” Mark says. “And now you’ve got me bound by a contract so that I can’t leave for another seven years. You planned this, didn’t you?”
“Maybe I did,” Youngmin says, relaxing into his chair. “You can’t do anything about it now.”
“I can put up a fight.” He crosses one leg over the other, folding his hands and resting them in his lap to give off the impression of civility. “I can kick and scream and make sure everyone knows you’re the reason behind all of it.”
“Can you really? Are you willing to ruin your brothers’ careers for the sake of revenge for someone who’s not even there to see it? You’re more selfish than I thought, Mark Lee.”
Mark’s blood boils, and he slams his fist on the desk without thinking. The noise startles even himself, and his eyes soften a little as he leans back into his chair, his hand sliding off the desk and into his lap. He speaks in a low, quiet voice. “I’m not selfish, and don’t call me by my full name.”
“Seems like you are.”
“Yeah, well.” This approach isn’t working, he realizes, and he needs to try a new one. He sighs, his shoulders slouching as he glances up at Youngmin. “Will you at least tell me when he’ll be back?”
Youngmin purses his lips and drums his fingers against the desk. He’s deep in thought, and it surprises Mark that he’s even willing to consider Ten coming back. “Two years, at the most. We have a project lined up for all the members of your group around then, so I’m assuming Ten will be there if he’s in good health. That’s all I’ll say.”
Mark grins ear-to-ear.
“What are you smiling at? Do you know how long that’ll be?”
“You called him by his right name,” he says, elated. “And you used his right pronouns without me even asking.”
Youngmin scowls, avoiding Mark’s line of sight by glancing at the clock on the wall. “Maybe I did. It’s nearing your curfew, Mark. Go back to your dorm.”
“Will I regret coming here to talk to you?”
“You will,” Youngmin says. “I’m not a merciful man, Mark. You know that. Go, before it’s too late.”
Mark nods. He stands, shuffling to the door and opening it only a little. “Two years,” he says, calling over his shoulder as he widens the gap in the door and steps out into the lobby. “I’m holding you to that, sir.”
The door clicks shut. Mark turns, expecting to face the elevator and begin his journey back to the dorms without any interruptions. Instead, as he crosses the room and enters the elevator, someone clears their throat.
It must be a manager, here to chew him out publicly over going off on his own. Mark glances at the person on the couch hesitantly, expecting reprimands the second their eyes meet, but instead, his shoulders relax, and he lets out a quick, heavy breath. “Donghyuck,” he sighs, a hand snaking up to his heart to check his pulse. “Shouldn’t you be at the dorms?”
“Shouldn’t you?” Donghyuck asks, standing and making his way to the elevator. “I came back up after everyone else left because I knew that if you came back late, there wouldn’t be any dinner left for you.”
“But now there won’t be any for you,” Mark says, leaning into the side of the elevator as the doors slide shut and it begins its descent.
“Right! So what do we do, now that we’re in this predicament?”
Mark takes his bottom lip between his teeth and begins to chew. “Eat a snack and then a big breakfast?”
“No, we’re growing boys! We need food.” Donghyuck takes his wrist and pulls him out of the elevator, out of the building, out into the street. “And I know where to find it.”
It’s colder than it was before he went in, and Mark hugs himself in an attempt to keep warm.
“Are you cold? Here.” Donghyuck shrugs off his jacket and tosses it to Mark, who catches it gratefully and pulls it around himself. “So, are you in?”
“Depends. Where are you taking me?”
“Just the food trucks across the street. They don’t close for a while.”
Mark nods, his hands falling limp at his sides. “Okay. Let’s eat.”
The second they enter the corner where the food trucks are lined up, Mark’s mouth begins to water. The air smells like chicken, which is what he really, really wants to eat, so he nudges Donghyuck in the general direction of the chicken skewers.
“You want chicken?” Donghyuck asks, reaching around Mark and pulling a wallet out of his jacket pocket while Mark’s still wearing it. “Alright, we’ll go get some chicken and then some tteokbokki.”
Mark pats his pockets, but realizes he has no money anywhere. “Shit, I didn’t bring my wallet.”
“It’s okay, I planned on paying anyways.” Donghyuck pulls him towards the smell of chicken, and Mark lets him, blinded by the lights and the growling of his stomach.
He doesn’t quite have the energy to pay attention for the next five minutes. At least, not until Donghyuck shoves a chicken skewer in his hand and tells him to eat. “Stupid,” he says, swatting Mark’s shoulder with his free hand. Mark grins at him before taking a bite, offering the skewer to Donghyuck just as he’s pulled to another cart selling tteokbokki.
“The portions are too big,” Donghyuck complains, eyeing the skewer of tteokbokki that’s being handed to a woman. “Look at how much they’ve piled onto that thing! Share with me?”
“Sure,” Mark says, because he doesn’t see any harm in overeating just once.
That’s how they end up walking back to the dorms side-by-side on the crowded sidewalk, their hands dangling at their sides as Donghyuck holds a skewer piled high with tteokbokki. Mark’s hand brushes against Donghyuck’s once, twice, and then a third time before Donghyuck sighs and slips his hand into Mark’s.
Mark tries to tell himself that his heart doesn’t jump at that. His stomach doesn’t drop, his breathing doesn’t hitch, and his face definitely doesn’t flush. He tries to tell Donghyuck that, tries to convey that this is cool, this is what friends do. Instead, what comes out is, “Give me a bite.”
The tteokbokki isn’t even that good. He lets Donghyuck finish the last few bites and takes the skewer from him to throw away when they pass a trash can on Mark’s side of the street. Their hands are still joined, and Donghyuck squeezes Mark’s hand once, twice, thrice as they dart around a street corner.
“What’s that for?”
“Sorry,” Donghyuck says. “Instinct. I used to do that with my mom.”
“What does it mean?”
Donghyuck squeezes his hand again in the same way: one, two, three. “I. Love. You,” he says, punctuating each press with a word.
Mark hums. He squeezes Donghyuck’s hand back, and Donghyuck seems to freeze as he processes it. Finally, though, he grins at Mark before turning his attention to the ground beneath him as he walks. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”
It shouldn’t make Mark’s heart sink as low as it does, but Mark still shudders at the feeling. “Yeah,” he says, tightening his grip on Donghyuck’s hand. “And you’re mine, too.”
Donghyuck’s still smiling when Mark looks over at him. “Is this how you imagined being an idol?”
“No,” Mark admits, wrinkling as a drop of water hits his nose. It must be raining. “I’m tired already. I want a break. I want to go home, but…”
“But?” Donghyuck prods.
“Home isn’t coming back for another two years,” Mark says, his voice quiet. Even his footsteps are louder than his voice.
“Oh.” Donghyuck lets out a long sigh. “But he’ll be back then, and you’ll be experienced and even better than you are now, and you’ll blow his mind with how much you’ve improved.”
Mark laughs. “Maybe.”
“You will. Maybe you’ll even be better at dancing than him.”
“Doubt it.”
Donghyuck glances at him and wipes something from his cheek. It’s a raindrop, he realizes after scrunching his nose up at the coolness that spreads across his cheek in motion with Donghyuck’s thumb. The younger turns his attention back to the street and sighs. “He’ll come back. I promise.”
“We’ve made a lot of promises, Hyuck. I’m not sure we’re gonna be able to keep them all.”
“Which ones?”
“You told me we’d never get into a bad argument again,” Mark says, the memory barely present in the back of his mind. “But look at today and how you guys argued over something as stupid as that.”
“Everybody’s a little irritable today. Myself included. We’re tired, and we were hungry, and I was… Frustrated, y’know? And confused. You can’t just run off like that.”
“I know,” Mark says. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just don’t do it again, yeah?”
Donghyuck pauses and looks up. The rain is starting to come down harder, now. “Shit, run,” Donghyuck says, not even pausing to take a breath before he breaks into a full sprint, his hand still locked in Mark’s.
Mark shouts in delight and chases after him, trying his best to keep up with Donghyuck’s pace so that he’s not being dragged along. They reach the dorm building just as the rain begins to pour, and they watch it cascade down the windows as they retreat back to their dorm building. At the crossroads between 127’s dorm and Dream’s dorm, they stop, debating internally whether to go left or right.
“I need to talk to Jeno,” Donghyuck says, but he doesn’t sound keen on doing so.
“And I’ve gotta make sure Jisung’s alright,” Mark says.
“And I’m tired.”
“So am I.”
Donghyuck glances at him, and under the fluorescent lights, Mark can see how tired he really is. the bags beneath his eyes are dark, and Mark fears they’ll get worse if he doesn’t sleep soon. “Bed?” Donghyuck asks, but it sounds more like a request than a choice, so Mark nods and pulls him towards 127’s dorm.
Yuta’s in the living room, sat on the couch playing a game as Yoonoh sleeps on his lap. “Hey,” he says, offering a tired smile to the two. “You had me worried. You almost missed curfew. I think the shower is open, if one of you wants to—”
“Goodnight,” Donghyuck says, cutting Yuta off mid-sentence as he pulls Mark towards their room.
“Uh,” Yuta says eloquently, his voice cracking. “Night, I guess.”
“Night, Yuta!” Mark calls out just as Donghyuck pulls him into his room and shuts the door.
Donghyuck doesn’t even bother turning on the lights. Faintly, Mark makes out the outlines of their two beds, the nightstand between them, and the ever-present mound of dirty clothes on the floor. “Whose bed?” Donghyuck asks.
“Huh?”
“I am not letting go of your hand,” Donghyuck says, then repeats his question. “Whose. Bed.”
“You can choose,” Mark says, thankful that the lights are off as heat rushes to his face.
Donghyuck pulls him left, towards Mark’s bed, and they collapse into it as one unit. The mattress creaks beneath their weight, and Donghyuck rolls around to make himself comfortable and adjust to the blankets.
Finally, he pulls the blankets around himself and backs up so that he’s curled into Mark’s side. Mark’s arm falls over him like it’s instinct, and Donghyuck takes the liberty to connect their hands again. He presses, once, twice, three times as Mark closes his eyes, and Mark repeats the motion before he speaks. “Night, Hyuck.”
Donghyuck is fast asleep before he can even respond. Mark smiles, glad that he’s able to rest, and resigns himself to another sleepless night fueled by his thoughts and stubborn heart.
Sleep doesn’t come for another few hours. For that, he can’t tell whether he’s relieved or dismayed. When he wakes, his phone has been taken (by a manager, Taeyong tells him), and Mark is certain that he won’t be getting it back anytime soon. And he is tired beyond measure; so, so tired, too tired to find his manager and argue, too tired to do anything but sit dejectedly at the kitchen counter and accept hugs from passing members.
“Two years,” he says when Johnny sits next to him and begins eating a piece of toast.
Johnny swallows and reaches out his hand to cover Mark’s. “Guess we’ll just have to wait for him, then.”
“Guess so.”
The lights glare even more brightly than Mark remembers, and each time he tries to look up, his gaze is inevitably forced back down. A headache pricks in his temples, persistent though faint. Mark brings a hand up to cover his eyes. “Can I go back to sleep?”
“You have practice, don’t you?”
“I can’t go,” Mark says. It’s a blatant lie—he can go, he has the energy to at least dance, but he knows talking to anyone but Donghyuck will end up taking more energy than he can give. He peeks up at Johnny over the barrier of his hand. “Don’t make me, please. I just want to sleep.”
Johnny’s mouth settles into a thin line. Finally, though, he reaches out and squeezes Mark’s shoulder. “Alright. Go on, I’ll wake you up when everyone else gets back.”
Mark beams. He leans across the gap between their chairs to give Johnny a hug, then abandons his seat and begins to shuffle towards his room. “Thank you,” he calls out, careful to silence his door when it clicks shut.
His bed is still warm. Mark partly wishes Donghyuck were here, because Donghyuck would probably know what to say to pull him from the mood he’s in, but at the cost of his sleep.
Mark pulls his spare pillow to his chest and closes his eyes. For the first time since his third debut (or maybe second, maybe even first), he sleeps peacefully, dreaming no longer of pretty girls, only pretty boys. Pretty boys with loud mouths and full lips and kind eyes who stumble over concrete and mend healing hearts. A pretty boy who holds his hand and squeezes it three times and leans over to kiss him when the rain begins to pour, and when he finally does, it’s magical, it’s soft and sweet and—
He wakes in a cold sweat, condemns his dreams, and falls back asleep with a racing heart. He doesn’t dream again.
Mark believes he’s smarter than what everyone else thinks. And he is—at least, he hopes so. He knows things that he shouldn’t know this young, and he’s still learning, reaching for anything he can get his hands on, every book, every magazine, every brochure. He knows the credits on his albums like they’re the back of his hand. He’s read his final texts from Ten so often that he can see them dancing across his eyelids when he falls asleep each night.
So he’s smart, but not really, not in the way everyone wants him to be. He’s not smart about feelings, not about comfort or contact. And that’s why he stays the way he is, because it’s better to keep doing what he does right than to fail at changing. Mark learns that the hard way.
His reflection is one he’s grown repulsed at the sight of, so during practices, he’s trained himself to stare at anything but that. Jisung, usually, is his target, because he dances well and Mark could stand to learn a thing or two from him.
But as he’s running the choreo for the third time, Jisung looks flushed and on the verge of passing out, so Mark shuffles with heavy feet to his phone and unplugs it halfway through the chorus. “Take five,” he says, staring at his discarded hoverboard with contempt.
There’s a reason why he doesn’t step into the role of comforter. That’s for Jaemin, for Taeyong, not him.
This is how he knows.
“Finally,” Jaemin says, grinning ear-to-ear as he steps onto his hoverboard. “Now I can show you that trick I was talking about. Watch this, Injunnie!”
“I hope you eat dust,” Renjun says. “Or… Mud, or whatever’s on the bottom of my shoes.”
Mark rolls his eyes and turns his attention to Jisung, who’s headed his way.
“You alright?” Mark asks, slinging an arm around Jisung as he stumbles forward with a pale mouth and paler cheeks. He notices a half-empty bottle of water and presses it into Jisung’s empty hands.
Jisung takes the bottle, uncaps it, and downs it. “M’fine,” he murmurs. He wets his lips, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and forces a smile for Mark. “See? Peachy.”
“Do you wanna go back to the dorms?”
“I’m fine,” Jisung says, an exasperated smile playing on his lips. Mark’s done this bit before, the persistence, and it never ends well. “I promise. Just a little tired.”
Mark hums. Stretches out his neck. Glances at Jisung out of the corner of his eye again, willing his mouth not to curve into a smile as he asks just one more time, “You sure?”
“Mhm.”
“Positive?”
“Yes, I swear it, I’m—”
There’s a thump, and then the familiar cracking of plastic, the roll of the hoverboard wheels, and suddenly someone cries out. Mark turns too slowly, too late, and sees Jaemin lying on the ground, an arm thrown over his face and his other lying splayed out across the floor. His stomach caves in and puffs out as he pants, and it trembles when he moves his arm to rest it over his chest. “I can’t move,” Jaemin says, and he sounds more scared than Mark has ever heard him.
“What?” Renjun asks, kneeling below him and wiping his hair from over his brow.
Jaemin cranes his neck forward. Suddenly, Donghyuck is at his side, then Jeno, then Chenle, and then Mark and Jisung stumble to him and fall to their knees at his side. He heaves in a breath and chokes on it when he tries to pull himself up, his eyebrows scrunching up in pain.
He collapses backward onto the floor and lies there, limp. “I can’t. Fucking. Move.” Jaemin shudders out a long, slow breath, face contorted into some strange expression that Mark has never seen before. He closes his eyes and lets out a whine. “It hurts.”
“Get somebody,” Donghyuck says, his hand reaching out to grab Jaemin’s hand as he glances around. “Jisung, go find someone in the hall, tell them to… Hell, I don’t know. Just get help.”
Mark scrambles to his feet and grabs his phone from across the room. He dials his manager, who doesn’t pick up. And when he dials Taeyong, he doesn’t pick up, either. But Hina’s in the hall, and so are Koeun and Herin. Jisung brings them in, even though Mark is sure they won’t know what to do.
They find a random manager, who calls an ambulance, which arrives within minutes and carts Jaemin off to the hospital while ignoring Mark’s pleas to let them come with Jaemin, to let them be with him through whatever he might need company for. But he goes alone, bottom lip tucked raw between his teeth, and Mark watches as he leaves.
And just like that, it’s over, and Mark is left cleaning up the aftermath: the broken hoverboard that has parts strewn across the floor, the tears on Herin’s cheeks, the frown that’s settled into Renjun’s mouth.
“Let’s go to the cafeteria, yeah?” he says, but it’s more of an order than a question. “Let’s get some food.”
“I don’t feel like eating,” Chenle says, and Mark purses his lips, watching as everyone around him nods in agreement.
“Alright. Go back to your dorms, and if anyone gets onto you for being back early, tell them I sent you. Hyuck, go to our dorm and tell Taeyong what happened. He’ll wanna know.”
“And you?” Jeno asks, already standing and offering Jisung a hand.
“I think I wanna be alone for a bit. I’ll come back before dinner.” Mark stands, padding to the door of the practice room before looking back over his shoulder at the circle in the center of the room. “He’ll be okay,” he calls as he opens the door. “He’ll be back. Be patient.”
That’s all he knows how to be.
The door clicks shut behind him, and Mark’s footsteps echo off on the linoleum floor. The quicker he walks, the louder it becomes, so he limits himself to stepping in time with his breathing in the hopes that it’ll calm the disorder brewing in him.
And it does, so he sticks with the pattern until he reaches the cafeteria. He doesn’t eat, just sits alone at a table in the empty room, staring at the signs on the wall as Hangul blurs with English and suddenly he doesn’t know what he can read anymore.
There’s a pen on the floor, and Mark picks it up. He pulls a napkin from the dispenser at the edge of the table and doodles whatever comes to his mind, which doesn’t turn out to be much.
He looks up. There’s someone across from him, with dark hair and ever-present dimples and furrowed eyebrows as she stares at the napkins. “You’re not particularly good at that.”
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious, Herin,” Mark says. He folds the napkin and tucks it into the pocket of his jeans. “Thought I said I wanted to be alone.”
“Thought you might be lying,” Herin shrugs, propping her elbows up on the table and grinning at Mark. “And was I right?” she asks, her grin widening when Mark doesn’t answer and instead stares at the scratches on the table. “Hm. Figured.”
Mark doesn’t respond, and Herin doesn’t seem to mind. She grabs the discarded pen and a napkin and begins doodling something of her own. “I called you,” she says, nonchalant.
“They took my phone.”
Herin hums. “How’d it go? When you stormed off. I heard rumors.”
“Rumors? It wasn’t that big of a deal. He said Ten should be back soon.”
“How soon?”
“Two years, at most. I think things are gonna be okay,” he says. Herin frowns at that, and worry pricks up the hair on the back of Mark’s neck, furrowing his brow and he drums his fingertips on the table. “What is it?”
“I’m not going to last that long.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mark,” she says, her eyes hardened with this strange kind of glare that flares up Mark’s heart, because she’s young and innocent and shouldn’t know what it feels like to have that look in her eyes. Mark knows it too well, and as it’s staring him back in the face, he tells himself that this isn’t normal, that this shouldn’t be what they have to go through to be here. “They’re never going to debut me. You and I both know that.”
She’s too young for this, Mark thinks, repeating it like a mantra until his jaw is set with anger, with frustration, with a need to help her, make her happy, because that’s his sister. “Come on, you can’t think like that.”
“I can, because I know it’s true. They’ve been breathing down my neck since I got here, and I just want to go home. I wanna go someplace that’s not here.”
“It’s not that bad,” Mark begins, but he knows there’s no point in arguing because she’s right. “It’ll get better, you just have to wait.”
“For what, Mark? They’re not gonna debut me. I’m trapped. I miss Ten, and I miss—I miss Johnny, because he’s always busy, and I miss you, and I’m sick of it. I’m going to leave sooner or later and then you can all just forget I was ever here to begin with.”
“Herin,” Mark says, gentle enough to startle her from staring at the table, her head cradled between her fingers that press into her temples hard enough to probably bruise. And it hurts, to see the look in her eyes and know with certainty that he’s the only one who knows this part of her, but it makes him feel special—trustworthy, even—as he beckons her forward. “Come here.”
She doesn’t argue, and neither does Mark. She stands and circles the table, taking a seat next to Mark and staring again at the scratches on the table.
For the first time in a while, Mark doesn’t know what to say, so he wraps his arm around Herin’s shoulder and lets her bury her head in the crook of his neck. He only realizes she’s crying when his neck becomes damp and she pulls away sniffling, her eyes red as Mark squeezes her shoulder.
“I hate this,” she croaks, and Mark sets his lips into a thin line and nods.
“I know.”
“I want to go home.”
“I know,” Mark says. He lets his hand fall to his side, then stands. He offers an arm to Herin, who takes it hesitantly. “Can you wait a little longer? For me? Just until Ten comes back?”
Herin’s eyes are downcast, but she nods, wiping a stray tear from her cheek as she tugs Mark forward in the direction of their dorms. “I’ll try. I think.”
“I know you will. C’mon, let’s get you back to the dorms. How much do you wanna bet Yiyang is cooking?”
“God, you’re right, I’ve gotta get back before she burns the place down,” Herin says, quickening her pace and tugging even harder on Mark’s sleeve. “Let’s go!”
Mark laughs, ignoring the feeling that’s brewing in his stomach. It’s unsure, afraid, and he doesn’t want to deal with it. Herin’s word will have to do, even if it’s not a promise. For now, it’s all that’ll keep him from falling apart.
Life the first few months of debut was so fast-paced that no one warned Mark to brace himself for when it was all over, when there wasn’t a comeback to fill the gap and the boredom that came with it.
The thing is, nothing happens. No fights, no drama, no gossip. Painfully, October creeps by, and then comes November, then December, and suddenly, he’s preparing for two comebacks, spaced a month apart with just enough time for Mark and Donghyuck to rest between them.
Presently, though, Mark doesn’t really care about rest. It’s three in the morning, and he can’t sleep, so he’s decided to hang off the side of his bed upside down and hope he doesn’t fall and break his neck. Donghyuck was snoring just a few minutes ago, but his breathing has evened, so he’s probably awake now, courtesy of Mark’s mattress creaking and groaning beneath him as he shifts for comfort.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” Donghyuck says, his voice hushed and croaky from sleep. “And I’m not gonna call someone to help you. I’ll just go back to sleep.”
“I know your deepest, darkest secrets,” Mark says. He presses his hands into the carpet below (or above) him. “I’m your best friend, you can’t just let me die!”
“Mhm, but consider: I can. And I will.” Faintly, Mark hears the rustling of blankets. Something thuds onto the floor, and Donghyuck groans. “But first, I’m gonna come join you.”
The mattress dips beneath him, and when Mark looks to his side, Donghyuck is hanging off the bed with his fingers pressed into the carpet. “And besides, you don’t know all my deepest darkest secrets.”
“Oh, yeah? Tell me one I don’t know.”
Donghyuck doesn’t say anything, so Mark nudges him. “Hyuck.”
Donghyuck sighs. “Alright, I’ll bite. I like boys.”
A few things happen in the span of a couple of seconds: Mark falls off the bed and onto his head, shouting out and curling into a ball at the pain. He groans, still clutching his head as he sits up and is met with the sight of Donghyuck’s chin at his eye level. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“Is that what you were crying about that one time?”
“That’s really insensitive,” Donghyuck says, reaching out to flick Mark’s forehead, “but yeah.”
“Okay,” Mark says, and it’s over. “Cool.”
“No, not cool, that is not how this is supposed to go, you’re not supposed to be cool with it, what the hell? ”
“Are you… Asking me to be homophobic?”
“I don’t know!” Donghyuck says, his eyes wide. He’s still upside down, but he hooks his legs over the other side of Mark’s bed and frees up his hands to tangle in his hair. “Maybe! I’ve never done this before!”
“Define ‘this.’”
“I’ve never…” Donghyuck trails off, his eyes softer now, less frantic.
Mark nods, mouth falling open a little. “You’ve never come out before,” he says, the words strange on his tongue, and Donghyuck nods.
“So I’m not sure how to take you being okay with it when I’ve only ever prepared myself for…” Donghyuck closes his eyes for a few long seconds. “You know.”
“That’s okay,” Mark says, and then he reaches out his hand for Donghyuck to grab it. The angle is awkward, but his intentions are good, and when Mark takes his hand, he squeezes—one, two, three—and offers up a smile. “It’s okay, y’know. To like boys. Thank you for telling me.”
“You don’t have to go all comforting leader on me, stupid. You can be a regular teenager.”
Mark hums. “Any crushes?”
Donghyuck splutters and chokes on his breath. When he finishes coughing, his hand retreats from Mark’s hold to rub at the base of his throat. “What?!”
“Do you like anyone? Any cute boys I should set you up with?”
Donghyuck takes his lip between his teeth for a few seconds, but lets it go to speak, his eyebrows knit. “Yeah, actually. There’s a boy.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s stupid,” Donghyuck says. “He’s really stupid, and I think that’s why I like him so much. But he’s so damn charming. It’s crazy. Everyone loves him, he’s kind of adorable. And I like to tease him a lot.”
“Who is it? Do I know him?”
“You’d know who it was, if you listened to what I was telling you,” Donghyuck says. “He’s really loyal. And he cares a whole lot. He works really hard, too. I honestly think he’s one of the most talented people I’ve ever met.”
Something strange pools in his stomach. Something curious, something envious, something greedy that churns inside him, wondering isitmeisitmeisitme before he shakes his head to rid the thought from his head. His heart is beating too fast to prompt Donghyuck to continue, but Donghyuck goes on anyways.
“I’ve never met somebody like him,” Donghyuck says, sitting up and positioning himself forward so that he and Mark are only a breath away from each other. He stares down at Mark with big, hopeful eyes, like he’s waiting on some kind of reward that Mark doesn’t know how to give. “I hope he knows how I feel.”
Donghyuck looks pretty like this, Mark thinks. His hair tousled and messy, and his eyes shine. If Mark were thinking straight, he’d lean forward and bridge the gap between them, just to see what it felt like, just to let his curiosity roam, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets his pounding heart beat him back into the coward he is as he stammers, weakly, “Who is it?”
Donghyuck’s face falls. He shakes his head and falls back onto the bed, rolling over and tugging the blanket up to cover his shoulders. “I’ll tell you soon. Let’s go to bed, alright?”
Mark nods and climbs into his bed, wraps himself around Donghyuck and tries to let himself sleep, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s done something wrong, can’t drive away the hunch that the tone of Donghyuck’s voice was disappointed.
He falls asleep wishing that he’d leaned forward, then, no matter the outcome. He stomps down the light, fuzzy sensation curling in his stomach, and he wakes with sweaty palms and bile rising in his throat when he realizes just what that feeling means.
Mark takes his first win with grace and too many tears. And he makes himself believe that this is the best he will ever lead, as broken as his team is and as beat-down as he feels.
He takes his trophy, his prize, and sleeps knowing that there’s a reward that’s tangible, now, for his hard work. It’s not his alone, but it will have to do.
It’s a Friday morning, and he’s still sleeping off Jeno’s April Fool’s prank from earlier in the week when he’s shaken awake by a pair of hands gripping his shoulders. According to his alarm clock, he’s still got two hours left to sleep, so he spits some understandable curses at whoever’s woken him up.
“Come with me,” the figure above him says, grabbing his wrist and pulling him out of bed harshly enough to leave a mark.
“What are you… Johnny?” Mark asks, blinking as he steps out of his dark room and into the hallway. “Where are we going?”
“It’s about Ten,” Johnny says, not even bothering to look back at Mark as he leads him out of the dorms barefoot, then into the elevator and eventually out of the building.
“Where are we going,” Mark asks, desperate and cold. “Couldn’t you have at least waited for me to get shoes on?”
“Sorry, I just… You’ve gotta see it,” Johnny says. He goes on to drag Mark all the way to SM’s main building, where he stops in front of a TV in the lobby with wide eyes and points to the screen.
It’s a bombardment of colors, and Mark has to take a minute just to take all of it in. And then he sees him.
There, standing among a backdrop of pink and illuminated by blue light, stands Ten, twisting to the beat of the music with backup dancers surrounding him.
“...That’s him,” Mark says, mouth agape as he reaches out to touch the screen. He stops himself, his hand falling at his side. “What is this? A solo?”
“A station,” Johnny says. “I never saw the teasers, or I would’ve told you sooner. I saw it walking to the gym this morning and ran to come get you.”
There’s a boy who comes onscreen with pretty eyes and full lips and Mark is instantly enamored, all traces of Ten erased from his mind as he takes in the sheer handsomeness of the boy. “Who is that? Is he an extra?”
“That’s Xuxi,” Johnny says, resting a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Haven’t you met him? He’s a new Rookie. He’s been here for a couple months, but I think he only got announced a couple days ago.”
“Xuxi? Sounds familiar, but I don’t know who he is.”
“He goes by Lucas. I’ll try and find him. Maybe he’ll tell me how Ten’s doing.” Johnny tightens his grip on Mark’s shoulder when the beat drops for the chorus again, and when Mark looks up at him, he’s grinning. “At least we know he’s safe. He’s okay, for now.”
“He’ll be back soon,” Mark says, and he starts to believe it after how many times he’s promised it.
“Soon,” Johnny echoes, moving his arm to wrap around Mark and pull him close. “And then everything’s gonna be okay again. I promise.”
“Or as close as it can get.”
The video fades. In its place, the screen darkens before turning off. “Was it worth getting woken up?” Johnny asks, steering him back towards the exit of the building.
Mark’s mouth twists into a frown, and he feigns thought for a few seconds. “Dunno, I’m kinda hungry… Maybe if you bought me something to eat, I’d—”
Johnny shoves him, and he stumbles and nearly falls into a patch of grass. Mark deserves it, but he still complains to Johnny when he steadies himself and leans on the other for support.
(He does get food later in the day. Johnny would never admit it, but Mark knows he’s too cute to deny.)
Party planning, he learns, is a nightmare. It’s been exactly a week since Taeyong decided to put Mark in charge of planning Donghyuck’s birthday party, and the only thing that’s gone right since then is the passage of time. The cake’s icing is too sweet, the streamers aren’t even Donghyuck’s favorite color, and Mark has already accidentally popped three balloons. The members are supposed to be here (a dimly-lit practice room that’s been filled with tables to accommodate a frankly outrageous number of people) in ten minutes, and Mark barely has anything ready.
It doesn’t help that the birthday boy himself has somehow already found Mark and the surprise venue. He’s half-dead from no sleep when Donghyuck presses the black box into his hands with rosy cheeks and downcast eyes. “Hyuckie, what’s this?”
“Open it,” Donghyuck says, and Mark slips his nail between the crevice in the lid. It flips backwards, and inside is a pillow, in the center of it a ring, banded in silver and engraved with something Mark can’t make out. “That’s my thanks.”
“Yeah?” Mark prods, eyebrows raised as he pulls the ring from its pillow and slips it onto his finger. “For what?”
“For being so good to me,” Donghyuck says. He glances around before continuing, his voice lower now, closer to a whisper: “For not freaking out when I told you I’m gay. You know.”
Mark grins, his eyes darting down to Donghyuck’s hand and pulling his arm up by the wrist. There’s a silver band on his finger, engraved with what Mark assumes to be the same thing that’s on his. “You didn’t mention you had one just like it,” he says, and Donghyuck’s face goes red.
“It was a two-for-one deal, I had to buy them both—”
Mark rolls his eyes. “It’s okay, I appreciate it. Thank you.”
“No, this is supposed to be me thanking you, not—” Donghyuck’s mouth thins into a taut line, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. I’m glad you like it.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes widening as he seems to shrink in on himself a little. “...You do like it, right? I mean, I’ve got the receipt if you want to return it. And I’ve—”
“Hey,” Mark says, grinning as he slots his fingers between Donghyuck’s. “I love it. Throw the receipt away.”
Donghyuck nods, but doesn’t look convinced. He doesn’t say anything about it, though, instead choosing to turn and look around the room. “This place seems pretty bare for a surprise party,” he says, arms crossed. “Need some help?”
“You know this is your party, right?”
“Had no idea,” Donghyuck says, voice dripping with sarcasm as he saunters over to a box of decorations, takes out a pink and white plastic tablecloth, and balls it up. “Be honest, how long did it take you to get those three tables set up?”
Mark tries to pout, but ends up suppressing a laugh more than anything. “...An hour and a half,” he mumbles, head down as Donghyuck cackles and chucks the tablecloth at him. “Shut up! Don’t laugh.”
“Pick a wall and start hanging up streamers. I’ll help.”
Mark rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time, but doesn’t complain, grabbing a roll of streamers and some tape so he can get to work.
In the end, they get two walls done and the tables covered before Taeyong leads the others in and yells at Donghyuck to get out. He doesn’t, instead arguing that he’s already here and they should just start the party regardless of whether it was supposed to be a surprise.
Taeyong, defeated, agrees. He sulks while cutting the cake and then takes a seat next to Yuta, who nudges him and probably tells him to straighten up before moving away to light the candles and push the cake towards Donghyuck, who’s sitting at the head of the center table.
“Make a wish,” Jeno says after they sing to Donghyuck, eyes trained intently on the candles as Donghyuck props himself up on his elbows and leans forward to do just that.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and blows out the candles.
“What’d you wish for?” Chenle asks.
Donghyuck grins in a way that tells Mark he’s up to no good before shifting his attention to Mark and tapping his cheek. “A kiss on the cheek from Mark would be nice.”
Mark’s heart sinks in a way that it’s only ever done once before, and the feeling is strange but invigorating. Almost immediately, the table whoops and calls for him to do it, for him to lean forward and kiss the place beneath Donghyuck’s finger, and since he’s trapped, he does. He stands up, hovering over the edge of the table, and leans forward. And then he kisses Donghyuck’s cheek.
Something flares up in him. In his stomach, in his chest, in the skin around his face. Mark tries to pull away, but Donghyuck’s hand flies to the back of his head and holds him in place while the rest of the table cheers. When he finally lets Mark pull away, his face is hot and his tongue is lead in his mouth.
Donghyuck’s hand finds his and squeezes it three times beneath the table. Mark isn’t sure if it’s intentional, because maybe it’s instinct at this point, but he finds comfort in it. “Isn’t our Mark so adorable,” Donghyuck coos, grinning up at Mark with a kilowatt smile, and Mark sits back down, certain that he’s still blushing. Yoonoh ruffles his hair. “Look how handsome.”
Mark drowns his sorrows and confusions in a piece of cheap vanilla cake that he doesn’t even enjoy. The fluorescent lights are too bright, and his heart is pounding too hard, and Donghyuck’s birthday seems less like a party and more like the start of something horrible for Mark.
There’s this kind of atmosphere that Mark carries in the days following the birthday party that he can’t seem to shake. It’s tense—choked, maybe, and it brings Mark even more sleepless hours than he’d had before.
He can barely utter a sentence to anyone, much less Donghyuck, so when Donghyuck is awake, Mark makes sure he’s either busy or asleep. He needs a break from everything, from talking to people when there’s a weight in his stomach and a murkiness clouding his head at all times. He needs just three seconds when the slightest touch from Donghyuck doesn’t send his heart pounding and leave his hands shaking.
Reprieve comes in the most hurtful way.
The last time this happened, Ten was here to help him, but things are different, now, things have changed, and now Mark slams his door shut and buries his head in his hands as he slides down the back of the door and tries his hardest not to scream, because there’s an ache in his head and a sickness in his stomach and he needs to get them out.
The tears come faster than he can wipe them away, and soon his cheeks are slick and his lips are salty when he gnaws at them. His tongue darts out from between his teeth to wipe the saltiness away. The noises are by far the worst part, because his breaths are high and staccato and he can’t control the whines he lets out when he exhales, can’t control the way his teeth go numb from the force of his breath.
The door pushes against his back, and Mark gasps, rolling to the side to let whoever it is in and burying his face in his hands to keep from being seen.
“Mark?”
The door closes, and a hand falls onto his shoulder. Mark flinches away from the touch because it’s Donghyuck, because it’s only ever Donghyuck nowadays, and he needs a way out.
“Mark, can you look at me?”
In the safety of his own arms, Mark shakes his head. “I need you to go,” he says, his voice hoarse and weak.
“Hey. It’s alright.” Donghyuck’s voice softens a little, like he’s talking Mark down, and something inside Mark snaps.
“Get out. Leave,” he says, his voice harsher than he intends as his head raises so he can glare at Donghyuck. His eyes are blurred with tears, but he can still see Donghyuck’s expression falter, the kind sureness replaced by something hurt, something broken, and Mark lets his guard fall in an instant as he reaches forward to take Donghyuck’s shoulder in his hand and do something to fix this.
But it’s too late. The damage is already done. Donghyuck stands and turns around to open the door again. Light peaks in through the crack and catches in Donghyuck’s eye, and Mark finds it hard to talk around the lump that’s just built in his throat.
“Hyuck, wait, I should’ve said that better. I—”
“No, I think you’ve made what you want clear. You haven’t spoken to me for weeks, you won’t even look at me, and… Whatever. You said we’d fight again. Should’ve believed you.”
“Donghyuck,” Mark says, desperate as he rises to his feet and wipes his tears. He watches Donghyuck curl his fingers around the door, making himself the only thing between the door and its frame.
“No, you were right. You clearly don’t want to be around me, so I’ll make it easy for you.”
“You promised,” Mark says, trying his hardest not to choke on the words.
Donghyuck steps out into the hall, and he grimaces in the doorway before inching the door forward. “Yeah, well, things change. I want a new roommate.”
He closes the door. The room is dark again, and slowly, Mark sinks back down onto his knees and begins to cry.
Mark knows the day will be awful the second he gets out of bed, but he does it anyways. And it is an awful day, because he’s late to practice, misses lunch, and can’t seem to get his rap right no matter how many times Taeyong goes over it with him.
“Maybe you should go get some rest,” Taeyong says gently. “You sound tired, Mark. I know you haven’t been getting enough sleep and that you’re working through something, but can you try and take better care of yourself?”
Tears threaten to build in his eyes, stinging as they press in, but Mark sniffs and squeezes his eyes shut to keep them at bay. “Yeah,” he chokes out, beginning to gnaw on his bottom lip. “Yeah, I will. Thanks.”
“You know we’re here for you, right?” Taeyong says, and he sounds genuine, sounds like he cares. Somewhere inside Mark, something breaks, and he puffs out a heavy breath and stands to leave.
“Yeah, I…” Mark turns, trying to avoid the eyes that have turned onto him and the pity that they’re harboring. He starts towards the door. “You said I could go back, right? I’m gonna… Do that. I’ll go.”
Mark doesn’t know what hurts worse: the eyes on his back or the fact that no one follows him out.
He doesn’t go back to his dorm. Instead, he stops by the girls’ dorms, because he knows they aren’t practicing and are probably bored, especially Herin. Mark tries to gain some composure as he knocks on the door, but it doesn’t seem to come, even when the door swings open.
“Oh, hey,” Hina says. She’s already smiling, and it’s infectious enough to spread to Mark, who lets himself forget how he’s feeling just long enough to grin back. “Looking for someone?”
“Herin,” Mark says, leaning against the door frame just as Hina’s smile drops.
“Herin’s not here,” she says, her head tilting to the side as her arms fold. “Haven’t you heard? I told Donghyuck to tell you.”
“Tell me what,” Mark asks, praying that he doesn’t already know the answer to his question. But he does, judging by the grimace that settles into Hina’s lips.
“She left. She’s back in England now.” Hina glances down at her feet for a few seconds, but then her gaze darts back up to meet Mark’s eyes, and she extends a hand towards him. “I’m really sorry. Do you want to come in? We were just watching a movie, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you joined.”
“That’s okay,” Mark says, smiling still. It’s different now, though; sadder, a little distraught, and he hopes Hina can’t see the way his hands are shaking behind his back. “Thanks, though. I’ve gotta head back, but tell the others I said hi.”
Hina sighs, nods, and begins to close the door just as Mark turns to leave. “Bye, Mark,” she calls out, quiet and disheartened, and then the door clicks shut.
Mark hangs his head, but doesn’t let himself cry. Faintly, a part of him from his childhood tells him this is a good thing, because crying is for babies, and he’s eighteen. He’s practically an adult now, and he should act like it.
The older, troubled part of him tells him he’s a hypocrite. Mark starts to believe it.
The dorm is still dark when Mark makes his way inside, left basically untouched from when he’d left it in a rush this morning. He hears a noise, the sound of a piano chord being played, and his knees buckle as he realizes that he’s not alone. Yoonoh is here, because he’s sick and Taeyong told him to stay at the dorms until he felt better.
“Yoonoh?” he calls out, and the music stops, fading into silence as Mark steps towards his bedroom door.
“Come in,” Yoonoh calls back, and Mark pushes open the door to find Yoonoh sitting at a keyboard, his hand frozen on a chord as Mark steps inside the room. His face drops when Mark comes closer. “What’s wrong?”
And suddenly the mantra starts up in his head again and he breaks, spilling the secret kept only between himself and the medicine cabinet mirror in the bathroom, now open, now gone: “I like boys,” Mark says out loud for the first time, his breaths stuttering as he says it and a phantom pain flaring up in his chest.
Yoonoh doesn’t say anything, but his eyebrows furrow in confusion after Mark says it. Of all the things to send him over, that’s what brings Mark’s head into his hands as the tears start falling again.
“Oh, baby,” Yoonoh says, rising from his chair and wrapping his arms around Mark. And Mark lets him, tries his hardest not to shrink away, allows himself to rest his head on Yoonoh’s shoulder and cry to his heart’s content. “It’s alright. You know that, right? That it’s okay?”
Mark tries to nod. He hopes Yoonoh gets the message.
“I like Donghyuck,” Mark says, then, since figures he’s got nothing left to lose. Besides, Yoonoh has better things to do than relay his teenage drama. “I don’t know for how long—a long time, I think—but I just realized, and I don’t know how I’m gonna deal with it.”
Yoonoh’s grip tightens on him just enough to let Mark know he’s heard him, enough to comfort him, and Mark relaxes even further into the embrace. He’s basically leaning into Yoonoh, now, and he tries to pull away, but can’t.
“Go,” Yoonoh says, tone firm, and Mark’s eyebrows furrow. “Not you, Mark.”
Someone is here, he realizes, and Yoonoh doesn’t want him to see. Something is very wrong. Mark tries to turn to the door and see who’s loitering and who knows his secret, but Yoonoh won’t let him.
“Go, Donghyuck,” Yoonoh says, his voice louder and more commanding now, and Mark tenses. “You know better. Close the door.”
The door clicks shut, and footsteps retreat from Yoonoh’s room loudly. The arms around him relax enough for Mark to break free, and he looks back at the now-closed door with wide eyes. “How much of that do you think he heard?”
Yoonoh’s mouth settles into a thin line.
“Enough,” Mark surmises.
He nods. “It’s alright. I’ll smooth it out.”
“There’s nothing to smooth out, it’s just…” Mark backs up until the backs of his legs hit Yoonoh’s mattress, and he collapses onto the bed. “He knows. It’s alright, I guess.”
Yoonoh sighs. Mark curses internally, because he looks even more handsome from this angle and Mark wishes he had those looks. “I’m sorry, this sucks.” He takes a seat next to Mark, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “Do you wanna take a nap?”
Mark blinks up at the ceiling before nodding. “Yeah,” he sighs, welcoming the familiarity of two arms around him and a pillow beneath his head.
“Ten told me you’re a little toddler and this is the best way to make you feel better,” Yoonoh says, murmuring the words just as Mark’s eyes are drooping. It’s strange, how tired he’s become these days. “I think he was right.”
Mark hums, “He was.”
“So sleep, and you’ll feel better when you wake up.” Yoonoh’s hand makes its way into Mark’s, and Mark squeezes once, twice, thrice before he remembers who he’s with and sighs, an apology heavy on the tip of his tongue. His eyelids are heavier, though, and they fall closed before Mark can even utter a sorry.
Yoonoh’s right. He feels better when he wakes up.
He doesn’t know how he ends up in Donghyuck’s room on a school night, but he does, and it’s all Doyoung’s fault. “I’m sick of Donghyuck sulking,” he says, pushing Mark into the room and closing the door. “Don’t come out until you’ve made up.”
Mark is frozen, back pressed against the door as Donghyuck peeks up at him over the top of the book he’s reading, unamused. His glasses are slid down his nose, his eyes illuminated by the string lights taped to his wall. Mark thinks it wouldn’t be so bad, really, to crawl onto the bed and kiss him like this.
He pushes the idea down into the depths of his subconscious and locks it away.
“You didn’t hear anything,” Mark says, staring at the dents in the wall instead of Donghyuck’s face. “That night, you didn’t hear anything. Okay?”
“Right,” Donghyuck says slowly, lowering the book so that it rests against his knees. It’s a children’s book, judging by the cartoons on the pages. “You could’ve told me.”
“I know,” Mark says, the tone of his voice flat even to his own ears. “I’m sorry. For everything.”
“I’m sorry, too. This isn’t all on you.” Donghyuck pats the space beside him and nods towards it. “C’mere. Sit.”
Mark does, settling against Donghyuck with a heart that’s already starting to pound. “Let’s… I wanna tell you. The right way.”
“Okay.” Donghyuck’s hand settles on top of his, and Mark notices he’s not wearing his ring. Something goes numb in him, but he ignores it, instead staring at the mess of Donghyuck’s hand. His nails are bitten short and his cuticles are torn, colored an angry red that Mark figures is from him biting them. “Whenever you’re ready.”
There’s something strange about saying it for the second time. He’s afraid this time even though there’s nothing to be afraid of. Still, though, he takes a breath, closes his eyes, and says it. Slowly, quietly, but then louder: “I like boys. I’m gay.”
He opens his eyes and turns. Donghyuck’s smile stretches an ocean wide, and he nods. His eyes dart down to Mark’s lips, or maybe his chin, but they come back up to fix Mark with a proud, softened look. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
“Guess not.” Mark glances at the book against Donghyuck’s knees and furrows his eyebrows. “What are you reading?”
“Assignment for school,” Donghyuck says shortly, his head tilting back and hitting the headboard as he groans. “I have to translate it.”
“How’s that going?”
“It’s not,” Donghyuck huffs. “I’m reading it to comprehend right now. But I don’t wanna.”
“So I’ll read to you,” Mark says, plucking the book up between his thumb and forefinger and opening it to the page he’d remembered Donghyuck being on. “You were right here?”
Donghyuck hums his confirmation, and Mark starts reading. “Love is me, and love is you. So when you smile, I smile, too.”
“This is cheesy.”
“Hush, I’m trying to help you.”
Donghyuck’s head falls onto his shoulder. Softly at first, but then he leans the rest his weight onto Mark and takes shallow breaths into and out from the crook of Mark’s neck. Mark keeps reading and tries to keep his voice steady every time Donghyuck exhales.
He’s on the final page when Donghyuck’s breathing evens out and his body goes slack. Mark laughs a little, voice faltering as he murmurs the last few lines and leans his head against Donghyuck’s.
This is the point of no return, he realizes tiredly. There’s no coming back from here on out.
“And we’ve got love, me and you. We’re sticking together, we’ll see it through. And wherever we go, love will always be, because love is you and me.”
December falls quickly, and with it comes colds, flus, and too many nights spent shivering beneath the blankets. Donghyuck, unfortunately, is a victim of the former, and he spends a solid week recuperating in the Dream dorm while pestering Mark through the entire ordeal.
“I’m sick,” he reasons. “You should be taking care of me, not complaining.”
“I’ve brought you food more times than I can count,” Mark says, rolling his eyes as he folds a blanket that Donghyuck has kicked away. “Didn’t the manager say you could go to school with us tomorrow? And aren’t you supposed to have a test then, too?”
“I have better things to do than study chemistry,” Donghyuck scoffs.
“Like what? Lie in bed and bitch at me?”
Donghyuck pouts up at Mark, crossing his arms and sinking even further into the couch. “I’m siiick,” he whines. “I feel bad!”
“Look at Renjun and Jeno. They’re studying. And they make good grades.”
“Debatable,” Jeno calls back, but Mark ignores him.
“Will you study with them? For just a little bit?”
Donghyuck sighs. “I guess. But my backpack’s in my room, so you’ll have to go get it.”
Mark reaches over and checks Donghyuck’s temperature with the back of his hand out of reflex. It’s fine, and once he confirms it, he smooths Donghyuck’s hair back out of his face. “I’ll be back.”
He’s got nothing but a tee shirt and sweats on, so when he steps outside into the freezing cold weather and endures it for two whole minutes before getting to the 127 dorm, he severely regrets going out. Mark is still shivering even after he’s inside Donghyuck’s room. He picks up Donghyuck’s discarded hoodie from his bed and pulls it over his head, telling himself that he’ll return it but not completely intending to keep that promise.
He grabs Donghyuck’s backpack from the foot of his bed and shoulders it, stuffing his frigid hands into his pockets before glancing over at Donghyuck’s nightstand. He freezes, then, spotting a silver ring on the nightstand, right next to a spare pair of glasses.
Mark pulls his right hand from his pocket and examines it. His ring has remained there since he first put it on.
Pathetically, he wonders if Donghyuck will ever put his ring back on. He shakes his head, clearing the thought from his mind and turning to leave, pulling the bag onto his other shoulder as he walks.
When he gets back, Donghyuck is sitting at the dinner table with Jeno and Renjun, answering rapid-fire questions as best he can while he tries not to fall asleep.
“Tell me about separating ionic bonds,” Renjun says, his head propped up against Jeno’s shoulder.
“They’re hard to break,” Donghyuck says. His voice is croaky and barely loud enough to be anything but a murmur. “Basically impossible to do it. They’re really strong.”
“Kinda like you and Mark,” Jeno says, grinning as Mark drops into an empty chair and sets Donghyuck’s backpack on the table. Mark chews at the skin of his cheek and glances at Donghyuck for a reaction, but only catches the dark look that he flashes Jeno before turning back to Mark. His eyes soften.
“Guess so,” Donghyuck says, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth, so small that if Mark wasn’t looking hard enough he’d miss it. He reaches under the table and paws at Mark’s hand, eventually grabbing it and dropping it onto the surface of the table.
“You ready to graduate?” Renjun asks, eyes trained on the way Donghyuck is now fiddling with Mark’s ring.
“I think so,” Mark says, frowning. “I’ll miss my classmates, though.”
Jeno narrows his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be studying?”
“Nah. I’m basically done with the year anyways, I’ve already taken my exams. I just show up to hang out with the teachers.”
“Oh, my god, you’re so…” Renjun buries his face in his hands. “You’re a teacher’s pet!”
“I’m not… Okay, I’m a little bit of a teacher’s pet, but it means people like me, I think.”
Donghyuck slaps his wrist. “Of course people like you. You’re Mark Lee, you have stupid charms.”
Mark rolls his eyes and snatches a set of flashcards from Jeno’s hand. “We’re not doing this. Jeno, tell me about periodic trends.”
“Listen, I have no idea what you think I know, but it’s not chemistry.”
They spend the next hour playing racing games on Jisung’s console, but promise Mark that if they fail their exam, they won’t complain. Instead, they’ll tell him he was right, that they should’ve been studying instead of playing games.
Jeno and Donghyuck fail, and Jeno’s the only one who tells him he was right while Renjun smugly smiles at his barely-passing grade.
He wears his special cologne the morning he graduates. Johnny straightens his jacket for him. He gets his hair ruffled by everyone who’s awake, and eventually, he just stops fixing his hair each time someone plays with it, deeming it too time-consuming.
Mark stops trying to count the number of times people tell him he looks nice and instead counts the number of steps it takes between each classroom as he tells his favorite teachers goodbye before retreating to the hall where he’ll graduate, where he’ll be considered a near-adult from then on until his real birthday.
Kangmin is seated right next to him. “Don’t worry,” he says, nudging Mark’s side. “You’re gonna be fine.”
Mark looks out among the crowd of people and spots his members. He counts all of them, coming up one short.
He goes down the list of names until he finds who isn’t there.
Slouching, Mark gives Kangmin a watery smile and waves out at the crowd to let Taeyong know he sees them. Well, all of them except Donghyuck. He looks back at Kangmin, then at his hands, which are resting in his lap. “I sure hope so,” he says.
And he is, really, but when the ceremony is over and his members wrap him up in a hug, Mark thinks bitterly that he’s just a little less fine than he’d like to be.
The day it happens, they’re watching a movie in Jisung’s room, all six of them piled onto his bed as some teenager gets her heart broken. Mark is very pointedly not watching the movie, scrolling through Donghyuck’s phone instead since he doesn’t have one of his own.
“What’s Taeyong cooking for dinner?” Chenle asks, his hand slung over his belly. “You guys ate all the popcorn, and I’m still hungry.”
“Dunno,” Mark says, his stomach growling.
“Text and ask,” Donghyuck says, so Mark does.
Instead of an actual, concise reply, he gets a cryptic one: ‘You’ll see. It’s ready, come and eat.’
Mark hands Donghyuck his phone and stands, stretching. “Whatever it is, it’s ready.” He rolls his shoulders. “Let’s go.”
“My legs don’t work, will someone carry me?” Donghyuck rolls around on the bed and kicks Renjun in the leg. When he gets no response, he groans. “Fine, will someone give me a piggyback ride, at least?”
Jeno sits up and holds a hand out. “Let’s play for it. Loser has to carry him.”
“I hate you guys,” Jisung grumbles, sitting up and holding a hand out as well. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”
Mark throws paper. He looks down and realizes he’s surrounded by scissors. “No way. You planned this. One of you demons—”
“Don’t be a sore loser,” Jisung says, grinning. “You lost. Now take your prize.”
“I think this is the furthest thing from a prize I could ever get,” Mark says, grunting as Donghyuck climbs onto his back and secures himself. He takes heavy steps forward before getting used to Donghyuck’s weight, then tightens his hold on Donghyuck’s legs and lets Jeno lead him out.
“You’re gonna drop me,” Donghyuck says. “The walk is too long for you not to drop me. I’m just waiting for you to do it so I can beat you up.”
“Firstly, it’s a two minute walk.” Mark shifts his shoulders to move Donghyuck into a more comfortable position. “Secondly, I’m strong enough to hold you up.”
“Prove it,” Donghyuck says. “I’ll buy you lunch if you don’t drop me, but if you do, you’ve gotta buy me lunch. And give me a kiss on the cheek.”
“What is your fixation with—” Mark sighs. “Whatever. Deal.”
He doesn’t drop Donghyuck. Instead, the second he walks through the door, Donghyuck falls off of his own accord, scrambling to his feet and sprinting forward.
“What are you doing here,” Donghyuck says, sounding relieved as he wraps his arms around someone on the couch. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until after this comeback.”
“Yeah, well. I got better,” someone says, and it’s a voice Mark thinks he recognizes but can’t. A low, brittle voice.
Mark is still standing in the doorway, and Jisung bumps into him from behind, making a little noise before maneuvering around Mark to see who’s on the couch. “Jaemin?”
“Sungie,” the voice says, and Mark’s hand flies to his mouth. He stands frozen as Jisung runs to Jaemin’s side to add to the hug.
Renjun, Jeno, and Chenle trail in behind Mark, shutting the door before standing awkwardly next to Mark. Jaemin’s face is hidden in Donghyuck’s shoulder, and beside Mark, Jeno cranes his neck to see who Donghyuck is hugging.
“Come and say hi,” Jaemin says, raising his head and grinning up at Mark. His eyes flit between the four of them as they stand there before Renjun hurries to the couch and pulls Donghyuck onto the floor.
“You’re gonna hurt his back,” Renjun says, throwing a grin over his shoulder to Donghyuck before burying his face in the fabric of Jaemin’s hoodie. “Stupid. I knew you’d be back early.”
“Missed you, too,” Jaemin says, dropping a kiss onto the side of Renjun’s head. Renjun doesn’t even fake disgust, just nestles further into Jaemin’s side. He won’t be leaving anytime soon, Mark figures. Jaemin looks up at Mark and beckons him forward with his free hand. “All of you, c’mere. I missed you guys.”
“Do you have any idea how much we texted you?” Donghyuck says, swatting Jaemin’s knee.
“Mark couldn’t. I missed Mark,” Jaemin says, pouting. He reaches for Mark’s hand and grabs it. “Taeyong made dinner! It’s ready, if you guys wanna eat.”
“With you?” Chenle asks. He looks apprehensive, like Jaemin might say no.
Jaemin grins ear-to-ear and stands, pulling Renjun and Jisung off him as he does. He throws an arm around Chenle and leads him into the kitchen. “‘Course, Lele.”
Mark follows them into the kitchen, where Taeyong’s stirring a pot of God-knows-what on the stove. “Mark, can you set the table?”
Mark nods, and wordlessly, he moves to the table in the other room and gets to work. He tries not to think about how Jaemin came back faster than Ten did, because this is supposed to be a happy moment, and he’s not supposed to be this upset over something trivial.
It’s not fair to Jaemin, but none of this is very fair to anyone, so Mark continues sulking.
“Mark’s setting the table, go say hi!” Taeyong says from the kitchen, and Mark furrows his eyebrows, but continues working. There’s no one in this dorm who he hasn’t already seen today, so there’s no one who hasn’t already greeted him.
He leans over the table to set a glass on the other end, but struggles to reach all the way across.
A hand plucks the glass from him and successfully sets it across the table. “Let me help you with that,” a voice says, and the hand takes another glass to place.
And Mark would know that voice anywhere, so he drops the glasses he’s carrying and braces his hands on the table. His head is spinning, his heart is pounding, and there’s a lump stuck in his throat that can’t possibly come out until he turns to look at the boy beside him, but he can’t.
“Hi, Mark,” Ten says. “You can look at me, y’know.”
“If I do that, I know I’m gonna cry,” Mark says, eyes squeezed shut to prevent from doing just that.
“That’s alright,” Ten murmurs, his hand falling onto Mark’s shoulder and spinning him around to face him. Mark’s gaze stays pinned to his shoes. “Hey. Look here.”
Hesitantly, Mark glances up at Ten and feels his eyes fill up with tears already. Ten’s hair is short, now, and dyed a silvery gray color. His face is thinner, and there’s a hint of peach fuzz patching along his chin. His eyes are tired, but when Mark’s eyes meet his, he grins so hard that his eyes are crescents.
“There you are,” he says, and a tear spills over Mark’s cheek. “Oh, don’t cry. You didn’t miss me that much.”
“You have no idea,” Mark says, voice cracking as he throws his arms around Ten and buries his face in the junction between his neck and shoulder. It’s then that the tears start flowing more freely, and Mark decides that he won’t let them stop anytime soon. Slowly, Ten’s arms fall around him, locking at the small of his back, and then they tighten until Mark is sure he couldn’t even get out of the hug if he tried.
“I’m never gonna leave you guys ever again,” Ten says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s not your fault,” Mark says against the fabric of Ten’s shirt, aware that Ten won’t be able to understand him. He raises his head a little when he next speaks so that Ten can hear. “Herin left. A little under a year ago.”
“I heard,” Ten says.
“And I’m tired, I’m always tired now,” Mark says. “I haven’t slept well since you left. And I figured out that I’m gay.”
“You’re—” Ten pauses, then sighs. “Okay. Alright. What else?”
“So much happened,” Mark says, shaking his head. “The CEO hates me even more now, I think. He took my phone. I’m not gonna get it back anytime soon.”
“Yeah? What for?”
Mark’s face goes red. “I found out he was the one who outed you,” he says. “I chewed him out until he told me when you’d be back.”
“And what did he say?”
“Two years. It’s almost been that. It would’ve been two years in May.” Mark settles his chin onto Ten’s shoulder and laces his fingers together. “Where did they take you? Where were you?”
“I can’t say,” Ten says. “But they’ve lined me up to be in a new unit, and I’m learning Chinese, and I’m gonna be with Sicheng and Kun and Lucas. Next year, I think. They’re still trying to work out some things.”
“Shit, that’s great,” Mark says, beaming.
“And I’ve been listening to all of your music. You’ve done so well,” Ten says, and he sounds so much like he means it that Mark never wants to stop crying. “I’m really proud of you.” He loosens his grip on Mark just enough to pull away and wipe the tears from his eyes with the pad of his thumb. “There we go. Now let’s go get dinner, I’m sure it’s getting cold by now.”
“You sound old,” Mark sniffs.
“I am old.”
Hand-in-hand, they step into the kitchen with smiles that are as contagious as they are wide. And slowly but surely, things start to fall back into place.
Mark’s first kiss is nothing short of disappointing.
He hadn’t agreed to go on the show in the first place, but begrudgingly, he let his manager pack his suitcase up and throw it in the trunk of a car that’s too small for him to nap comfortably. His flight is too long and too crowded, and the airport where he lands is stuffy. He’s given a phone in case of emergencies, and his manager tells him that if he’s good, he can keep it. He asks for his old phone back, the one that was taken all that time ago, but gets no response.
Groggy from sleep, Mark asks where he is. “Vietnam,” his manager says, pushing him towards a crowd of people waving a sign with his name on it. “Have fun, be good, and we’ll be back to get you when you’re done filming!”
“When will that be?!” Mark asks, but it’s too late, and his manager has already disappeared into the sea of people. A woman tenderly takes his hand and leads him towards a car, and he climbs in, unaware of where he’s even going.
When the car pulls in and he’s let out with his suitcase, he marvels. The house towering over him is nearly bigger than the offices back in Seoul, and in the distance is a beach stretching wide on either side of the house. It’s perfect, he decides, and so is his room, and his stupid roommate with his stupid grin and his stupidly pretty eyes.
Kang Daniel is perfect. A little too perfect for Mark. And unfortunately, he’s just perfect enough that Mark has to chase after him during his entire stay, because he’s stupid and thinks this might quell the thunder that rumbles in his heart every time he looks at the sunset and is reminded of Donghyuck.
The stars in the sky here sparkle like the ones in Donghyuck’s eyes, he laments to himself one night after Daniel has gone to bed. They’ve been sharing drinks all night, sitting on the deck and staring up at the sky. Mark has snuck one too many swigs of Daniel’s… He doesn’t know what he’s been drinking, actually, but it has alcohol in it, and that’s enough to make Mark take little sips when Daniel’s not looking.
He opens his eyes to Daniel shaking him awake when the sun is just barely rising. His arms are covered in bug bites and his skin tight with the onset of sunburn. Daniel offers him a hand and pulls him up to his feet. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.”
The beach is completely empty when they pad onto the sand, jaws agape as the sun rises and colors burst across the horizon. Somewhere along the walk, Daniel’s hand slips into Mark’s as they tread along the shoreline.
“Hey,” Mark says, because Daniel’s face is illuminated perfectly by the glow of the rising sun and his heart is somersaulting in his chest. “Let’s stop here.”
“Yeah?” Daniel asks, turning to look at Mark.
There’s a fire burning low and hot in his belly, and if he wanted to, he could lean forward and kiss Daniel right now. If he really wanted to, he could pull Daniel in and thread his fingers in his hair and drown in his arms.
“There aren’t any cameras on right now,” Mark says, letting his eyes drop down to Daniel’s lips before coming back up to meet his eyes. “Can I…?”
Daniel’s mouth is parted just a little, and his breath fans Mark’s lips before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. Please.”
And Mark leans closer, steadying himself with one arm resting on Daniel’s shoulder and another cupping his jaw as he cranes up to bridge the gap between them.
Daniel tastes like coffee, and his mouth is warm, his lips soft, and Mark hopes that if his knees buckle, Daniel will catch him. He figures he should turn his head, maybe loop his arms around Daniel’s neck, but before he can deepen the kiss, Daniel pulls away.
“Why’d you—”
“—I can’t do this,” Daniel says, his lips red and swollen already. “I really want to, believe me, but… You’re not as interested in me as you think. I can tell.”
“What do you mean?”
“Donghyuck,” Daniel says, smiling almost wistfully. “Look, it’s okay. I get it. But I don’t wanna be some kind of rebound for you.”
Mark purses his lips. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright.” Daniel grins as he takes Mark’s hand and leads him forward. “C’mon, let’s walk a little more before everyone else wakes up. Tell me about Donghyuck.”
The water laps at his ankles as Mark rambles about Donghyuck’s everything , and not once does Daniel’s smile tire or fade. Gulls chirp in the distance, and the ocean is calm, its spray warm like the sand caving beneath his feet.
“Sounds like you really love him,” Daniel says, and Mark doesn’t fight it, looking out over the horizon as the waves curl around the bottom of the sun.
The sky is orange when he says it, bright and shining and beautiful, just like Donghyuck. His hand tightens around Daniel’s. His shadow stretches out along the shore as he says it, finally admits to himself what he’s known for what must be months now: “Guess so.”
There’s a hand on his shoulder and another at the small of his back, pressing down with barely any force, but it’s enough to soothe his racing mind. Donghyuck is in front of him on his knees, eyes wide and a hand wrapped around Mark’s leg.
“Do you want me to call Ten?”
“No,” Mark says, laughing a little as he raises his hand to dab at his eyes with his sleeve, careful not to smudge his eye makeup. “No, it’s just… This is our last comeback with all of us together. I knew, but it’s just now hitting me that this is our last debut stage all together like this.”
Jaemin kneels down next to him. “So let’s make it the best one we’ve had.”
“Yeah,” Mark nods, squeezing his eyes shut before standing and helping Donghyuck up. “Yeah. C’mon. We’re on soon.”
Outside the stage, he promises himself that this’ll be the best damn set of promotions he’ll ever go through, and he can feel his own energy bounce back to him when he calls out, “Yo, dream!”
He remembers why he’s here, now. Why he’s on the stage, why he’s beaming at the crowd, why he’s sneaking smiles to his members any chance he gets. Next time, he won’t let himself forget.
Mark’s staring at himself in the bathroom mirror when it happens. He doesn’t remember ever being this tall, this tired, having eyes this sunken, feet this heavy. He bends over the sink and runs some water from the tap.
Mark splashes the water onto his face, rubbing his eyes as he stands up straight again, hoping he’ll be more awake now. The tiredness doesn’t fade from his face like he hopes, and instead, his eyes seem impossibly redder.
That’s about when the shouting begins. Or, at least, when it fades into Mark’s hearing. There are too many voices to count, but all of them seem to converge on one idea: “Go, go, move!”
Eyebrows furrowed, Mark pulls open the bathroom door and peeks his head out into the hallway. Three figures are walking in a line while several others crowd around them. In the line of three, Mark recognizes Yuta, Taeyong, and Donghyuck, with Donghyuck in the middle. They’re holding him up, Mark realizes. He’s limping, hopping on one leg while his other is hung bent in the air.
“I’m fine,” Donghyuck says over the voices, lowering his leg down so that both feet are on the floor. He shifts his weight, ignoring Taeyong’s loud and angry warnings, and almost immediately, he stumbles, his bad leg flying into the air as he cries out. He curls in on himself, near-crouching on his one good leg.
Mark removes his hand from his mouth. He doesn’t know how it got there.
“What happened,” he calls down the hall. Sicheng looks back at him with wide eyes but says nothing, turning back to Donghyuck as he hobbles forward again.
“What happened?” Mark says, loud enough to overpower the commotion this time, and everything seems to freeze. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s had to use this voice. With Dream, surely, but a long, long time ago.
“I hurt my leg,” Donghyuck says. His voice sounds strangled, like he’s struggling to get the words out. “It’s nothing, I’ll go to the doctor and be back soon.”
And this is Jaemin all over again, this is Jaemin, but worse, and Mark can’t quite explain how. He pads down the hall as Yuta and Taeyong help Donghyuck out the door and towards a car that’s no doubt ready to take him to the hospital.
Unapologetically, Mark butts through the crowd of his members until he reaches the car and watches as Yuta helps Donghyuck settle inside, careful not to shift his leg too much. Donghyuck’s hands are clasped so tightly that his knuckles are white, and when Yuta steps back, he heaves out a breath and sinks into the car seat.
Mark wants to say something. He opens his mouth, and a hand falls onto his shoulder. A warning, maybe. He shrugs the hand off.
“Let me come,” he says, and Donghyuck startles, turning to Mark with narrowed, quizzical eyes. “I wanna be there with you.”
“Mark, you can’t, we’ve gotta practice.” Taeyong says it gently, like he knows it’ll upset Mark, and it does.
He can’t pretend it doesn’t sink his heart into the pit of his stomach. He can’t pretend he doesn’t deflate, and he can’t pretend he doesn’t see the familiar flash of disappointment in Donghyuck’s face. “Alright, well…” Mark fixes his gaze on a pothole, trying to look anywhere but Donghyuck, or worse, the rest of his members. “I want updates. And get some rest, okay?”
Sheepishly, Mark dares to look at Donghyuck again. His expression has softened, and he’s smiling up at Mark like everything’s perfectly fine. Maybe it is, maybe Mark’s missing something. “Alright, Mark. I’ll text you.”
Mark grins and nods. Taeyong pulls him back towards the sidewalk, and Donghyuck slams his door, waving out the tinted window as the car reverses and then rolls forward.
“He’ll be okay,” Johnny says to him, voice soft as he takes Mark’s hand. Mark half-expects him to squeeze it three times, but shakes off the feeling and turns to look up at him.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
Cars roll by and dip into the puddles on the street. The air has a sudden metallic taste to it, and Mark licks his lips. To his surprise, they’re bitten raw. Something in the air is sparkling, and Mark realizes almost too late that it’s the first snow of December. He wishes Donghyuck were here to see it with him.
Johnny smiles and pulls him along. “Come on,” he says, his jacket pulled tightly closed. “Let’s go back to the dorm and get Ten. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten dinner, hasn’t it?”
Later, when he’s curled between Ten and Johnny in their bed with a stomach full of too much food and a content smile on his face, his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s a text from Donghyuck, and he shields the screen as he reads it, eyes widening in some kind of horror-confusion-disbelief combination that sends his heart racing.
Hyuckie, 9:46 - When I get back, we’ll talk about everything between us. It’s driving me crazy. Promise me?
And Mark, confused and exhausted, texts back. His own message stares him back in the face, and he’s guilty for whatever reason as he slides his phone back into his pocket.
You, 9:48 - I promise.
Left on read and too tired to think about what Donghyuck means, he falls asleep in an instant, doe eyes and a dazzling smile burned into the backs of his eyelids.
Vainly, Mark hopes Donghyuck is thinking about him, too.
He wakes to a call two days later. His phone is too loud, and he groans, silencing it before picking up. “Hello?”
“Mark,” Donghyuck breathes, relieved even through the receiver. “I didn’t think you’d be awake. I wanted to try calling you before anyone else.”
“Yeah, I’m here, what’s wrong?”
“I got discharged from the hospital,” Donghyuck says, “and I’m going back to visit my family today and staying until I’m clear to come back.”
“Hyuck, that’s great,” Mark says, rolling over in his bed and grinning. He hopes Doyoung doesn’t mind him talking this early, but then he realizes that Doyoung is snoring so loud that he probably won’t even be able to hear Mark’s voice.
“Yeah, I know, but I’m really nervous. Which is dumb, I mean, they’re my family, but…” Donghyuck’s voice quiets so that he’s just barely speaking under his breath. “I haven’t seen them in person in so long, Mark.”
“I know.” Mark closes his eyes and tries to imagine how it would feel to see his mother again. He wonders if she thinks about him anymore, but shakes off the thought. There’s no room to think about that. Not here, not now, not ever. He sighs, continuing, “It’s scary. But they love you, and they’re excited to see you, and I promise it’ll be better than you expect.”
On the other end of the line, a car door slams. Donghyuck inhales loudly enough for Mark to hear over the bad reception of his phone. “I’m in my driveway,” he says. “Shit, Mark, the door just opened, I have to go.”
A child calls out Donghyuck’s name, and Donghyuck shouts something unintelligible back. Footsteps pound in the distance, growing gloser, and on the other line, Donghyuck grunts. His little brother (or one of them, anyway) is panting into the phone now, babbling something that Mark can’t quite make out before Donghyuck pulls the phone away, laughing loudly.
“I’ve gotta go, for real now,” he says, and Mark can hear the smile in his voice. His heart aches with envy—not of Donghyuck, but of his family, because they get to see him smile so brilliantly and Mark will have to wait for too long. “Thank you, Mark.”
“Of course. Have fun, Hyuckie.”
The call drops. An hour later, his manager sends him a picture. It takes him a good few seconds to make out the photo, but when he does, he nearly cries. It’s of Donghyuck, his back against a black car and a little boy snug in his arms. Donghyuck’s chin is resting on the boy’s shoulder, his eyes closed, and on his face is the brightest smile Mark’s ever seen.
Mark saves the photo to Donghyuck’s contact. From now on, he wants to be reminded of that joy every time he sees Donghyuck’s name.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and everyone can agree that Mark has had too many drinks, even Mark himself. Jeno and Renjun and Jaemin have already decided to go to bed, even though they’ve got half an hour left before they need to. Good riddance, Jisung tells them, continuing to steal sips from Mark’s glass when he thinks Mark isn’t looking.
To his left is Yoonoh, head tilted back as Taeil plays a song on the guitar, and on his right is Jisung, curled into his side in search of warmth. Taeyong has yet to find spare blankets, and Kun has already told him that they’re in the new dorm, that he won’t be able to find him.
He meets Dejun and Guanheng and Yangyang for the fourth time this year, but for the first time officially. It’s true, Guanheng tells him. The blankets are all in Xuxi’s room, because he can’t help but hog them since he’s too damn tall to have just one blanket.
Mark rolls his eyes, laughs, and takes another drink. He’s even so kind as to offer Jisung a sip, which the younger refuses to make himself look good.
Mark turns. His drink slips out of his hands and is replaced in the span of a few seconds. He tries not to cackle, instead sputtering out a little snicker that stirs Yoonoh from his relaxation.
“Give him another drink, I dare you,” he says. “Kid’s a baby, and you’re influencing him.”
“Mark is so good to me,” Jisung says, leaning his head back to mirror Yoonoh. “He’s a saint.”
Mark laughs at the same moment that his phone buzzes. He checks it, and it’s already five til’ ten, meaning Yangyang and Jisung should be leaving soon. The notification on his phone is a text from Donghyuck, and Mark furrows his eyebrows and wonders aloud why he isn’t asleep yet before retiring to his room to text Donghyuck.
Hyuckie, 9:55 - We need to talk. I’m sorry, I really tried to wait, but I can’t anymore
You, 9:57 - Kind of a bad time to start a conversation. Your phone shuts off at ten, doesn’t it? Since you’re still a minor.
Hyuckie, 9:58 - I know. But if I don’t tell you this then I’m just gonna regret it
Hyuckie, 9:58 - And if I don’t tell you now, I never will
Hyuckie, 9:58 - And I don’t want that
You, 9:58 - Yeah?
You, 9:58 - So tell me
His phone screen fades into an incoming call, and Mark picks up almost immediately.
“Yeah?” he breathes, a fire roaring in his stomach, because he knows what this is. At least, he knows what he hopes it is. “Donghyuck. Hurry.”
“Mark,” Donghyuck says, his voice drowned in static and just barely loud enough for Mark to hear. “Listen. That’s all I want you to do. You know that night when I was crying, the night you debuted? And the night when I came out to you, when I told you I liked a boy? Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
Mark glances at the clock on the wall. It’s 9:59, and Donghyuck has less than a minute, but Mark can’t rush him, not now, not when he’s trying so hard to keep from stumbling over his words like this.
“It took me too long to realize,” Donghyuck says, and even through the static, Mark can hear him laugh, and the fire in his belly curls a little tighter. “But I know now, I think, and I’m not as stupid as I used to be, and—God, this is too hard. I can’t do this.”
“Say it,” Mark says, eyebrows knit and heart pounding. “Please, Hyuck. For me.”
Donghyuck sighs. The second hand on the clock ticks dangerously close to twelve, and Mark clenches his free hand so tightly that he draws blood. And God, he shouldn’t have drunk tonight, he should’ve talked to Donghyuck earlier. There are too many things he should’ve done right, and he’s still running through all of them when Donghyuck next speaks.
“Mark, I l—”
The clock strikes the hour. It’s ten in the evening, now, and Donghyuck’s call drops.
Mark rolls over with fresh tears in his eyes. A year ago—a month ago, even—he’d have told himself that he shouldn’t cry, because crying is for children. But he thinks he deserves to cry this time.
So he cries, and he cries until his tears have put out the fire blazing in him, and then he cries until he’s soaked through one side of his pillow and has to flip it over. And when he’s finally given everything he has, when he’s finally done, he sinks into his mattress and hopes he never wakes up.
He’s sober now, he’s sure.
That’s probably not for the best.
(Ten doesn’t find him for hours. When he does, he settles into the side of Mark’s bed and tells Mark to start from the beginning, go back to when all of this started, and he does. And when he’s finally done, when he’s told Ten about every moment, every place he’s ever wanted to take Donghyuck, every street corner, every restaurant, Ten sighs through his nostrils and curls his arm around Mark.
“You’ve got it bad,” he says, much to Mark’s distress.
“I know,” he murmurs, glaring at the screen of his phone like it’ll do him any good. “Believe me, I know.”)
They tell him Donghyuck will be back for the tour, but only the two days of it in Seoul. They give him a day to collect his thoughts, and in that one day before they come face-to-face again, Mark does nothing.
He sleeps, and he wakes, and he sleeps, and he wakes, until there’s no part of him that wants to sleep anymore besides the stubborn part of his mind that wants tomorrow to come faster. He sleeps one last time in Donghyuck’s bed, running Yoonoh out of the room just so he can collect his thoughts before everything comes crashing down.
Mark wonders pathetically how many secrets lie stacked in the gap between Donghyuck’s pillows, how many untold truths shudder against his tongue. How many lies and promises Donghyuck would feed him if he were here right now, lying on the pillow beside him. And he wonders, head weighted against his pillow and heart still aching, if Donghyuck even comes close to feeling the same way he does.
He falls asleep diligently, waiting patiently for tomorrow to come. And when it does, Mark is ready, Mark has a plan. He’s had a plan since last night, and Yoonoh knows his plan, so by extension, his manager knows his plan, and so do the concert techs. They tell him it’s a fine plan, that it’s perfect for best friends like them, and Mark has to turn away his gaze to tell his lie.
They know part of his plan. They don’t even come close to knowing the full scheme.
When the evening comes, when Donghyuck is finally back where he belongs, Mark’s stomach is in knots that he can’t untie. They don’t get to see Donghyuck before they’re whisked onstage. Mark’s sweating so much that his makeup must be running by now, and he’s faked too many smiles today, but when he looks out at the crowd of people who are here, the crowd of people who want to be here, the false smile turns into something real, something so bright that he doesn’t let it fade until halfway through the concert.
He’s letting himself sway to the ending beat of Sun & Moon when the lights fade, and suddenly there are two chairs rising into the center of the stage on a platform, and he knows what’s happening, knows what he has to do, knows what he planned.
And despite all of it, he freezes.
The stage lights flicker back to life. Donghyuck is sitting in the chair, somehow exactly the same and wildly different than how Mark had imagined he would look, and he’s staring up at Mark with those same wide eyes that he’d used when the car took him away to the hospital all those weeks ago.
The music won’t start until Mark sits. He knows that. And while the crowd screams for Donghyuck, for the boy who deserves an audience ten times as big as this and a billion times louder, Mark hurries to his seat and twists his ring around his finger.
Donghyuck had done that, once, to his ring. While his friends watched.
Mark wonders if Donghyuck meant what he thinks it meant.
He takes a breath. Rests a hand on Donghyuck’s knee. Watches as Donghyuck settles his hand on top, fingers fitting between Mark’s just right.
And the music starts.
“I wanna be a billionaire so freakin’ bad,” Mark sings, his voice light and airy and his free hand shaking. “Buy all of the things I never had.”
He nudges Donghyuck, who beams at him and nudges back before he breaks into the second line. His voice is sweeter and fuller than Mark remembers, something like caramel and salt, and Mark licks his lips before he remembers that the taste isn’t there.
While Donghyuck finishes his verse, Mark glances down at their hands and pauses.
Donghyuck is wearing his ring. He’s wearing the ring, the one he hasn’t worn since they argued, the one Mark’s agonized and lost sleep over. He’s wearing it.
He tries his best not to react at this, but he can’t help the way his hand flips over and his fingers slide between Donghyuck’s and squeeze—one, two, three.
He pulls his hand away for a second to thumb at Donghyuck’s ring, twisting it around his finger just like Donghyuck had done it so long ago, and he wonders how it feels on the other end, wonders if Donghyuck remembers the way he does.
He takes a deep breath, pulls his hand away like he’s been burned, and spits out his rap like his life depends on it. And maybe it does, he thinks stupidly. Maybe the rest of his life depends on what tricks the hot air in this stuffy venue do to his head, how they mess with his brain, what they drive him to do…
He shakes his head and adlibs as Donghyuck sings again. Their hands find their way back beside each other, because that’s how it is for them. That’s how they are.
It’s then that Mark realizes that through all of this, all the ups and downs, the tears and laughter, it has always been the two of them, like this: Mark and Donghyuck, Donghyuck and Mark. He’ll find his way back to Donghyuck in the eye of a hurricane, in the surge of a storm, on the sweat-thick stage of a crowded venue in Seoul, surrounded by thousands and undiscovered by all.
“I wanna be a billionaire,” Donghyuck says, his voice soft as he glances up at Mark hopefully.
Mark indulges him for what he hopes will be the first time of many. He settles his arm onto Donghyuck’s shoulder and grins out at the crowd. “How bad?”
Donghyuck turns to look him in the eyes, and his own are shining, sparkling so magnificently in the light that Mark has to take a moment to remember to breathe. “So freakin’ bad…”
The song is over as quickly as it began, and Mark and Donghyuck sink down below the stage on the platform. Donghyuck is panting despite not even moving, and his lips are parted and slick, his brow shining. Mark wants nothing more than to lean over and kiss him. He thinks he might.
Donghyuck stands. On one leg, he drags his chair to the wall and sets it against a panel. Mark does the same, and when he’s done, he stands awkwardly in front of Donghyuck as the other leans up against the wall.
His mind screams at him to stick with what he was supposed to do, follow the plan that he’d so carefully crafted. But his hands shake behind his back, and he knows deep down that he never could’ve gone through with this. He’s a coward, he tells himself.
If he were operating according to his plan, he would have kissed Donghyuck by now. Instead, he clears his throat and distracts Donghyuck.
“We have an intermission,” he says, wrapping an arm around Donghyuck’s shoulder and beckoning him forward. “C’mon, I’ll help you get backstage so you can watch.”
“Mark,” Donghyuck says.
“I’m sure everyone’s excited to see you,” Mark says, and no matter how he tries to shut himself up, he can’t stop rambling.
“Mark.”
“I hope you liked the—”
“Mark!” Donghyuck says, his voice cutting through the applause thundering overhead, shuddering off the wooden boards below the stage. He leans back so that he’s resting against the wall, then pulls Mark close by his collar. “Listen to me. Can you do that for me? Just listen.”
Mark nods. The platform hasn’t raised yet, and there’s a soft green glow coming from above them, and as much as he hates the color green, he thinks it looks beautiful like this, etched onto Donghyuck’s face and glittering in his eyes.
Donghyuck opens his mouth to say something, to start something, but Mark can’t let him. Instead, he leans a hand against the wall, resting his weight on it. Again, Donghyuck looks up at him with wide eyes and tries to speak. “Don’t,” Mark says before he can.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Donghyuck whispers. There’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips, now, and Mark can’t even fight off the urge to suppress his grin.
“I know enough to know it’s something we can save for later,” Mark says. “Can we skip it?”
Donghyuck grins, wicked and cunning, the gleam in his eyes amplified by the green light. “I dunno, can we skip to the part where we make out under this stage until someone finds us and chews us out?”
The applause in the background seems to fade alongside anything else Mark hears. All he can hear right now is the shallow pooling of Donghyuck’s breath, and all he can see is the tint of green light against his skin, the way his eyes are glassy and wide as he waits for an answer.
“I’d like that,” Mark says quietly, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Donghyuck’s.
There’s no fanfare, no cheering, no fireworks. Not outwardly, at least. Mark’s heart is bursting, and there’s something electric in his veins, something he’s never felt before. He likes it.
Donghyuck’s mouth is warm, and he tastes like stale breath mints, and the seam of his lips is metallic, like he’s been chewing on it for too long. Mark’s hand finds its way to Donghyuck’s waist and grips there before he realizes where he’s drawn the line. His hand falls limp at his side, but Donghyuck breaks the kiss and grabs his hand.
When Mark opens his eyes, the platform has lifted, and there’s no more light. There’s no room for shadows, no room for dust in the air. Mark is partially glad, because he doesn’t have to look Donghyuck in the eyes if he makes a fool of himself.
“You’re so dense,” Donghyuck says, laughing a little. His voice is husky, and it almost buckles Mark’s knees. Donghyuck drags Mark’s hand forward and settles it on his waist. “Keep it there. I want it there.”
“Yeah?” Mark asks, leaning in again.
Donghyuck hums into the kiss before pulling away. “Yeah. And I know you’re gonna argue with me when I say this, so I’ve gotta say it. You’re the densest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”
“I’m not,” Mark says indignantly.
“You are. I bought you that ring and had it engraved and you didn’t even have the decency to kiss me.”
“We were kids. And I don’t even know what the ring says.”
“It says ‘1, 2, 3.’ Are you joking? Could you really not read?”
Mark’s mouth falls open a little, and he nods. “Like the hand thing.”
Donghyuck scoffs. “Yes, like the damn hand thing. Now, are you gonna kiss me, or are you gonna keep on being a dense son of a bitch?”
“You’re just trying to piss me off,” Mark says, his smile unwavering even though Donghyuck can’t see it.
“Maybe I am. What’re you gonna do about it, kiss me?”
Mark leans forward again and realizes this has gone better than he ever could’ve imagined. Donghyuck’s breath ghosts his lips, and Mark thinks he really should’ve remembered how impatient he is. He definitely remembers when Donghyuck decides to make the move before he can, and he remembers when Donghyuck’s hands tangle into his hair, when he pulls Mark impossibly closer and kisses him so roughly that he nearly falls back.
Something bangs against a door nearby. “Mark, Donghyuck, are you in there?”
They pull away, but Donghyuck drags Mark in for one last kiss, craning his neck up so that their foreheads rest together as he murmurs, “I’ve wanted to do that for two years.”
A door flies open. “Is that you two?” Taeyong asks. “Come on, I know you missed each other, but we’ve gotta go. The intermission isn’t that long.”
Mark laughs and puts an arm around Donghyuck, helping him walk forward. Taeyong helps him once they get to the door, and when they step into the fluorescent light of the hallway, Mark can see how much he’s affected Donghyuck; his lips are swollen, his hair mussed, his chin slick with drool.
Taeyong looks them both up and down with raised eyebrows. “Oh,” he says, and that’s the end of it.
For a moment, Mark wonders how he looks. He quickly decides he doesn’t want to know.
Donghyuck stays backstage and watches while he performs the rest of the show, and when Mark comes back, Donghyuck’s eyes are just as bright as they were beneath the stage. Mark walks him out to the car and checks to make sure no one’s looking before he slips his hand into Donghyuck’s. He squeezes—one, two, three—and pulls him in for a quick kiss before letting him climb into the car to go back home. He’s not clear to go back to the dorms yet. He won’t be until Mark gets back from the Japan leg of the tour, and Mark is adamant that he’ll change roommates when he comes back so that he and Donghyuck can have some privacy.
When the driver gets in the car, Donghyuck waves goodbye, his eyes shining as he drives away and shouts pleasantries (and unpleasantries) to Mark while hanging halfway out the window.
Mark laughs—a full, hearty laugh that he feels all through his body. He twists his ring around his finger and watches the car fade into the distant traffic.
He sleeps well that night. It’s a first in a long time.
“So, Vancouver.” Donghyuck’s smile is cunning as he takes Mark’s hand in the street. He knows they’re alone, knows no one will find them on this deserted little stretch of corner stores they’ve found.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s pretty,” Donghyuck says. “I like the atmosphere.”
“We haven’t even gone anywhere special yet,” Mark says, pouting. Donghyuck notices and laughs, and Mark’s frown only deepens. “I’m serious! I have someplace I want to show you after you explore!”
“Alright, but let’s have our fun,” Donghyuck grins, pulling Mark along the sidewalk and stopping at whatever store he sees fit.
Donghyuck’s definition of fun turns out to be spending all of Mark’s travel money on sweets, half of which he tries and decides he doesn’t like, then force-feeds to Mark because he doesn’t want them to go to waste.
“Are you happy now?” Mark asks as they walk out of a store, Donghyuck finishing off the last few bites of an ice cream cone. In the most respectful way, he really means, ‘Can we hurry up?’
Donghyuck flashes him a devilish smile and dashes across the street, headed in a direction that Mark faintly remembers as he chases after him. “One last thing!” Donghyuck calls over his shoulder as he runs.
Mark doesn’t realize where they’re going until he’s tackled Donghyuck onto the shore of a narrow, empty strip of shoreline. Below him, Donghyuck pants, beaming up at him as Mark glares him down.
“I wanted to see the water,” Donghyuck says, surging up to kiss the frown off Mark’s lips. “C’mon, don’t be mad, I swear this is the last thing.”
Mark rolls to the side, certain that his clothes are ruined with wet sand now. “Alright,” he says, standing and helping Donghyuck to his feet. “There’s the water. There’s your Vancouver.”
“No,” Donghyuck says. “My Vancouver is wherever you want to take me after this.” He pulls Mark closer to the water, kicking sand at his ankles. Water sprays Mark’s shin, and he huffs, pushing them even farther into the water.
Donghyuck leans up and kisses him, slow and sweet, and Mark thinks that the remnants of ice cream on his tongue taste too sweet. He kisses back anyways, one hand at Donghyuck’s jaw and another curled around his waist.
The air smells like salt, and so does Donghyuck, free of his usual pine cologne because Mark has told him too many times that he likes the way he smells in the morning. The sand sinks beneath his feet, and he discards his flip flops to let the water lap at his ankles without him having unsure footing. The water is cold, cooler than he expects of it at this time of year, but he doesn’t mind all that much.
“Cold,” Donghyuck says, chewing at his bottom lip as he stares out at the horizon.
“You brought us here,” Mark reminds him, crossing his arms with a smug grin.
Donghyuck frowns. “Yeah, and I’m cold, so I wanna go to wherever you’re taking me.”
Mark rolls his eyes and slips his flip flops back on. He takes Donghyuck’s hand and leads him back to the street, back out of the alley they’d come in, and towards the building.
They come to a halt in the middle of suburbia, stopped directly in front of a house with a rickety white fence in front of it. Boards have been stripped off the house, and ivy grows over the windows, over the whole of the building. It’s so dilapidated that Mark can barely remember what it was like to call this place home.
“This was where I used to live,” he says, voice gentle and low.
‘Where we used to live,’ he wants to say, because it’s clear that no one lives here anymore, not even his father.
The rail on the porch is covered in rust, and so is the doorknob when he brings Donghyuck up the steps and pushes in on the door. It creaks open, and Mark’s eyes go wide in amazement at the inside. Everything is different, but the same; some furniture is gone (stolen, he guesses), but pictures remain hung on the walls, flowers remain wilted in their vases. Photos of vacations are still glued into the magnets on the fridge.
In the living room, he passes his old bike, rusted from disuse. Mark wonders why it’s still here, but quickly turns his attention to Donghyuck as he’s browsing the walls.
“That’s your brother?” Donghyuck says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s expecting an answer. “And there’s your mom, and your… There’s your dad.” He pauses, rushing towards the wall with wide eyes. “Are these baby pictures?”
“No,” Mark says, face burning as he pulls Donghyuck away from the wall and down the long hallway. “Look, my old room is down there. You can snoop through all my stuff.”
Donghyuck rushes towards the room at the end of the hall, and he’s lucky that it’s Mark’s room and not his brother’s. “Fine, but we’re coming back to this,” he calls out. “You coming?”
“Yeah, just a minute,” Mark calls back. He’s more interested in something else right now, and he lets his feet wander where his mind wouldn’t ever dare to go.
His footsteps are quiet when he enters his parents’ room. There’s little more here than a bed clothed only in sheets and a few tattered pictures on the wall. On the dresser, his father’s Bible is left open. Mark doesn’t bother checking the page.
“Mark!” Donghyuck calls, and Mark hurries to his room to see what’s wrong. Donghyuck looks back at Mark in the doorway and smiles. “There you are.”
“You gonna go through all my embarrassing stuff?”
“Maybe next time. I’ll spare you for now.” He beckons Mark to the center of the room, and Mark doesn’t even look at his old belongings. Instead, his eyes are trained on Donghyuck, his eyes, his lips, the curve of his jaw.
The light of his blinds streams in at the perfect angle, casting orange over one side of Donghyuck’s face and catching in his eye. Mark kisses him once with just enough pressure to let him know how fragile this moment is, and when he pulls away, a blush dusts over Donghyuck’s cheeks.
He hopes Donghyuck knows that this is what he’s wanted for so long but never thought he could have. He hopes Donghyuck has never felt the same.
“Turn on some music,” Donghyuck says, lips quirking as he reaches into Mark’s back pocket and pulls out his phone. “Let’s dance to something, darling.”
“You’re incredible,” Mark breathes, because as much as he hates the pet name, Donghyuck is phenomenal. The other just flashes a smile and starts to scroll through Mark’s phone.
His phone hums out the opening notes to some slow song that Mark recognizes but can’t quite place. Donghyuck drops the phone onto Mark’s old dresser and walks back to meet Mark in the center of the room, his arms looping around Mark’s neck before he starts to sway them together to the beat.
“See, isn’t this nice?” Donghyuck asks, not quite looking for an answer. He leans his head against Mark’s chest even though there isn’t much of a height difference for him to use, fitting his head in the junction where Mark’s shoulder meets his chest.
“It’s nice,” Mark affirms, letting his arms wrap around the boy pressing into him. One of his hands cradles Donghyuck’s head. “I love it.”
“I love…” Donghyuck trails off. “Yeah, I love it, too.”
It doesn’t need to be said for Mark to know. And that’s perfectly fine by him.
This song is impossibly long, and Mark comments on it, which is a big mistake on his part, judging by the way Donghyuck laughs into his neck.
“Maybe you just have an impossibly short attention span,” Donghyuck says, and Mark nudges his ankle just hard enough to make it hurt. Donghyuck squawks his disapproval. “You’re hurting an injured man!”
“I’m poking fun at my boyfriend.”
And Donghyuck seems to melt in his arms, pliant against him. “I like it when you call me that.”
“I call you that too much for you to react like that every time.”
Donghyuck hums. “It’s nice.”
“You’re my boyfriend, Hyuckie. We’re dating.”
Donghyuck pulls back in time with the music to look up at Mark, and he decides that nothing will ever be more important than this, than him, nothing more beautiful, more valuable. He doesn’t have to say it out loud, but Mark knows what he’s thinking, so he leans forward and captures him in a kiss that’s timed enough for him to move away, just in case.
He doesn’t. He burns kisses into Mark’s mouth at first, then trails out from the corner of his mouth and over to his earlobe, feather light in touch.
Donghyuck pulls back. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Thank you,” Mark says, kissing him once, twice, thrice, hoping he derives the meaning from it. “For everything.”
This is them: lazy kisses, slow dances at sunset, spontaneous trips and never-ending banter. And he loves it, every bit of it. He loves this, loves them, loves Donghyuck.
Mark smiles. Kisses Donghyuck one more time before he pulls back. “Let’s go,” he says. “They’re probably starting to wonder when we’ll be back.” And when Donghyuck smiles at him and takes his hand, Mark feels something bloom inside him, something warm and safe and something that he never wants to let go.
Mark Lee first knows love when he’s nineteen, and he knows then and there it’s the most addicting thing he’ll ever feel.