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Jackson is thirteen when it happens for the first time. Pain shoots across his back, sudden and unforgiving, and he almost drowns at the pool he’s visiting with friends. The lifeguard drags him out with a glare until Jackson doesn’t stop writhing when he’s on dry land and the man spots the red marks blooming and fading across Jackson’s back.
It’s not the first time he feels his soulmate’s pain, but the intensity scares him.
After that, it happens more often. Sudden blows to his head or chest, two broken ribs on one memorable occasion of his own birthday, painful slashes across the back Jackson eventually figures are belt-slashes, and numerous little cuts and hits that get worse and more as the years pass.
Jackson’s soulmate is being abused, and he can’t stop it.
There’s only one time when Jackson adds to the pain. One late Wednesday evening when Jackson is fifteen and slumbering in bed he awakes to something snapping in his leg, then in his arm. He muffles his screams in his pillow and gags when his head spins in a sickening echo of whatever his soulmate was just hit with. The pain builds, punches sinking into his gut before leaving a nauseating ghost and it all adds up to too much. Too much to stay sane. Too much to stay living.
Without thinking, Jackson staggers out of bed and downstairs, swallowing his cries of pain like he’s learned to do over the years so as not to scare his parents or friends. When he reaches the kitchen, he hits the lights, squinting into the brightness and yanking the sharpest knife he can find out of the drawer. There’s no way of knowing who his soulmate is, no way of communication beyond the pain they share.
Jackson puts the knife to his arm and carves out words with shaking hands, muffling his screams into his knees. His parents end up sending him to a psychologist when they find him unconscious on the kitchen floor, arm bloodied and spelling ‘I’m here’.
Jackson is staring, possibly glaring, at his lunch. He hardly reacts when Mark scoots in next to him until his friend bumps his shoulder.
“What are you thinking so hard about?”
Jackson pushes his lunch away and turns to Mark, face utterly serious. “My soulmate’s still not feeling well.”
“Oh god,” Mark groans around his next mouthful, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been moping about them for four days. I thought they were feeling better yesterday?”
“Well, yeah,” Jackson agrees a little uncertain. “But today it’s just,” he rubs his left arm unconsciously. “They feel off, like they’re sick or something. I don’t know.”
Mark stares at him. “Maybe your soulmate link is busted,” he smirks.
“I honestly don’t know why I keep you around,” Jackson grouches without heat. He steals some of Mark’s fries, quite possibly the only thing he trusts the cafeteria to not fuck up. Mark lets him.
“Seriously Gaga,” his friend says softly, “you’ve been focusing on details for weeks. People have off days, people have sucky days. I think your soulmate should be allowed to have them too without you worrying yourself into a grave over it.” Mark squeezes Jackson’s neck with a crooked smile and Jackson almost hates how he’s right.
“I guess,” he agrees with a sigh. “I just worry, you know.”
Mark’s smile goes soft. “I know.” He taps Jackson’s arm where his sleeve hides thin, white lines spelling out ‘I’m here’. “I’m sure they know it too.” He then pushes his lunch closer to Jackson, giving him unrestricted access to his fries. Jackson grins at him.
(When Jackson finds his soulmate, when he saves them, he hopes Mark will be there too. Because Mark is the best friend Jackson has ever had, probably will ever have, and his soulmate deserves someone like that in their lives.)
Two days later, Jackson comes to school with the proverbial thundercloud hanging above his head. He woke up after midnight with his back awash with flames. It’s been months since his soulmate has been this badly hurt, and Jackson is pissed. He’s always upset when they get hurt, when all he can do is be a spectator and feel, and the anger is never far behind. Anger at whoever is hurting them. Anger at himself for being helpless and useless.
Mark wisely leaves him alone for most of the day, only giving him silent shoulder-squeezes to let Jackson know he’s there. Even during chemistry, their last class of the day and something Jackson can struggle with, he simply can’t muster up the focus to listen. His back burns uncomfortably, but he knows it’s nothing but an echo. The real wounds must be ten times worse, must hurt ten times worse, which makes Jackson nothing but angrier. Why does his soulmate have to hurt? Who is hurting them?
Where are you?!
The sharp anger turns to guilt when Mark slips him three pages of notes at the end of class with a small smile. “You need them more than I do.”
His friend has bags under his eyes and has worried his bottom lip to the point of bleeding. Jackson runs a hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry,” he says in a small voice. “They’re hurting and I don’t know how to help.” He’s staring at his hands and notices the tremors that haven’t stopped since this morning. Afraid someone might overhear he drops his voice even more, never having trusted anyone with these secrets besides his parents. Except for Mark.
“It happened again,” he whispers, “last night. I think the bastard used a belt on them.” He swallows his anger. “They’re in so much pain, Mark.” Jackson knows he’s close to crying in frustration and does his hardest to blink the tears away, Mark’s expression of painful sympathy blurring as he does.
“It’s getting bad again, I think,” he confesses. “I don’t know what to do, because there’s nothing I can do, but what if last year happens again?”
Jackson hadn’t known Mark yet last year, them only having met this schoolyear because of Mark being held back. (Which Jackson still can’t understand because his friend is a genius, though Mark insists that’s only because he’s doing the year a second time. Jackson doesn’t believe him much.)
Mark bites his lip, brows furrowing. “You mean when you thought they were dying?”
Jackson nods, fear badump-ing in his chest.
“That’s bad,” Mark mumbles mostly to himself, eyes narrowed at the desk. Then he looks up and puts a hesitant hand on Jackson’s shaking ones, squeezing softly. “Tell me about it.” He says with utter conviction and Jackson frowns in confusion.
“Tell you what?”
“When it gets bad,” Mark says, “or even just anything. Tell me, and we’ll figure something out. Okay?” His eyes are big and trusting, the bags under them suddenly Jackson’s fault because all he ever does is worry his friend about his soulmate.
“Thank you,” he croaks, throat tight.
Mark smiles. “It’s fine. You’re my fr-”
“No, it’s not.” Jackson cuts him off with wet eyes. He grabs a tighter hold of Mark’s hand and gives the other a wobbly smile. “I’m fucking blessed to have a friend like you, but it’s terrible all the same.”
Mark’s smile falls, face uncertain. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Jackson rushes, because Mark’s painful expression is hardly what he wanted. “You always help me, even with pain that isn’t one hundred percent mine.” He smiles painfully at Mark’s confused face. “I feel bad because I have you, and that makes me worry if they have anyone.”
Mark’s expression goes painful for less than a second, then he snatches his hands out from Jackson’s grip and smooshes Jackson’s cheeks together with a high-pitched giggle. “They have you, right?”
With a muffled, affronted yell, Jackson swats Mark’s hands away, smile watery but present. “You know what I mean!”
“’Course I do,” Mark winks. Then he suddenly has both of their stuff in his arms and is sprinting out the classroom door, forcing Jackson to follow him in a mad dash all the way to the lockers. For the first time that day, Jackson forgets about the burning echo on his back as he chases Mark’s laughter throughout the school.
Two months later, summer truly hits. Jackson’s feeling even better because his soulmate, after that last painful night, hasn’t been in too much discomfort. It’s possibly sad to see the occasional punch to the shoulder or stomach as ‘good’, but anything that doesn’t bring that searing pain to Jackson’s mind is a win in his book. His soulmate deserves to enjoy the summer as much as everyone.
Or, as much as everyone, minus Mark.
There are a total of five trees on the school’s front square, a small patch of grass all the nature that sustains them. Miraculously, Mark has managed to procure a spot underneath one of them and Jackson drops down next to him, shooting his moody friend a wide smile.
“Perfect day, isn’t it!” he says with a wink. Mark glares at him.
“It’s the devil’s weather, now move.” Mark half-heartedly nudges him then whines when Jackson stays put. “It’s too hot for you to be all over my side, I’m melting!”
Jackson sniggers, scooching to the side and giving his friend a break. “I cannot believe you’re still wearing sleeves, Mark. No wonder you’re hot.”
“I have skinny arms,” Mark grouches. “Short sleeves look horrible on me.”
“What!” Jackson laughs, turning to stare incredulously at his slouching friend. “That’s both untrue and a horrible reason to not wear a t-shirt.”
“We can’t all be a hulk like you.”
“I’m not a hulk,” Jackson counters, “and you’d hardly look bad in a t-shirt, skinny arms or no.”
Mark glares balefully. “So you admit they’re skinny.”
“Oh man,” Jackson giggles and leans back against the tree. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you.”
A gust of wind ruffles Jackson’s hair just so, the rustle of leaves above them loud in the next silence. Sudden laughter catches Jackson’s attention across the square, then Mark sighs next to him, one hand coming up to lazily fan himself.
“Why?”
“Huh?” Jackson blinks back, momentarily distracted. “Why what?”
Mark rolls his head against the tree to stare at Jackson, smile playing on his lips. “Why can’t you believe you’re having this conversation with me?”
Because you’re an idiot, Jackson thinks, but that’s not right. Thoughts flit too fast to catch, and Jackson flounders for a moment before he latches on to something random.
“Because you look good,” he says, hoping the heat will hide his sudden blush. He’s unsure why saying that to Mark makes him nervous, but his friend’s smile warms him in ways the sun never can.
“Really?” Mark squeaks, grin on full display. “You don’t think I’m too skinny?”
“You could use an extra meal or two,” Jackson says truthfully, then he frowns and sits up straighter. “Why? Did someone say that to you?”
Mark giggles, expression content, as he closes the distance between them despite his earlier complaints. “No one important,” he promises, dropping his head on Jackson’s shoulder with a sigh. The action throws Jackson enough he can’t think of an appropriate response, and eventually settles for leaning his head on Mark’s. His hair is soft and tickles Jackson’s ear.
“Good,” he says. “Does that mean you’ll wear a t-shirt tomorrow?”
Mark laughs softly, the sound humming in Jackson’s head and jostling him with their proximity. Heat from the not-sun pools in Jackson’s chest.
“We’ll see,” Mark hums. “We’ll have to see.”
(And they do see, one week later. Jackson makes it a point to tell Mark he is not skinny, but lean. Which is a world of difference. The older laughs at that, ducking his head and bumping Jackson’s shoulder. For a moment, Jackson thinks Mark might be blushing.)
Summer vacation starts in the middle of July. It’s another blistering day, and Jackson runs to the big double gate at the front, waiting with an anxious smile as Mark catches up. Then, when he finds a lull in the students passing, he proceeds to flip passed the school gate, ending with a flourish and a proudly yelled ‘vacation!’
Everyone gives him strange looks, and some laugh, but Jackson only cares about Mark doubling over, laughter spilling out as easy as breathing. It had been the whole point, the only reason why Jackson acted over the top. He’s found that Mark laughs at that, and that Mark should laugh more. Something about the sound makes Jackson feel like he can fly, like he can do anything. It’s become his favorite sound in the world and Jackson goofs around nearly every day simply to hear it.
Mark walks up to him, a few last chuckles coming out. “Be careful! You fall here, you break something.” The twinkle in his eyes betrays him, and Jackson pumps a triumphant fist in the air.
“Never!” He shouts, and Mark’s laughing all over again. It makes Jackson feel invincible to be the one to bring out this side of his friend.
Mark has a summer job (“I’m saving for later”) and Jackson’s parents surprise him with a three-week trip to Europe. While Jackson is ecstatic, it hurts a little that he won’t be able to spend the summer with Mark as he’d previously thought. But his friend doesn’t seem at all bothered, promising to text every day and telling Jackson to have adventures for the both of them.
“Besides,” Mark says, “your soulmate’s been good these past months, right? I bet they’d want you to have a good time too.”
And Jackson can’t argue with that logic, because thinking about all three of them (Mark, his soulmate and Jackson) having a good summer, is the best gift in the world.
The last year of high school is hectic. Jackson can enjoy his status as ‘the oldest’ (not quite, but sort of) for about two weeks before their teachers start throwing aptitude tests, college applications and career choices at their heads. It’s dizzying to say the least, which is how Jackson finds himself face down on his bed, groaning into his pillow, about a month before the Christmas break.
“I take it back,” he whines into his covers. “I don’t want to be an adult, I’ll stay a kid, thank you. All this responsibility is maddening.”
Mark swings in Jackson’s desk chair, poking at random papers on his friend’s desk, and makes a non-committal noise. He’d come home with Jackson to ‘help’, but so far has only laughed at Jackson’s complaints and sat there with a shit-eating grin. As great as it is to see Mark in a good mood, Jackson had been hoping for a bit more sympathy. He glares at his friend.
“I thought you’d help me,” he mumbles petulantly. His limbs are heavy as he drags himself up to sit cross-legged on his bed, pouting at Mark. Pulling out his best puppy-dog eyes he bounces in place on the bed and whines. “Ma-hark, you need to help me.”
Mark burst out in giggles, leaning back in Jackson’s chair and holding his stomach. “My god, stop doing that.”
Jackson keeps a straight face and pouts harder, adding in a kiddy voice. “Pwease?”
Mark throws a random paper-back book at him. It barely hurts and Jackson is much too fascinated by Mark’s wide laugh to care. Therefore, he comically clutches his chest in dramatic agony seconds too late and groans. “Betrayed!” He falls back on his bed. “My best friend, my confidant. I have been betrayed.”
The wheels of his desk chair squeak over the floor and Mark’s giggles come closer, then a foot nudges his thigh.
“Get up, you baby.” Mark says, fond. “We need to hand these forms in next week or I’m pretty sure miss Jung will murder us and hide the bodies.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Jackson sighs at the ceiling, blowing at a stubborn tuft of hair tickling his forehead. “Death would be much easier to deal with than all this paperwork.”
The bed dips, and before Jackson can move, Mark’s face is hanging above him, one eyebrow up. The older is basically straddling him, his hands resting on either side of his head. With a smile, he flicks the offending lock of hair from Jackson’s face and taps him on the nose. “Are we going to start acting like a seventeen-year-old any time soon?” He inquires with a grin.
For a moment Jackson can’t answer, heat pooling in his cheeks as Mark’s touch lingers on his skin. Their position becomes something decidedly not friend-and-friend, and Jackson tries to play off the butterflies in his stomach with a laugh. He’s nervous.
“I thought I was already doing that?”
Mark tuts. “Barely.”
Jackson drags in a breath when Mark shifts, the other truly sitting on Jackson’s lap, and suddenly Jackson realizes he doesn’t want Mark to move away. Without thinking, he brings up his hand and grabs Mark’s waist, holding his friend in place. Mark freezes at the contact, a questioning smile shot at Jackson. “Gaga?”
But Jackson doesn’t know what he’s doing either. All he knows is that Mark feels right. That having the other this close should be awkward and weird, but it isn’t. In fact, as Jackson brings up his other hand and hooks it around Mark’s neck, he wants Mark to be closer. His hand is pulling Mark down without conscious thought, and the smile slips from Mark’s face to leave a vulnerable fear in its place. The older’s hands slam into Jackson’s chest, causing his breath to leave in a rush, and Mark yells at him.
“Stop!”
Jackson does. He snaps his hands away from Mark, and the next second his friend is gone. Fear and guilt descend on Jackson like a thick blanket, clogging his throat.
“I’m sorry!” He rushes, pushing himself up and standing to see Mark on the other side of the room grabbing his stuff.
“It’s fine,” Mark croaks, face still wrong. “It was just a joke, right?”
Not to Jackson, but he finds himself nodding anyway, Mark’s face still too scared.
“I’m really sorry,” he adds, and Mark gives him a tiny smile.
“It’s okay,” he promises. Jackson knows Mark is faking his smile. A packet of paper is dropped on Jackson’s desk from Mark’s bag.
“I mostly filled these in for you. It’s all the options they gave, so just pick the ones you want and finish them.” The next smile is hinting on sincere. “Don’t forget to bring them next Monday.”
Before Jackson can fully comprehend that Mark just did twice the work (possibly four times) for him, the other is already opening the door to his room. “See you Monday?” He sounds uncertain, like something just broke and he’s not sure he can ask for Jackson’s company.
Which is preposterous, because if anything just went wrong than that’s wholly on Jackson, and Mark needn’t ever apologize for anything like that. (Jackson doesn’t now where the insane protectiveness comes from, but it nestles into his chest, wrapped around Mark’s name, as if it was always meant to be there.)
“Sure,” he stutters one second out of sync, head bobbing. “Thank you, I-”
“Your welcome,” Mark smiles, then waves. “Bye.”
Jackson finds himself waving at an empty doorway, Mark’s footsteps padding down the stairs and eventually the front door closes. With disbelief dogging his limbs, Jackson sinks back down on his bed, eyes straying to the stack of papers on his desk.
What the hell did he just do?
(Because Mark has a soulmate and Jackson has a soulmate and Jackson knows Mark loves his soulmate, knows from the soft voice and fond look the other has when speaking of them. Jackson also knows that he loves his soulmate, that he wants to save them and hold them and make sure no one ever hurts them again. But somehow, somewhere, Jackson thinks he may have started to love Mark too.)
Christmas comes and goes. Only this year Jackson’s distracted by both applications and feelings. He still loves the holiday, still sings songs and hugs his parents when they give him that CD he’s been dying to get. (He feels a little guilty because it’s a CD he’s been dying to get for Mark, but his parents assure him it’s simply very sweet of him. His father always calls Mark respectful and his mother calls him kind, which are honestly the highest forms of praise they have ever given any of Jackson’s friends.)
Mark is away for most of the break, visiting family, and Jackson drags his friend back to his house the first Monday after. The unease from the last visit lingers when they get to Jackson’s room, Mark shuffling in place before dropping onto the desk chair and shooting Jackson a look.
“So, what’s the rush?”
Eager to get back on sure footing, Jackson plucks the neatly re-packaged CD from his nightstand and presents it with a flourish. “Happy belated Christmas!”
Mark blinks, cheeks coloring. “You got me a gift?”
“Yes!” Jackson bites his cheek in anticipation and drops the gift in Mark’s slack lap, stepping back to sit cross-legged on his bed. “Open it,” he presses, hands wringing.
“But I didn’t get you anything,” Mark says with wide eyes and Jackson sighs.
“Not important,” he flaps a hand. “I didn’t want to get anything, I just wanted to give something. Now, open it.” He’s almost bouncing in anticipation as Mark carefully tears the wrapping paper away. Mark’s expression goes shocked in a heartbeat and Jackson mentally pats himself on the back for a job well done.
“This is a limited-edition,” Mark breathes, eyes flying to Jackson. “How did you even find this?”
Jackson preens, then laughs bashfully. “Actually, my parents did most of the ‘finding’. But they wanted to!” He rushes when Mark’s expression becomes guilty. Jackson scoots forward and adds warmly. “I told them it was for you and they practically fell over themselves in helping me. They adore you, Mark.”
His friend looks an adorable mix of embarrassed and shocked, and Jackson sniggers. “You do realize you’re like every parents’ dream-child, right?” He quirks an eyebrow. “My father literally called you ‘the perfect son’ some time back.”
The expected smile doesn’t come, and Jackson feels cold when Mark’s face goes strained. His eyes fall back to the CD and he smiles. It’s fake. (Jackson is getting better and better at spotting those. It’s a little alarming how often Mark uses them.)
“You really shouldn’t’ve,” he says. “I feel bad not getting you anything.”
Jackson takes the topic change with only a second of hesitation. He grins. “You already gave me a gift, remember?”
Mark’s confusion shows that, no, he does not.
“The forms and applications that were due before December!” Jackson laughs. “I’d still be writing now if you hadn’t saved me.”
Mark smiles at that. It’s real and it’s gorgeous and Jackson thanks the heavens he was able to bring it back.
“It helped?”
“’Helped’?!” Jackson gapes at his friend. “You literally saved my life! One small CD doesn’t even compare!”
Mark shrugs, a soft smile on his face as he puts the CD carefully into his backpack. “I don’t know about that.”
With a huff, Jackson leans his elbows on his knees and drops his head in his hands. “You really have a habit of selling yourself short, you know.” He lightly admonishes.
“I’m hardly worth this much fanfare, Gaga,” Mark says casually with a roll of his eyes. It does something sharp and icy to Jackson’s insides, especially because it sounds too normal for it to be banter. He blinks and raises his head, suddenly cold.
“Do you actually believe that?”
Mark’s eyes fly to his and he looks caught. The fake smile makes a re-appearance and Mark giggles. “Just kidding.”
Only Jackson knows that he’s not. He straightens more, unwilling to drop the subject a second time in the same amount of minutes. A full-blown frown takes over as he stares at Mark.
“Why do you do that?” He points at Mark’s frozen smile. His fake smile. “Why do you pretend? Why do you do it around me?”
Because that probably hurts the most. Jackson shares everything with Mark, trusts Mark with his soulmate, and the older keeps hiding parts of himself. It’s rude to pry, Jackson knows, but there’s something about Mark’s evasiveness of this subject that makes Jackson want to discuss it more.
“I’m not pretending,” Mark lies. His face is neutral but there’s a nervous tremor in his fingers.
“Yes,” Jackson sighs, “you are. I didn’t see it at first, I’ll give you that, but you do it a lot.”
It hurts.
Mark’s face goes unexpectedly hard. “You saying I’m a liar?”
“No, I’m worried,” Jackson stresses as calmly as he can. It turns Mark’s anger into guilt.
“I’m worried about this thing you do where you make yourself less than what you are.” Jackson captures Mark’s eyes and wills him to understand. “You’ve been there for me since the day we met. You help me with notes and school and my soulmate- with everything, Mark. But this goes both ways.” He gestures between them, plowing on despite Mark’s darkening expression. “I’m your friend, and I want to help you too. And maybe you don’t feel like you can ask me for help because I keep dumping my shit on you-” Damn, he does do that a lot. He grimaces. “Crap, I’m sorry, Mark. I never meant to make you feel like that. I want you to ask me for help, I want to help you.”
Mark stands up with halting movements, hand gripping his bag in a white-knuckled grip and expression still dark. “Drop it, Jackson.”
“No!” He shoots up too, hand out with half a mind to make Mark stay so they can talk this out. “This is important, Mark. If you don’t even feel like you can talk to me-”
“You’re the only person I talk to!” Mark shouts. His eyes narrow. “In case you haven’t noticed, you are the only person I ever talk to!” He immediately bites his lip.
Jackson stands frozen, then stutters out. “But-but in other classes. I mean, you have AP-Math and AP-physics and-” He peters of when Mark’s face goes guilty, lip being worried to the point of going white.
“You only talk to me,” Jackson repeats hoarsely. It sinks into his stomach with a sickening stomp. He thinks of Jinyoung and Jaebeom in math, of Youngjae and Daehyun who hang out with him in breaks when Mark has AP-courses that run longer. There’s also Namjoon and Jooheon who he used to share classes with and now just sees in the breaks or has chats with on his phone. Jackson sees his whole network spread out in front of him, then spots Mark off to the side; a single, warm light with nothing surrounding him.
“Why,” he whispers. “Don’t you like our classmates?”
The other looks up hopeful, and for some reason Jackson knows his next words are going to be a lie.
“It’s just, because I got held behind,” Mark starts nervously.
“Bullshit.”
Mark narrows his eyes at him. “If you’re not even going to let me talk-”
“Because you’re lying!” Jackson yells, pleadingly. “You keep lying to me, Mark. And don’t ask me how I know, I just know!”
“Because no one likes me!” Mark screams, sudden tears in his eyes. He slams his backpack down on the floor, then pushes into Jackson’s space. “Because I’m quiet and weird and don’t have any fancy clothes or any sense of social interaction. Because I’m too smart to be average but too dumb to be AP! Because I’m me!” he ends with a voice near breaking, tears now on his cheeks. “Because the world can’t be bothered and I stopped trying a long time ago!”
He's panting and falls a step back, hand quickly wiping the tears off his face. Jackson doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to fix his friend and feels the familiar helplessness rising.
“You’re wrong,” he eventually croaks, his own throat clogging up in the face of Mark’s sadness. “You’re so, epically wrong.”
Mark shakes his head with a wry smile. “I’m not.”
“I like you,” Jackson stresses. “You’re my friend-”
Mark looks him dead in the eye. “Because you’re either too blind or too kind to figure out what the rest of the world already has, so let me help you along.” he snatches his backpack up and plucks the CD out, new tears on his face. With a snarl he flicks it at Jackson who catches it purely out of reflex. Something breaks when Mark says his next words.
“I’m not worth it.”
Jackson falters, holding the CD with shaking hands because Mark believes his own words completely.
“No,” he breathes brokenly, stepping in front of Mark to keep him from leaving and hating how the other flinches away from him. “Mark, please, you can’t believe that.”
Not when Mark is literally the best person Jackson has ever met. Not when it’s his new goal in life to see Mark’s smile every day. Not when Jackson already has a soulmate whom he knows is hurting every day with Jackson being nothing but a helpless spectator. It can’t be Mark too. Jackson can’t watch Mark do this, too.
“My friends would love you,” he struggles for words, for any kind of salve to erase the pain streaking across Mark’s face or the hunching of his shoulders. “I’ll introduce you and you’ll see, okay. Please, let me help.” He’s desperate and has no idea what he’s saying, but Mark’s ‘I’m not worth it’ guts him until he’s small and useless. He breathes to keep from sobbing. “Let me help, Mark.”
But Mark is already shaking his head. “Just drop it.” He repeats with a wrecked voice.
“I can’t!” Jackson’s anxiety bursts out of him and he flings his arms out, eyes wet and throat sandpaper. “I can’t just stand here and be useless all the time, I have to help someone!”
Mark stares incredulously, mind always so much faster than he gives himself credit for as he just gets it. “Your soulmate?” he whispers. “This is about your soulmate!”
The anger is expected, but Jackson reels as Mark’s expression morphs into a sneer and he screams. “Fuck your fucking soulmate!” Mark takes a step closer and balls Jackson’s sweater in his fist, eyes turned to furious slits. “I hope you never meet them,” he hisses. “I hope you never, ever find the bastard who’s done nothing but hurt you for years!”
Ice pumps through Jackson’s veins, his face frozen as anger rears its ugly head at those words. “You don’t mean that,” he trembles with disbelief, “you’re just angry.”
Mark shoves him, hard. It causes Jackson to stumble into his bed and his butt drops onto the mattress. The CD clatters forgotten to the ground. Jackson’s looking at Mark with something akin to horror brewing in his ribs.
“I mean every word,” Mark spits. “They’re a piece of shit for making you go through all of this, for not even trying to fix things and protecting you. Their pain is ruining your life!” His voice breaks and he lets out a desperate laugh, pointing a trembling hand at Jackson’s left arm. “For god’s sake, Jackson, you carved words into your arm to try and help them. Why the fuck can’t they get their shit together!”
It all explodes out of Mark and Jackson sits icily still, never even realizing how deep this all went for the other. They’ve abandoned their original topic, but Jackson’s need to protect his soulmate keeps him from reminding Mark of this, keeps him from reminding himself that Mark is probably (hopefully) just lashing out because Jackson poked at a sore spot.
But for the first time, Jackson is angry at Mark. He’s angry at the accusations and the sneer and the blatant disregard of the fact that Jackson’s soulmate was blind-sided with this shit when they were thirteen.
“It’s not their fault,” he replies coldly, staring at Mark as if he’s seeing him for the first time and can’t quite believe how he missed all these ugly curves. “It was never their fault, and you’re an ass for even suggesting it.”
Mark smiles sardonically. “You’re seriously going to sit there and defend them?”
No. He’s not. Jackson shoots up, taking one big step to trap Mark between him and the desk. He ignores Mark’s flinch, ignores the suddenly wide eyes and the gasp as he grabs Mark’s sweater in a move much like the other just used on him.
“I’m going to tell you to shut up,” he grinds out, “and I’m going to tell you to leave, until you can get your fucking shit together. You’re my friend, and I don’t want to hurt you. But if you ever talk about my soulmate like that again, you really will be alone.”
Mark’s trembling under his grip, eyes wide and wet and Jackson sort of hates how he’s the cause of that, but Mark’s words were cruel and utterly uncalled for. He just wants the other to admit that and apologize, to move passed whatever this is, so they can figure out the real issue Mark is hiding behind all this soulmate business. It seems Jackson is the only one who wants that.
“Maybe I want to be alone,” Mark grinds out, eyes glaring at Jackson and breath hot on his chin. They’re close enough Jackson can spot the flecks in Mark’s eyes. “Your soulmate’s a piece of shit, and I’m never taking that back.”
For a moment Jackson thinks he might punch him, his hands shake with how hard he’s holding back, then he pushes Mark, making the other stumble and catch himself on the desk chair. Jackson takes two large strides back, raking a hand through his hair.
“Leave,” he spits in a shaking voice. “Get out.”
Mark doesn’t need to be told again. Within seconds the door downstairs slams shut, leaving a devastating silence hanging in Jackson’s room. He’s sobbing by then, breaths large and heaving as he screams nothing into the empty air. He skips dinner, telling his parents he’s not feeling well and basically locking himself up in his room with Mark’s broken confession and spiteful words on repeat in his head. It’s hollow and cold and Jackson can’t make up his mind whether he’s worried or angry.
Later that night, his soulmate is beaten so bad a rib gives on their upper right back, and Jackson cries himself to sleep.
The next day, Mark isn’t in school. The teachers mark him down sick and Jackson grows bitter. He cannot believe Mark would be this petty and childish. Jinyoung tries to remind him the other might actually be sick, but Jackson laughs at him. Spitefully.
“He’s a coward,” he says stone-faced in the break, fooling himself into thinking the sadness attacking his throat is anger. Jinyoung gives him a look.
“I don’t think you mean that,” he says carefully. “And I’m pretty sure you know that too.”
Jackson sneers at him and walks away, leaves his friends shaking their heads at his tense shoulders. Normally, he would never snap at them like this, but normally he’d have Mark to talk to. He’s angry because his friend said horrible things and now left him all alone to deal with his soulmate’s pain.
To escape judgmental stares, Jackson runs off into an empty hallway, making his way to biology ten minutes early. “Screw him,” he mutters, swiping the tears angrily off his face. “If he wants to be alone so bad, fine.”
Because he dealt with his soulmate long before Mark showed up, meaning he can do it all by himself just fine. It’s fine. Jackson’s fine.
(Except that you never know what you have until you lose it, and Jackson just lost something too big and too close and too raw to put into words.)
Wednesday is more of the same, and this time Jackson doesn’t even look for his friends in the break. He sneaks off into the hallway and eats his lunch all alone, feverishly denying to the Jinyoung in his head that he looks like the definition of a moping teen.
(He does.)
By Thursday, Jackson’s had it with the entire week. He came close to begging his parents for a sick day, but eventually decided to suck it up. If his soulmate can tackle life while feeling the pain Jackson catches mere echoes of, then he can handle two more days of school.
Or maybe not, Jackson reiterates when he walks into his first class of the day (music) and catches Mark sitting at the back. The other has his head down, hood up. His book is open in front of him and Jackson hates how he sags in relief at seeing Mark is back.
Then he’s pissed again.
Considering Mark had no trouble ignoring Jackson for two days, going so far as to skip school because they had an argument, Jackson plunks down next to Jaebeom on the second row.
Jaebeom raises an eyebrow. “Hello Jackson.” He says it like a question and Jackson bristles, heatedly unpacking his stuff.
“Jinyoung can find some other place to sit. Hell, he can sit next to Mark for once.”
Jaebeom’s mouth forms a small ‘o’, understanding dawning on his face. Then he shrugs and turns back to his book. “Okay.”
The easy acquiesce triggers Jackson even more, and he finds himself slamming his books down unnecessarily. Jaebeom doesn’t even jump, only snorts judgmentally. Jackson is convinced he’s learned that from Jinyoung.
“Jackson?” The breath comes from behind, and his treacherous body turns towards it before he places the low voice. Mark is staring at him now, hood still up, but eyes focused on Jackson. The other is pale and looks like he’s barely been sleeping. Jackson worries before he remembers Mark did this to himself, and then hopes the other feels guilty. Just to be petty (because Mark’s been doing it for two days and Jackson feels like he needs to as well), Jackson glares at Mark’s tired expression and his grey hoodie, then turns back around and focuses all of his attention on his book. He ignores how much it hurts to do so, sternly telling himself that if Mark can do it, so can he.
(Except his heart keeps screeching, badump, badump-ing in his chest, that no, he really can’t.)
Jinyoung rolls his eyes at Jackson during the break, and Jackson once again flees into the hallways when he spots Mark dawdling uncertainly near the cafeteria’s doors. Unable to either ignore him completely or go over and talk, Jackson chooses retreat.
Maybe he really will beg for a sick day tomorrow.
By the end of the day he’s depleted, never realizing that not looking at, or talking to someone who’s right there is exhausting. This whole business of being spiteful simply because Mark did it is turning into a full-time job. It’s tiring and Jackson is done with it. When the last bell rings, he foregoes going by his locker. Mark just had a different class (AP-Math) and Jackson simply needs to avoid him now, too spent to deal with a confrontation (or ignoring a confrontation).
With heavy steps he makes his way outside, the weather pleasant and sunny for mid-January but cold enough Jackson can see his breath. He zips up his jacket and plunks his headphones on. Almost half of the school’s students are done on Thursday after the seventh hour, meaning Jackson bobs in the stream of chatting students for a while until almost everyone veers left to get their bikes, while Jackson keeps walking forward. He lives close enough it’s only a ten-minute walk. The school gates open up onto a driveway that curves onto a busy intersection just beyond. Jackson plucks his phone out of his pocket to select his playlist for today (something equally moody as his thoughts) when a voice filters in.
“Jackson, wait!”
Jackson glances over his shoulder, angry eyes finding Mark just passing the gates and following him. Determined to not do this today, he speeds up his steps until he’s running, pressing the volume button so his music is painfully loud in his ears. Mark knows where he lives, but Jackson hopes he’s faster.
He's too busy running, too busy ignoring Mark, too busy glaring at the pavement to notice where he’s going and, more importantly, that he needs to stop. The car’s desperate honking breaks through his music, Jackson freezing in order to look up and sideways, only to be face to face with the hood of a tires-squealing car.
The next thing he knows he’s flying, pain intense all over his body and he screams as something gives in his side. His left leg is on fire, the asphalt unforgiving as he lands on it hip first, then his head. He can taste blood, the street blurry until he drags in a breath that tastes of rain and blood and asphalt. His hands are skinned, knees throbbing. Faintly, he can hear his music still playing from his headphones lying in hands reach. Multiple voices yell and shout, different renditions of ‘call an ambulance’ assaulting his pounding brain.
Jackson knows he’s dying, and his first thought is an apology to his soulmate for adding to their pain.
But then, the pain recedes. With a slow breath out, it draws out of his limbs, leaving a lingering tremble. Jackson blinks at the pavement, a woman coming over to him and kneeling in front, asking if he’s okay with a worried expression.
“I’m okay,” Jackson says bewildered, moving limbs that feel like they should be shattered, breathing with a chest now sporting at least three broken ribs.
It’s not his pain.
The woman looks uncertain, and Jackson sits up. He stares at his hands and sees nothing but a few scrapes, nothing broken or bleeding beyond two skinned palms and possibly a bruise on his hip.
“I’m fine,” he reiterates, looking at the woman with wide eyes. “I just got hit by a car, how am I fine?”
Her confusion registers but she needn’t explain it, because Jackson’s own words catch up with his thoughts.
I got hit by a car
But he didn’t, because it’s not his pain. If there’s anything in this world Jackson is an expert on, it’s soulmate pain. He’s felt it enough to know how much it bites in the beginning, how real it is for the first few seconds, until it sinks into an annoying thought in the back of your mind. It becomes an echo quickly, always present but never too harsh.
Jackson’s soulmate just got hit by a car. Which is too much of a coincidence and he goes queasy. His head turns because there’s a commotion going on some five steps away, almost directly in front of the car that was surely about to hit him, and Jackson both does and doesn’t want to know why it didn’t.
“Your friend pushed you out of the way,” the woman answers his spiraling thoughts, her hand hovering near Jackson’s shoulder as if he needs to be held even when sitting down. Which is fair enough because the world does a gentle sway.
“I didn’t get hit by a car,” Jackson grates passed a suddenly parched throat. His stomach roils but he’s frozen, desperately trying to look passed the huddle of people in front of the car, yet unable to move closer to see.
Because Jackson already knows who it is. He already knows there was only one ‘friend’ close enough to push him out of the way of a speeding car, only one person who cares enough to do so.
“Mark,” he gasps near tears. A phantom pain stabs him in the chest which has nothing to do with soulmates or accidents, and then Jackson is moving too fast because he needs to see, needs to know, needs to be absolutely certain.
(Even though he already is.)
“Be careful,” the woman shouts, her hand shooting out to right Jackson when he sways on his feet. Jackson swats it away and moves closer, eyes focused on the people in front of him, on the man in a blue cardigan giving CPR to someone in a grey hoodie.
Jackson breathes but the world blurs and he goes down to his knees one step away from it all, pushes another woman to the side as he does. “Mark!” He screams at the top of his lungs, heaving in breaths while the world keeps swaying. The woman from before is back at his side, tugging him and wanting him to move away, but Jackson pushes her this time.
“Mark!” He screams again, sobs breaking through when Mark does not respond. When Mark does not move. When Mark is covered in blood, his favorite pair of ripped jeans soaked at his bottom left leg and tears now too big to be fashionable. When Mark’s face is ashen and still.
When the last thing Jackson did was ignore him.
He wants to move forward, not a single clue why or any action to help present in his head. Two strong arms stop him, wrap around his torso and yank him back when he tries to grab Mark and shake him.
“No!” He screeches, thrashing and blinking blurry eyes. “Mark,” he begs, “please, please, no!”
The arms tighten, Jackson’s hands scraping over the asphalt and leaving small trails of blood as he makes his own insignificant wounds worse. The pain is hardly there compared to the caving of his chest.
“Mark,” he sobs, hating how Mark doesn’t move beyond the man pumping his chest and breathing for him. “Please, it’s Mark.”
“I know,” the voice in his ears hums. “I know, Jackson. The ambulance is coming.” Except the other doesn’t know and Jackson gets mad even though it takes too long to realize it’s Jaebeom holding him back and making sure the man in the blue cardigan can continue saving Mark’s life without Jackson fucking it all up.
Because Jackson fucked it all up.
“It’s Mark,” Jackson keeps whispering. He trembles and strains but no longer fights. “Mark-” his voice breaks, eyes seeing nothing but Mark’s bloodied face and his bloodied hair and his broken body.
Because all this time, for all these years, it’s always been Mark. Mark was being hurt and hit while Jackson worried in the comfort of his own bed. Mark was being abused and thrown around while Jackson grew up with loving parents and a school full of friends. Mark became Jackson’s friend, became a smile and a laugh that Jackson looked forward to every day while he hid the scars and tears.
For his whole life, it’s been Mark, every single day, and Jackson can’t take the pain of it all.
Can’t fight the horror of ‘your soulmate’s a piece of shit’ when Mark knew, when Jackson told Mark about the other’s injuries, about how much he wanted to meet his soulmate, about how much he already loved them, and Mark hid because ‘I’m not worth it’.
“Mark’s my soulmate,” Jackson whispers, horrified. Jaebeom holds him tighter and softly rocks him.
“It’s okay, Jackson,” he promises, “it’s going to be okay.”
No, it’s not.
Because Mark’s his soulmate, and for the first time in his life Jackson knows he should feel the echo, knows he should feel the pain, and for the first time since he was thirteen, he doesn’t.
Jackson can’t feel anything.
Jaebeom never lets go, and Jackson screams nonsense at the world for being cruel to the one person who never deserved it. His eyes lock on Mark’s face, on the white skin and the blood matting his hair and streaking down from his nose over his cheek. “Come back!” He begs with tears on his face, using Jaebeom’s arms to stay upright. “Come back, please, come back!”
(Mark’s his friend and Mark’s his soulmate and Mark’s always been so much more than Jackson deserves, because Mark listens even when he’s dying. The pain returns full force after the second shock to Mark’s heart and Jackson sags in Jaebeom’s arms, crying relentlessly into his friend’s shoulder. They load Mark into the ambulance but refuse to let Jackson come considering he’s a minor. He calls his parents. Jaebeom does the talking.
Thirty minutes later Jackson’s sitting in the hospital waiting room with freshly washed and bandaged hands. His parents are on either side of him. They rush a tall man with wide shoulders and a brown belt when the police introduce him as Mark’s father.
They thank him and apologize and shower him with sympathy. The man gobbles it up.
Jackson runs before the man can turn to him. He throws up in a toilet stall, then locks himself inside. He cries again. He knows who that man is, what he’s done to Mark, what the belt means, and his parents thanked him.
It’s not his secret to tell the world and Jackson can’t save his soulmate.
Jackson almost killed his soulmate.)
“Hey,” Jinyoung drops himself next to Jackson on the wide stairs in the hall, break half-way over and laughter and talking all around. Jaebeom follows quietly and sits next to Jinyoung. They both carry a worried expression.
Jackson hunches further into himself, leaning into the wall on his right.
Jinyoung sighs. “Are you seriously not talking?”
Jackson shrugs, staring at the ground. The only thing he wants to say isn’t his story to tell, the only thing worth talking about isn’t his period. He plucks at a thread on his sweater. When there’s nothing to talk about, he might as well not talk at all.
“Jackson,” Jaebeom says gently. “Mark woke up four days ago. Whatever fight you two had, I’m sure he wants to see you.”
This time Jackson flat out ignores them. He knows Mark’s awake, can feel the echo of pain sometimes when the pain medication starts to wear off.
“So what, that’s it?” Jinyoung says incredulously. “You find out he’s your soulmate and you run? I thought you liked Mark?”
He does.
“He saved your life,” Jinyoung states as if it needs repeating, as if Jackson doesn’t wake up every night because Mark keeps dying in his nightmares. “Are you really not even going to visit him? Say ‘thank you’?”
Jackson’s parents have been saying the same thing. They scolded him for running from Mark’s father, but then Jackson stopped talking. Because everything he can’t say is all he wants to talk about. Because Jackson talked for a year-and-a-half while Mark was in pain and nothing ever got better.
“You’re an ass,” Jinyoung snaps. Jaebeom puts a hand on his friend’s arm and tries a little less harshly.
“Mark’s probably hurting too, Jackson. I think you really need to talk about this.”
Jackson shrugs because they’re right, but talking to Mark isn’t going to fix the biggest problem, isn’t going to right the wrongs that have been happening for almost five years. He grabs his backpack as he stands up and walks away, Jinyoung’s ‘you’re a coward!’ floating after him. He walks and no one follows, not even when he walks through the school gates despite still having two hours of classes.
Jackson walks until his feet hurt, until the sky begins to darken and he’s so far into the other part of town he barely recognizes the buildings. His phone guides him, tells him robotically which streets to turn down and where to cross. Jackson walks until he’s standing in front of a non-descript brown house. There’s a tiny, well-kept front yard, and Jackson trudges up the three little steps to the front door. It has a doorbell and an old-fashioned brass knocker. Jackson decides on the former and waits with his hands holding his backpack straps. A wind picks up and he shivers, having left his jacket at school.
When the door opens, Jackson has to look up. The man from the hospital blinks confusedly at him, then his face settles in a frown. The sound of the news comes from inside, the scent of pizza drifting passed.
Jackson hates the man more.
“You’re Jackson, right?” The man says in a deep voice. It’s a pleasant sound yet it makes Jackson sick. He nods shakily.
The man quirks an eyebrow, leaning casually against the door. “Should you be out this late, son? Your parents seem like they’re the types who’ll worry.”
It’s nauseating to be this close, to listen to the casual conversation and know that if Jackson had met this man one week ago, he would have never suspected a thing. He’d have cracked a joke, smiled, and then told Mark how his dad seemed like a great guy.
He blinks back tears and balls his fists at his sides, hating himself more than he ever thought possible. Then he opens his mouth and croaks out two words.
“I know.”
The man huffs, a small smile playing on his lips. “I would assume so, they’re your parents.”
“I know,” Jackson repeats, keeping unflinching eye-contact and forcing the words out with a grating voice. “What you do to Mark, what you’ve been doing, I know.”
There’s more wind and a honk in the distance. The silence stretches as the man glares at Jackson, body frozen. “I think you should go home, son.”
“Don’t,” Jackson hisses with narrowed eyes. His hands are balled so tight his arms tremble, a sickening hatred and terrifying anger throwing his system into disarray. All he can feel is the little, happy bubble of Mark in his chest and how much he wants to protect it.
Protect it from the monster right in front of him.
Jackson heaves in a breath. “Mark’s my soulmate,” he confesses, eyes drilling holes into a suddenly uneasy expression. “I know what you’ve done to him these past five years, and you’re going to stop.”
“If you think you can threa-” the man hisses, but Jackson cuts him off. Yelling with anger dancing in his lungs and fire under his skin he takes a step closer. Mark’s laughter rings in his ears and Jackson never thought he’d ever be capable of hurting someone, but he might make an exception this time.
“I am ordering you,” he screams, “to stop! One more time, one more scratch on my soulmate, and I’ll tell everyone what you are!”
The man leans close enough Jackson can feel his heat, can smell the onion on his breath as he snarls. “If you were going to tell someone, you would have. Your threats mean nothing!”
Oh, how wrong he is. Jackson manages to keep from bringing violence into this, but only barely, only because he knows Mark wouldn’t want him to.
“I’m going to tell you something you could never understand,” he whispers, glaring into the dark eyes with all the fury he can muster. “I care about Mark, more than your cold soul can comprehend, and I haven’t told anyone yet because I don’t want to blindsight him. But if you ever lay a finger on him again, I won’t care.” He continues in a low tone. “My parents know about my soulmate’s abuse and they adore Mark. Do you really think they’ll still pat you on the back once they find out you’ve been hurting him like that?” He grins brokenly. “They’ll lock you up and throw away the key and I can’t wait to see that happen.”
The man is trembling as much as Jackson. His arm twitches and Jackson leans the tiniest bit back, raising his eyebrows.
“You want to punch me? Go ahead. It’ll just prove my point.”
“You piece of shit!” He spits at Jackson, literally. The fine mist hits Jackson’s cheek and he grimaces. With a disgusted hand Jackson wipes the spit off his face, then yanks his left sweater sleeve up, revealing the thin lines carved into his skin. He regards this monster with a cool look, calmer than he’s ever been as he sees the desperation on the man’s face.
“I promised Mark I’d be there for him, before I even knew who he was. I wrote the words on my skin. So yes, I’m a kid, but I have never been afraid of pain,-” he takes a step closer and snarls, “or of you.”
The man trembles with rage but painful doubt has leaked onto his face. Jackson decides to deliver the final blow.
“If I feel so much as a twinge,” he promises with a steel voice, “my parents will be the first to know. Immediately. I care about Mark’s opinion, but I care about his health more.”
He keeps glaring, can almost see the gears working in the man’s head.
“Have I made myself clear?”
The man sneers, then throws the door in Jackson’s face. He takes it as a yes.
(His father comes to pick him up when he calls. He’s angry about Jackson skipping class, but calms down some when he realizes where Jackson went. They drive home in silence, his mother hugging him when he gets there and admonishing him while also being proud of him for finally talking to Mark’s father.
She’d been the one to hand Jackson a note with Mark’s address this morning, putting the whole plan into Jackson’s head in the first place. It may not have gone exactly the way she intended, but Jackson’s smart enough to keep that to himself.)
It takes another week for Mark to be discharged, and then another two before he can come back to school. They don’t talk for the entire month after the accident because Jackson barely says two words to anyone after seeing Mark’s father and he can’t figure out if that’ll get better or worse if he sees Mark.
He doesn’t want it to be the latter, because Mark deserves more than that.
(Mark has always deserved better and the thought terrifies Jackson to the point he feels frozen in his skin.)
Jackson’s parents worry, but he blames it on last-year stress. Jinyoung calls him a liar, as does Jaebeom, but they still help him with chemistry now that Mark isn’t there. It all passes without Jackson feeling like he’s in charge. The last time he felt alive was when he spoke to Mark’s father, when he tapped into a well so deep and furious, Jackson had scared himself.
For the three weeks Mark’s home, though, Jackson doesn’t feel a single thing. No matter how angry Mark’s father had been, he’s been heeding Jackson’s warning so far. It’s the best part of Jackson’s month, because missing Mark is a physical throb in his lungs, yet he feels lost on how to talk to the other.
Mark’s his best friend and his soulmate, and Jackson’s too scared of fucking things up even more to talk to him, of talking period. He keeps telling himself ‘later’. When Mark’s home. When he’s back to school. When he’s healed. When he’s better.
When he’s sitting in Jackson’s living room, hands wringing and tea cooling down on the coffee table.
Mark’s head snaps up when Jackson freezes in the doorway and Jackson’s mom shuffles passed, a small smile on her face.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she informs them warmly. “You two catch up.”
Then she’s gone, leaving them alone like she probably planned all along and Jackson thinks about running until Mark sinks into himself and glares at his hands. They’re plucking at his sweater sleeve, a habit Jackson picked up from him, and his crutches lean on the couch on the far side, left leg bulky under his sweats.
“I’m sorry,” he says to his cup of tea, face still sporting half-healed wounds. “Your mom said you wanted to talk. I’m guessing you don’t.”
Jackson swallows and shuffles in place. His mother had driven to Mark’s house and packed the other into the car, then plopped him on the living room couch because Jackson’s been too chicken to talk to Mark himself, and Mark is the one apologizing.
It forces words out of his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
Mark snorts, still looking at the tea. “Why are you sorry? Your mom’s just worried. I get it.” He blinks his eyes rapidly, clearing his throat. “I can’t imagine what you must have gone through, because of-” he balls his hands in his lap and Jackson stares open-mouthed at the painful anger on Mark’s face. “Because of me. I understand why your mother thinks I owe you an apology, but I also know that won’t make things right.” His voice breaks and Jackson breaks along with it when Mark squeezes his eyes shut and says breathlessly. “I’m sorry, Jackson. For everything.”
Jackson shuffles closer and opens his mouth, closes it. Words feel impossible to produce, even in the face of Mark’s fear and tears and pain that never should have been there in the first place. But Jackson’s words were meaningless in the past, feel utterly useless in the present, and he drops down on the other end of the couch with a dry swallow and tears burning his eyes.
Mark is right here, and Jackson still can’t say anything worthwhile.
Mark smiles. It’s painful and trembles as he uses his sweater sleeves to dry his face. New tears fall anyway. “Your mom said you don’t really talk,” he hiccups, then lets out a long breath. “I don’t know why, or what I did to cause that, but you have to give me a chance to fix it.” He turns to look at Jackson, eyes red and face blotchy with tears, desperation carved in the lines around his mouth. “Please, Jackson, I just want to fix some of this pain I’ve caused. I promise I’ll leave after that, you’ll never have to see me again.” His tears fall faster and he ducks to wipe them away again, shoulders shaking silently.
A waft of cookies comes from the kitchen. Jackson knows his mother will come in at some point, a smile at the ready to ask if they want a snack only to find Mark breaking down on the couch and Jackson sitting frozen like a particularly useless mute.
Because Mark blames himself for everything. Mark blames himself for the years of torture he was put through, even blames himself for being someone’s soulmate, and there aren’t any words in the world that can make that better. Jackson should know. He hasn’t ever met a problem that couldn’t be solved by talking, hasn’t ever strayed from his philosophy that communication is the key to success, until now. Until he’s sitting on a couch with arguably world’s kindest person and must watch them place blame after blame on their broken shoulders; blame they were never meant to carry.
It's too much and Jackson opens his mouth. He sits waiting silently for words to fall out and halt the tears Mark’s failing to hide, to soothe the shaking of his friend’s limbs, to chase away the ache gnawing at Jackson’s heart.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Mark’s head shoots up, fearful eyes locking onto Jackson’s as he shrinks deeper into himself. “I should’ve-”
The words fall out again, faster and with more force. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was,” Mark croaks with wet eyes, shaking his head, “I should’ve done-”
Jackson reaches forward and Mark cuts off, eyes wide as he follows Jackson’s hands reaching for his face. With the softest touch, Jackson wipes a trembling thumb under Mark’s right eye, right above an angry red line cutting across his cheek. He smiles at the most gorgeous soul he’s ever met and repeats the only words that matter.
“It was never, not ever, your fault. Do you hear me, Mark?”
Mark sits frozen as Jackson cups his cheek, eyes wide and whole body shaking when Jackson scoots closer until their thighs are touching. Jackson takes another breath, eyes focused on the wet lashes clumped together under Mark’s eyes.
“Do you hear me, Mark?” he says again. “It was never your fault.”
Mark opens his mouth, only to croak out a nonsense sound. Tears spill over from his dark eyes and he rips his face out of Jackson’s hand to hide in his own.
“I’m sorry,” he cries, shoulders rocking and body shaking, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Jackson shushes him, carefully winding his arms around the half-broken boy he can’t imagine living without. They fit together perfectly, Mark’s head landing on Jackson’s chest as he tucks the older boy against his body, leaving warm and hesitant kisses on Mark’s neck. He wants his soulmate to feel a touch that doesn’t hurt, that won’t sting or maim or make him feel anything but loved and safe.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers over and over, letting the dam break and crying silently as he rocks Mark. “It was never your fault, Markie, it was never your fault.”
(They move into a dorm together the next year as first year college students. After months of waking up to Mark’s nightmares, Jackson finally talks the other into seeking help.
A year later, Jackson is proven right when Mark gathers his courage and tells Jackson’s parents that he and Jackson are soulmates. They have to stop Jackson’s father from beating Mark’s father ‘just because’. Jackson’s mother starts sending Mark little care-packages. They insist Mark comes to their house for every holiday, and after a few months, Mark starts to relax under all the attention.
His real smile comes out more and more. Jackson’s never seen anything more gorgeous.
It’s not perfect, and the nightmares never leave completely, but it’s their life, together, and Jackson wants every single second of it.)
(So does Mark.)
Mark shoots up with a breathless yell, eyes wide open in the dark dorm and heart thundering. The grey silhouette of the window greets him at the right. He pants as the edges of his nightmare sink away, his eyes already shooting to the left to find Jackson. His soulmate shifts under the blankets, one hand coming out to softly rub Mark’s arm.
“What’s wrong?” Jackson sounds gravelly and half asleep, eyes glittering in the near darkness of their room. It settles Mark’s run-away heart somewhat and he lets out a sigh.
“Bad dream,” he confesses, his own voice just as wrecked. The younger grunts, clearly more asleep then awake, and pulls on Mark’s arm until they’re lying side by side again. With a content sigh, Jackson drapes a solid arm across Mark’s chest, pulling them close together. He presses a kiss to Mark’s cheek, then uses his shoulder as a pillow.
“Is all fine,” Jackson mumbles, eyes once again closed, “I’m here.”
Which causes Mark to sink into Jackson’s hug with gratitude, bringing the blankets back up around both of them and grabbing a reassuring hold of Jackson’s arm. He’s still staring at the ceiling, can still feel the lingering terror of his nightmare clinging to him like a bad odor, but Jackson’s a warm and solid presence next to him. Mark smiles as he twists his head so he can press a kiss onto his boyfriend’s hair and whispers. “I’m here, too.”