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Sometimes Donghyuck wakes up in the middle of the night with something shameful broiling under his skin.
Growing up, Donghyuck had always been too large for life, a soul too oversized for his little-boy-body. He talked too much, sang too loud, and moved too fast — moved too fast physically and metaphorically — to the point that he doesn’t quite recall how he managed to race to stardom. His mom says it’s because he dreamt big. Donghyuck would wink, play it cheeky.
‘Always, Eomma!’
But really, he thinks he dreamt too big. He doesn’t know where he ends and where he begins.
Nowadays, all he could dream of is standing over a stove, frying up an egg for a child he doesn’t have, while his partner — somebody familiar — comes to bid him adieu with a kiss to the cheek before leaving for work.
For that fleeting moment, it would feel like enough. Simple. Easy.
That’s before the drizzle outside would turn into a storm. Thunder would rumble, and their tiled floor would shake beneath his feet. When he’d turn to his lover, he’d be faceless. Like a mall mannequin that his mind had gone and dressed up in a suit and tie to feed his fucked up suburban fantasy. Donghyuck would stumble back and find his child is just a younger version of himself. A little Donghyuck, barely tall enough to reach the dining table, and his wide horrific eyes staring right through him.
“What did you do to me?”
And then his family’s make-believe roof flies off, the downpour doubles, and the water’s gone up to his chin, his chest feels tight, there’s water in his ears, in his eyes, down his throat and —
He wakes up in the middle of the night.
They’re sat around the table at a restaurant after their last show in Paris, all a bit tipsy with warmth pinching their ears and cheeks red. Chenle’s saying something with his eyes comically wide, the honey-lemon light casting over his smile. It must have been funny because everyone laughs. Donghyuck isn’t listening, but he laughs along anyway, bumping into Mark.
He leans into Mark’s space and angles his lips up to his ear, “What did he say?”
Mark glances at him, glowing the same warm yellow Chenle is. Maybe it’s the way the alcohol has burned the edges of his vision and made his mind smoggy, but it feels like he’s looking at Mark through a film — a fuzzy, vintage clip that fades out by the end.
“He made a joke about dressing up as our assigned animals for one of the encore stages. Said we should put Jeno in nothing but dog ears and a tail. Fuel the fans’ pet-play kink.”
Donghyuck blinks, processes, and lets out a chuckle, “Oh. Hah.”
Mark hides his amusement behind the rim of his glass, shaking his head, “It’s dumb.”
Donghyuck returns his attention to the rest of the group, watching them giggle and joke around, and decides he wants to join in on the fun, but his brain-to-mouth filter lags with the heavy buzz of soju and — “D’ya guys know Mark hyung has a lactation kink?”
The words leave his mouth in a sticky slur, striking through the noise. Everybody turns to him in slow motion, and the new-found attention simmers uncomfortably under his skin when there’s a crystal clear pause of silence. Heat from his chest rushes up to his ears and everything bleeds into one another, all their expressions indecipherable amongst the golden haze and shadows.
Quick. Damage control, Donghyuck.
But he’s a second too late when a half-fist crashes into his chest. He whips his head around to Mark who’s already looking back at him, clearly unhappy. Mark’s the only one who hasn’t melted away into a blur. Donghyuck sees his annoyance in soft focus, something a little like disbelief etched into the twist of his frown. Donghyuck tries to catch his hand, but Mark jerks away and pushes off the table without a word.
Donghyuck can feel the panic clogging up behind his tonsils, the world rushing back into his vision in crisp, painfully vivid colour, as he stands up to chase after Mark’s retreating figure, “Wait, Mark!”
Somebody gently clutches his wrist before he gets too far. It’s Renjun. He smiles despite the furrow in his brows.
“Let’s give him a minute, yeah, Haechan?”
It’s past midnight when Donghyuck slips into Mark’s hotel room, barely aglow with the nighlight. He pads softly over to the edge of the bed, “Hi.”
He sighs at the silence that follows and sits down, “I‘m sorry.”
Mark still makes no move to acknowledge him, but remembers Mark can’t go to sleep angry or else he won’t rest well at all. The heart he wears on his sleeve is too fragile to harbour 12 hours of resentment.
“I know you’re not asleep,” Donghyuck lifts up the covers and slides in next to Mark.
Mark sniffs, keeps his back turned, “Why’d you even say that, dude?” His voice is muffled into the pillow when he sulks, “It wasn’t necessary at all.”
And then, “I told you that in confidence. You literally broke the bro-code.”
“We never really discussed what the bro-code entailed. To be honest, I don’t remember agreeing to one either.”
Mark spares Donghyuck a glance and a pout over his shoulder, “It entails not betraying me. And humiliating me.” It makes Donghyuck smile, a little endeared, a little guilty.
He wriggles closer, until he can rest his forehead against Mark’s back, close enough that he could probably hear the angry thud of Mark’s heartbeat if he were to press his ear flat, “Mark, it’s not a big deal.”
“Yes, it is. It’s embarrassing.”
Donghyuck throws his arm and leg over Mark, snuggling his face closer into the solid warmth Mark provides, “I bet Jaemin’s into worse stuff than that.”
There’s a brief pause before Mark can’t help the laugh that tumbles out of him as he reaches behind himself to try and swat at Donghyuck. And Donghyuck lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He knows it’s a small victory, but winning Mark over anyhow is rewarding, like coming back home after being caught in the rain. Donghyuck reaches forward to drag his palm over Mark’s chest and feels his heartbeat relax into a placated rhythm.
“Seriously, I’m sorry,” Donghyuck whispers, “I was drunk and just saying whatever, and — I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Mark turns over in his arms, and even in the dark of the room, Donghyuck can make out the warm curve of his lips. He considers telling Mark about his dreams, all the versions of himself he’d never be, letting him know he’s not nearly as fucked up as he is, but — “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s embarrassing at all. We all have our shit, hyung."
Mark and Donghyuck were 17 and 16, waiting their turn in the recording studio. Mark used to dangle the 10 months he had over Donghyuck like a carrot and stick, thinking it gave him a right to be pissy.
“You’re being pissy.”
Mark shoots him a withering glare from where he’s sitting “I wouldn’t be if you just showed me an ounce of respect.”
Donghyuck laughs, less than humoured, “I wasn’t disrespecting you. It was a suggestion.”
“Sure. Because prying in on my — my sex life is… respectful.”
“Mark, I — ”
“Mark hyung,” Mark gives him a pointed look.
Donghyuck rolls his eyes so hard that it worsens the headache he’s had since this conversation began, “Mark hyung, I only mentioned it because you’re exuding a lot of this negative, stressed-out energy. Like, if you were a cartoon character, you’d have a raincloud over your head. Or like black, death-smoke coming out of your ass. It’s not good for team morale.” Donghyuck cuts Mark’s irritated groan short, “And it’s not good for you, either. So it is out of the goodness of my heart that I’m telling you that you need to release it somehow. Jacking off is the most convenient and cost-effective option, is all I’m saying.”
Mark responds with a shake of his head and Donghyuck already knows that everything he said went in one ear and out the other.
“I’m being serious, hyung. You’re so high-strung, and you’re taking it out on some of us. Me, especially.” Donghyuck shrugs, “Besides, masturbation is a normal human thing. Unless you’re not human. Or not normal — which, on second thought, sounds about right.”
Donghyuck clocks the exact moment Mark’s jaw ticks, and he can’t help the smirk itching at his gums.
“Fuck off.”
“I’ll even recommend some stuff to watch,” Donghyuck pushes, for the fun of it, to see Mark grumble and fumble.
“Dude, will you quit it?”
“I’m doing you a big favour! C’mon, what gets you hard? Let me help you — ”
Mark’s palm collides with his shoulder, shoving him away, “God, stop already, Haechan! Don’t act like you care. I don’t need help from you of all people.”
And at the time, Mark and Donghyuck fought more than anyone else in the group — but if there was one thing they decided to meet in the middle with, it was that they would watch out for each other. Because fuck, they’re practically conjoined at the hip anyway — what with their shared schedules between two units, and having spent their adolescent years together for that long already.
The universe’s red string had gone and snagged them around the necks and hadn’t left them much of a choice.
So, naturally, Mark’s words hit harder than his usual ‘I fucking hate you, man’ and it has Donghyuck holding his breath, any bark or bite stuck in his throat like a shard of glass. And maybe Mark feels it in his throat too — the sting of what he’d just said — and the anger in his eyes spirit away.
“You can go and explode from pent-up frustration and overexertion for all I care. Because from now on? I actually don’t. Care — that is. Just know that I’m going to tell you I fucking told you so,” Donghyuck gushes it out on a wobbly exhale.
Mark turns away and sighs defeatedly, and scoots a little further away. They sit like that for a beat or two, before Mark awkwardly retreats back to where he was sitting, thigh-to-thigh with Donghyuck.
“Uh, breasts.”
Donghyuck peers to look at him, Mark doesn’t look back, “What?”
“Like, I think it’s hot when…a guy sucks on — uh, on it,” Mark’s voice is barely above a whisper.
“Oh. Tit sucking.”
A curt nod, “…yeah.”
Donghyuck recognises the white flag Mark is waving, and snorts, “That’s kinda nasty, Mark Lee.”
“Shut up.”
And later that night, Donghyuck barges into Mark’s room with his laptop in hand and his browser on incognito.
The past couple of hours of their encore rehearsal find Donghyuck starfishing on the stage floor of Gocheok Dome.
He has an arm thrown over his eyes to shield them from the roast of the spotlights, and in the vast darkness behind his eyelids, there’s a single halo of light floating. Dancing. Spinning. Burning brightly and about to implode on itself.
It’s like he feels the blast in his chest. Then suddenly there’s a finger tip-tap-tapping right over the spot of destruction, “Hey. You good?”
Donghyuck lifts his head to see Mark hovering over him, big-eyed and almost babyish.
“15 minutes break, Marl,” he drawls, lazy.
“Wanna listen to what I’m workin’ on?” Mark plucks the right side of his earphones out and dangles it within Donghyuck’s reach. But Donghyuck, for the sake of his character, wordlessly tosses his arm back over his face and turns away impishly; adjusts his head so his ear is in clear view for Mark. Perverse just for show. Mark knows.
And Mark’s always been a little insistent for an opinion, for criticism, on a one-way track to build a better version of his work — building better extensions of himself. Donghyuck knows.
A ‘no’ was never an option for either of them to begin with.
Mark shoves the earpiece in and Donghyuck listens as a messy melody builds into the clean slice of Mark’s rap. Each verse is quick, brutal and good. Donghyuck’s riding the wave of Mark’s voice against the erratic beat when —
Oh. Youngji.
She sounds good, Donghyuck thinks and his brain adds an ‘unfortunately’ on instinct.
Mark had mentioned in passing that “it would be cool to have Youngji feature in something”, and Donghyuck remembers ignoring the comment at the time because Mark should be above baiting fans through their fantasy collaborations. Guess he was wrong. He was wrong about it being bait because Youngji infuriatingly, and absolutely, belongs on this track.
By the end of the demo, Donghyuck’s swallowing down the envy rising up his throat like bile, feeling over the pseudo-cavity in his chest sizzling with an emotion he’d had buried away for a while now. He turns back to face Mark who’s just watching and waiting for a reaction.
Donghyuck hums, propping himself up on his elbows, “You’re cocky.”
“What?” His voice is pitchy at the end.
“You’re handsomer, huh? Cocky bastard, I like it.”
And Mark breaks out into a grin, “Yeah? ‘S just a demo, though. I was thinking of maybe — ”
“Youngji’s hot,” Donghyuck interrupts. He doesn’t pose it as a question, but he declares it like a hypothesis. Mark cocks a brow. Donghyuck cocks one back, brazen.
“Woah, man. Hah. Uh, is she your like — uh, type?”
Donghyuck groans. Sometimes he wonders if Mark is obtuse on purpose.
“Sure, hyung. But it’s good, for real. And having Youngji feature was a smart move on your part.”
Mark claps him on the chest, pleased, and much stronger than he realises. Donghyuck’s 15-minute break ends with an ache triple that of the pain he had woken up with.
Donghyuck goes into a muted frenzy when he gets dropped off.
He’d spent the rest of rehearsal trying to reign himself in and direct his nervous energy into cookie-cutting the choreography steps, but the moment he was in the haven of his own room, the levee broke, and the intrusive, itchy, anxious torrents had him typing Youngji’s name into the search bar.
Lee Youngji. Born 10 September 2002. 1.76m.
Same last name. Younger than me. Are Virgos and Leos compatible? What the fuck, 1.76m? That’s fake.
Donghyuck is 5 fancams in over his head when he comes across a ‘Lee Young ji cover makeup’ video. His cursor hovers over the preview and his eyes frantically track the way the makeup artist on the screen beats her face into a different person. Into Lee Youngji.
And that’s how he later lands himself in his younger sister’s room, sitting in front of the vanity, hair pulled back with a Hello Kitty headband, face slathered in BB cream, and eyes dusted in the shade Heartbreak by Nars. He has the Youtube video on loop to follow along and —
“Donghyuck oppa?”
Dahee stands at the doorway, one foot in the room, bewildered, and mostly bothered that someone’s snuck in. Donghyuck feels ice in his veins, caught knuckle-deep in his sister’s makeup bag. The background noise of the tutorial fades in and out over his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“Your eyeliner is super fucked up.”
“Huh.”
Daehee clicks her tongue, closing in on him in three wide strides, standing behind him as she settles her sisterly disdain over his reflection in the mirror, “Your eyeliner. Bad.”
She gives him a thumbs-down to really help him understand, “Boo. Uglyyyyy.”
Donghyuck’s humiliation is immediately watered down to irritation because of his sister’s attitude, wincing at the idea that he most definitely taught her to act like that. He scoffs and makes to stand up when Daehee plants her hands on his shoulders and sits him back down.
“I’ll help you fix it if you give me $20.”
“Hah. Absolutely fucking not.”
“$15,” she starts rummaging through her makeup bag, pulling out wipes.
“$5.”
“$10. Final offer,” she slaps at his knees until he shifts to face her. His silence and stillness are enough consent. She wipes at his eyes, squinting in critique, “The Heartbreak shade doesn’t match your skin tone, by the way.”
After Daehee had been paid her deserved $10 for her due diligence, Donghyuck flees back to his room and stands in front of his full-length mirror for a long, long time — memorising the strokes of black ink, tracing the shape in which the blush blooms, counting each plastic lash. Donghyuck doesn’t look like Youngji. Too tan, too square. But that had been the furthest from himself than he’d looked in a while.
He stands there and takes selfies — playing girl and striking poses, and agonising over each photo he takes. He considers sending it to somebody, sharing it like a sick secret.
He sends it to Jaemin. Tells him it’s just his little sister’s ploy to dollify him.
[01.33AM]
Aigo, it’s our dongsookie…
Cute excuse, btw
Do u like how u look?
Or do u only care if someone else does?
Donghyuck rereads the messages three times. It settles under his skin like a splinter. He’d been expecting that Jaemin would fawn over him. Call him cute and pretty and maybe send him an extensive set of emojis.
The words aren’t even mean but somehow that makes it worse. Like Jaemin knows too much.
He types out a reply.
So what? maybe i just wanted to try being pretty
Stares at it. Curses. Deletes it.
Shut up lol
Deletes that too.
I hate u
Deletes it harder.
Instead, he throws his phone onto his bed, face-down, and curls in after it like he could dissolve into the mattress. He shuts his eyes tight, but the mirror version of himself lingers on the backs of his eyelids. Lashes and blush and all. The ache expands.
He doesn’t send anything. But the silence feels like an answer anyway.
The hand presses tighter, a thumb dimpling meanly into his carotid. Donghyuck gurgles at the pressure around his throat and the pressure between his thighs.
It’s Mark above him. He’s flushed from his cheeks to his chest, brows pinched together right above the valley of a sneer, “You like that?” And he grinds in harder against Donghyuck’s hole.
Donghyuck tries to answer, but there isn’t enough air in his lungs. He tries to kick at Mark, but his foot slides over wet heat. Heat, heat, heat. He’s tacky-warm all over, the heat spreading over his skin like fresh candle wax, and the pain crackles over his spine with every violent thrust, but Mark won’t stop and he won’t let go. His vision starts to fade slowly into static. Mark needs to let go. He panics, lifting his hands like heavy-weights to grasp at Mark’s forearms to get him to let go.
And that’s when Donghyuck sees the red staining his fingers, the red he smears across Mark’s arms as he attempts to pry Mark off of him. Mark leans in close, heaving into his ear, “You like what you did to her?”
Mark grips him by the jaw, twisting his neck around, and beneath his own head is all red. Red-soaked pillow, red seeping into the sheets, like paint in the water, clinging damp to his skin. His hand slips against Mark’s wrist, slick with warmth, when he pulls away.
“That’s what you wanted, right?” Mark asks, “To be like her? To be someone else?”
When Donghyuck turns back around Mark is gone. He’s left looking back at himself. Youngji’s face stretched tight over his head like a nightmare parody.
He screams and it sounds like her.
He jolts awake.
Donghyuck can still hear the cheers backstage. He’s jittery from the adrenaline rush, and a lingering, week-long of something else clawing at his ribs. He collapses into a chair beside Jaemin.
“Haechan-ah, hi.”
Donghyuck doesn’t bother turning his way, just mumbles out a, “Why?”
It makes Jaemin grin, entertained, “Can’t I say hi?” He reaches over to pat Donghyuck’s knee, “Good job today, baby.”
“Yeah. You too,” Donghyuck sighs. And then he forgets himself, an afterthought, “Are you…proud of yourself?”
Jaemin pauses, a moment too long as he stares Donghyuck down. “Weird question.”
“I’m literally just — ”
“Are you proud of yourself?” Jaemin tilts his head, acting innocent but still grinning with all the many unsettling rows of his pearly whites.
“Obviously. We’re finally done. It’s the end — end of our encore shows. Three gruelling days.”
“You don’t seem that happy, though.”
Donghyuck sucks at his teeth, “Tired.”
“But you get to go back to being Donghyuck, holed up in his room, stuck on a video game,” Jaemin supplies. And if Donghyuck likes to be difficult sometimes, then Jaemin likes to be Donghyuck’s provoker all the time. ‘Think of it as natural karma’ Renjun had told him once — if karma bats its lashes and smiles like a leech.
Donghyuck can’t help the force behind his words, “And you get to go back to being gym-rat-Jaemin. Chicken breast for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Oh no, muscle loss!”
Unfortunately, Jaemin isn’t even fazed. He only nods his head in delightful agreement, “I like that. I’m proud of that.” He stands up and stretches, “I like Donghyuckie too. I’m proud of that too, my cutie.”
Jaemin proceeds to walks away, beelining for Jisung, and leaving Donghyuck in the wake of his off-handed wisdom and loaded goading.
Jaemin knows.
In honour of the end of their third world tour, the members agree to a celebratory dinner at a fancy Chinese restaurant.
Donghyuck tucks himself away into a far corner of the booth, already sleepy with the last dredges of his concert adrenaline washing away. The soft buzz of chatter inside the restaurant and the amber lights feel familiar — until Mark takes the spot next to him, shouldering into his space, and then it just feels like déjà vu. Donghyuck’s been avoiding Mark for the last week, not yet having worked up the courage to look his best friend in the eye since the dream. Since the blood and the guilt and the pain.
But running away from Mark forever would have been impossible.
He peeks at Mark, and Mark catches his eye and smiles, “It’s been a while, huh?”
Donghyuck chuckles mechanically, and, at least, Mark thinks it’s funny too. “What’chu ordering?”
The rest of dinner continues on in a blur of restraint. Donghyuck’s trying not to look in Mark’s direction. Or Jaemin’s. Or anyone’s, to be honest. He stays laser-focused on his plate, stuffing his mouth to keep himself busy — lifting his gaze only when he’s addressed, then dropping it when his name passes.
Donghyuck is stabbing at a piece of shrimp when Mark’s palm lands heavy on the nape of his neck, and the made-up memory — the sticky heat and phantom pressure — fries his nerves in a suppressed shudder. Mark’s voice filters in through the haze in Donghyuck’s head, “Come over after? I’ve got the whole demo fleshed out — thought you’d like to hear it…”
“Uh,” Donghyuck tries first, and the words get caught in his throat. He leans away, quieter, “I dunno, hyung. I’m exhausted.”
The falter in Mark’s smile is devastating, “Oh.”
But. You never say no.
“Yo, I get it. No problem, Haechannie,” and he pulls his hand away from him in one clean motion — like it burnt him, like yanking at the red string around Donghyuck’s neck as a punishment, and Donghyuck’s left blinking in the cold. Hanging from the gallows.
The rejection bleeds distance between them, and Donghyuck wonders if Mark had shifted away from him intentionally, or if it was just his subconscious. The gap is small. But it’s there.
And God, he’s going to throw up all over this table —
“Tomorrow?” Donghyuck bridges the gap in a loud whisper, trying not to sound frantic. “I can come over tomorrow if hyung’s that desperate for my listening ear.”
Mark, always with the same moon-gazer eyes, turns to him. Doesn’t say a word. Just goes ha-ha and meets Donghyuck halfway with a lighthearted punch to his chest.
The touch doesn’t last.
Donghyuck projectile vomits all over the table.
The hum of the car engine is gentle. Lulling. The streetlights and skyline stream past in bright streaks. Jeno’s in the cab with him, the reliable captain tasked to send him home after he caused a scene, “I can’t believe that happened.” Donghyuck has his head in Jeno’s lap as Jeno pets over his hair, “Are you sick, hm?”
Donghyuck snivels, “Sick of myself.”
Jeno giggles, eyes crinkled up sweetly, “Yeah. That makes seven of us.” And Donghyuck gazes up at him and cranks up his glistening, beseeching eyes, pout turned up to eleven, “I’m kidding, Donghyuck-ah.” Jeno relents, chuckling as he strokes his head again. Holds him closer to let the words sink in.
As the cab turns into his street, Jeno sits him up and Donghyuck tips sideways into the crook of Jeno’s neck.
“Maybe I am sick.” It’s muffled by skin and sweat, “Do you remember when I fought a lot with Mark hyung?”
Jeno stacks his head on his, “Yup. You were always sick then, too.” Softly, “You two fighting?”
Donghyuck ponders it over. The only person he’s really fighting is himself, his mind yelling at him over a loudspeaker and his separate-self kicking him back.
He shakes his head ‘no’ and Jeno chooses to believe him with silence. He helps him out of the car and stays with him all the way to the lift lobby. He waits with him too —chatting about how Chenle and Jisung argued over the menu all throughout dinner — like the rest of the night hadn’t happened.
But back home, the snippets of the night keep him up. It happened.
Talking to Mark.
Saying no to Mark.
The mini moment of hysteria — over Mark.
And worst of all, the memory of Mark smiling so tenderly to the waitress who fussed over the situation Donghyuck had caused.
She hurried over, small, sweet little face marred with a concerned pout, offering Mark her hand to guide him away from Donghyuck as if he were a disaster site. She’d been the one to hail Donghyuck the goddamn cab too. Mark thanked her like she was heaven-sent.
What a stupid fucking thing to have branded in the back of his brain.
It replays, and replays, and replays, until Donghyuck finds himself in front of his laptop. His legs are crossed beneath him, the blue light glowing against the planes of his face. He’s been like this for over an hour and his eyes are starting to burn. Tabs open. Then closed. Reopened again.
He types ‘long brown wig with bangs’ into the search bar.
Then deletes it. Then retypes it. This time with the word ‘natural’.
The search results load — mannequin heads and cheap cosplay thumbnails and uncanny photos of women with plastic skin and silky hair.
He browses through the selection. Scrolls past one. Then another. Then zooms in on a model with a soft jawline and morose eyes that remind him of his own.
He adds it to the cart and the total flashes: ₩28,000.
Then he enters his card information. He uses another name for the shipping address— but not ‘Youngji’. Not ‘the fucking waitress at the Chinese restaurant’.
When he clicks ‘Confirm Purchase’ he breathes in deep, like he’s bracing for impact. And when the order goes through — when the little ‘Thank you for your order!’ screen pops up with an emoji and a sparkly banner — Donghyuck exhales and feels the crazy culminate. Not a laugh. Not a sigh.
Just a slow exhale as he shuts the laptop.
He stays sitting there in the dark. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t cry.
He wakes up to the sound of his phone buzzing on his nightstand. The dream group chat is blowing up.
[12.26PM]
MARK
lol what
[image attached]
somebody sent me something in the mail???
[12.27PM]
JISUNG
Hyung was your address leaked
[12.27PM]
CHENLE
Open it!!!!!!!!!!!
[12.30PM]
RENJUN
name on the shipping address says mark lee’s fan
safer just to throw it out tbh
[12.31PM]
JAEMIN
Our hyungie is so popular ❤️❤️
[12.36PM]
JENO
Hyung what u gnna do?
Donghyuck doesn’t need to open the picture Mark sent into the chat. He already knows what it is. He’s ‘Mark Lee’s fan’, after all.
But who else needs to know other than himself?
[12.52PM]
HAECHAN
It could be a bomb
Does Mark hyung need protecting?
I’m omw!!!
The read receipts roll in. Jisung leaves a thumbs up and Chenle’s already moved on to sending a TikTok. Mark doesn’t reply. No one else says anything to him.
Outside his window, the sun keeps shining. Inside the caved space of his chest, a ticking time bomb beats like his heart.
Donghyuck keys in the passcode to Mark’s apartment, and the door cracks open to the smell of clean laundry and warm tech — fabric softener and overworked speakers. He shuts the door behind him with a click to find Mark by the kitchen island looking mildly alarmed over a takeout container.
“Dude, I thought you were, like, a burglar or something,” Mark starts, and realisation dawns on his face in real-time, with a slow smile and the arch of his brows, “You came.”
Donghyuck shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “Said I would defuse that bomb for you.” He bumbles forward and pauses behind an imaginary threshold between the living room and the kitchen. But Mark closes the distance on his behalf anyway, stopping three steps in front of him.
He gives him a funny look, “Bomb?”
“The random package you received…?” Donghyuck’s eyes scan past Mark’s head, searching for the box he’d seen in the picture. The countertop. The corner shelves.
“Oh, that.” Mark laughs, “I thought you were here for the demo.”
“That too.”
Donghyuck trails behind Mark as he leads them to his bedroom, already talking, “The bones, the meat. ‘S all there. But I didn’t even like EQ it properly yet, so, go easy on me…”
He doesn’t mean to, but he tunes Mark out like white noise once he steps inside, nostalgic from the dim lights, toy figurines and the hum of creative chaos. It’s been too long since the start — and end — of their tour. Long enough that he’d almost forgotten how Mark always smothers himself into whatever space he owns. Fills it up with pieces of himself until the air feels thick with him. Just like Mark’s old dorm room. Just like here and now.
Tick, tick, tick.
As Mark moves to his desk, Donghyuck catches sight of it. Cardboard box, tucked under. Still sealed.
“Why haven’t you opened it yet?”
Mark glances over, caught off guard, “Cause — I mean, I don’t know — you saw what Renjun said. And you’re literally saying it’s a bomb.”
Donghyuck perches on the edge of the bed, toes bumping into the cardboard, and thudding it against the wall, “No way you actually think it’s a bomb.”
“I don’t! Damn, I just — I’m being careful.”
Mark turns away to plug something in.
Tick, tick, tick.
Donghyuck clears his throat, and plays footsie with the box until it’s within his reach, “Can I?”
Mark shrugs, “Sure. Go ahead.”
The box opens with a slow peel, tape crackling under his fingers. Mark doesn’t pay it much attention, already sitting in front of his desktop, muttering to himself as he connects his Bluetooth speaker.
And there it is. Chestnut brown, soft, and glossy under the bedroom light, wrapped in powdery pink tissue paper. He picks it up and holds it in both hands, and — just for a second — he wants to laugh. But instead, he does what he does best. He plays a part, “Oh my God, hyung. It’s a wig.”
And Mark does what he does best too, playing along, “Oh, what?” Turns to look for a split-second, then tunnel-visions back to his computer. “That’s crazy,” he knows how to replicate awe in a way that should pacify but Donghyuck’s always been the better actor. Donghyuck wants to roll his eyes.
He fits it gently over his head, pushes his own hair up underneath, and finds the part. Adjusts the bangs.
Curling his fingers through the faux ringlets, he walks towards Mark’s hunched back, considers grabbing him by the shoulders to force him to look, but just calls out sugary, softly,“Pretty?”
Mark swivels around in his chair and freezes. Those moon-gazer eyes land just above Donghyuck’s bangs, following the way the hair cascades past his cheeks, brushes at his collarbones.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
“Hyung, is it pretty?” Donghyuck repeats, slow.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
“Yeah.” Then Mark’s eyes flit back to his face. “You are.”
Boom.
Mark reaches out instinctively, and Donghyuck’s like a moth to a flame. He crashes into him, lips first, balancing himself on Mark’s knees as the chair groans from their combined weight.
Donghyuck kisses like a man starved. Like a man who’s frustrated and relieved. He catches Mark’s bottom lip between his teeth and buzzes with the way Mark gasps back, grabbing his waist like he’s trying to anchor him. Worried he might burn right through.
Mark shoves him off and backwards until he falls unto the bed, belly up. Donghyuck’s eyes track the way Mark tugs off his hoodie and stumbles as he steps out of his sweatpants, tries to commit to memory the rosy shade Mark blushes when they laugh about it before kneeing his way between Donghyuck’s legs.
Donghyuck allows him easily. Allows Mark’s body to press in close. Allows his shirt to be rucked up under his armpits. Allows his shorts and boxers to be torn off by trembling hands. And Donghyuck’s trembling right back, shy and simmering with fever-heat, when Mark sucks a ring of bruises around the junction of hip and thigh.
“Maaaaark. Fuck — “ Mark fits his hand snugly around Donghyuck’s cock, bearing down on him as Donghyuck tries to cant his hips upwards.
“Relax, baby. Let hyung make it better,” Mark leans down, hands smoothing over Donghyuck’s calves, and gets his mouth around him. He tongues at the head and gives a little bit of teeth with the up-and-down glide. Saliva and precum bubbles past Mark’s lips and he lets it dribble over Donghyuck’s balls, and gather in the divots of his pucker. Mark pushes the pad of his thumb — against and into — the slickness and the pink, feeling giddy with the sound of Donghyuck keening at the intrusion.
Donghyuck’s chest shakes with an inhale as Mark spreads him open with a thumb and forefinger, then pulls him down on one knuckle — then two. He exhales with a sweet cry and gets up on his forearms to rock his body against Mark’s fingers, until — “I’m ready, I’m ready. Hyung take it off…” he gets impatient. He reaches out to snap at the waistband of Mark’s boxers. To feel over the shape of him under the cloth. To drag it down just under the swell of Mark’s ass so he was touching real, burning-hot skin, “Hurry.”
Mark wants to shake his head, give Donghyuck’s body the practice it needs, but Donghyuck swats at Mark’s hands and screws up his face in a temper tantrum, and Mark folds with a kiss against Donghyuck’s pout.
Plastic strands of hair prickle between the slide of their mouths as he pulls his fingers out and clutches at Donghyuck’s thigh, “Turn over for me.”
“No. Do me like this,” and yet, Donghyuck’s already shifting his weight onto his palms but digging his heels into the mattress. Bracing to turn, not without a fight. Mark pinches and jiggles the flesh in his hands. Donghyuck yowls and thumps the sole of his foot against Mark’s knee. And, easily, predictably, Donghyuck goes.
With little preamble, Mark spits into his palms, slicking himself up before slowly tucking himself into the grounding heat of Donghyuck. He drapes himself over the bow of Donghyuck’s back, feeling for the way their lungs start to expand and deflate in sync. Hands clasping over Donghyuck’s chest, on the spot where their heartbeats stack.
For a tick, tick, tick, tick, they stay there.
Pressed together like they could merge in the middle of the bed. Static image of a dream they couldn’t have.
A little piece of peace only the two of them can share.
Then he pulls out and fucks right back in. He thrusts in tight, measured strokes like muscle memory, and Donghyuck matches Mark’s rhythm. Skin to skin, beat for beat.
Donghyuck heaves, stabs himself right in the spot where he wants Mark, “Ah…Am I — am I a good girl? Huh?”
And he can feel the way Mark processes his words, from the way Mark’s moan tapers off, stunned, to the way Mark runs his hand from his hip, following the line of his spine and hooking his fingers under the cap of the wig. Faux hair bunched up in his palm.
Donghyuck must look like one — like a girl — like this. All the man parts hidden by the stretch of his body.
Gentle slopes forming along the planes of his back despite the squarish shoulders. Acne scars softened by lotioned skin. Long silky hair on a little skull.
Passing.
“God, yeah,” Mark purrs and kisses the back of his neck. Grinds hard like he means it, “My good girl. My only girl.”
Donghyuck gasps first, then holds the hand that’s dug itself into his scalp, through the layers of plastic, “Inside. Inside — come inside. Make me your girl. Wan’ it — wanna be — “
And then they come, long and drawn. Together.
The room is still warm from them. The sheets are a mess. The air smells like sex and skin and a familiar moment.
Mark’s pulling a fresh shirt over his head and it sticks a little at the nape from sweat.
Donghyuck has yet to move from the bed, only willed himself to sit upright. He’s still half-dressed. Legs dangling, feet tapping the floor too fast, too distracted, thinking about how Mark’s first impulse right after he came down from his high was to get to his feet — clean up.
Less evidence, less memory.
And Donghyuck saw the mania. Mark walked too many steps only to soak a rag in the bathroom, had reached out to tidy the sheets but withdrew so fast when Donghyuck’s eyes flicked toward him. Instead, he’d gone and passed Donghyuck a wet cloth too, and Donghyuck turned his nose up at it, smushing his face into the pillows. Mark made pleading baby eyes and let out an insistent whimper — and yet — he still didn’t wipe Donghyuck down himself.
Just for that Donghyuck ripped the wig off and threw it at Mark’s face.
Mark yelped a small thing, gave up and mulled over his closet for too long only to pick out a plain black tee.
Stupid fucking idiot, sometimes.
Surprisingly, Mark breaks the silence first with a whisper,“Was it you?”
Donghyuck finally stops the pitter-patter of his toes and shrugs. He doesn’t reply, though it should be enough of an answer for Mark to move on. But Mark, ever so curious at the wrong times, goes over to the bed and decides to pick at it,“Like the wig. The package. The — everything. It’s you, right?”
Donghyuck tips his chin down, voice flat.“What makes you say that?”
Mark scratches behind his ear, “You made it kinda obvious.” Donghyuck watches Mark recoil from his own words, ever so careless at the wrong times. He thinks he saves it by nudging him in the side with a light, “Besides, you’re my best friend…I know you.”
And if that doesn’t fucking irk Donghyuck to no end. ‘I know you?’
No, Donghyuck knows Mark — he knows Mark is going to walk away from this and believes Donghyuck will let him.
“You just fucked your best friend.”
That’s when the shift happens.
Mark’s jaw tightens, “Okay, why are you being like this?”
“Like what, Mark? What am I being? Honest?”
Donghyuck stands now. Scowling. Fucking pants-less.
“Sorry that it’s so hard for me to wake up every day knowing that I’m fucking lying to everyone around me,” Donghyuck tries to say it evenly, to say it before Mark can babble over him, “I’m lying to myself every time I look at you. Every time you fucking — every time you look at me.”
Mark stands up too, now, slips on the wig left on the floor.
“That’s rich coming from someone who set up a whole elaborate scheme just so I’d suck his dick.”
Donghyuck freezes. His eyes flash something like hurt, then flicker back to an empty gaze and a smirk, “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s what you did,” Mark snaps with clean, accusatory force. “You got what you wanted? You’ve been avoiding me for a week because of this shit?”
“Like you care.” And Donghyuck would come up with a better retaliation — if Mark weren’t right.
“Of — fucking — course I care, Donghyuck! Get real. I — I don’t know what you want from me either,” Mark raises his voice, moon-gazer eyes about to fall out of his skull. His hands hang by his sides, clenching and unclenching like he wants to hit Donghyuck. Knock against his head. Fist to the face. “It’s not like you ever say what you mean. Fuck, half the time you don’t even act on what you want.
Donghyuck’s picking up his shorts off the floor, shoving his leg into the wrong pant-hole out of blind anger, “Oh, fuck off Mark.”
“No! Even when I ask something from you — of you, you have to play coy about it. Give me a hard fucking time and for what? The sake of performing?” Mark steps back, “You lie every day on your own.”
Donghyuck purses his lips. He’s not even thinking about how to argue back anymore, only feels the culmination of hurts and aches and pains from years ago sink and dissolve like acid from his throat down to the cradle of his stomach.
He stares until the vision of Mark gets blurry with tears.
And then he leaves.
Stupid fucking idiot, sometimes.
Mark and Donghyuck were 14 and 13, and Donghyuck used to have a bad habit of dwelling over the 10 months Mark had on Donghyuck.
10 months is barely anything, really.
10 months extra hadn’t been a good enough reason for Mark to be lighter on his feet when he danced. It wasn’t a solid enough reason for it to make sense that Mark could memorise lyrics faster, or train longer, or work harder — and still smile brighter.
Mark built himself on passion. Pure, intense, bona fide passion. And while it made Donghyuck feel inadequate in the face of Mark and the potential he came with, it was just the by-product of his enamour. His unanswered enamour.
And somewhere down the line, his enamour was misunderstood as envy.
At the time, he used it as a shield.
Always following Mark? Oh, because he’s matching his steps.
Always sharing clothes with Mark? Because he’s matching his style.
Always eating, sleeping, holding onto Mark? Because he’s becoming Mark.
Suck him dry for all he is. Break himself off into Mark-shaped pieces to put together a replica. Surely not to fit himself into Mark’s gaps—and even if that were the case, nobody would have understood anyway.
It’s easier to construct something new rather than to fix something better.
Mark certainly didn’t understand too. He had grown a resentment for the way Donghyuck clung to him like a parasite and it had them fighting almost daily. When Mark would push him away, Donghyuck pushed back harder — because reactions are equal and opposite. A reaction isn’t a rejection, right? It’s a collision that had him heartsick. Fevers from stress and sore throats from shouting and bouts of nausea that he couldn’t explain away after every fight.
So when Mark and Donghyuck were 15 and 14, Donghyuck found Mark rolled out on the floor of the practice room during their break. He loomed over him like a cloud, and Mark batted him away, his knuckles lazily bumping against Donghyuck’s cheek. Bump, bump, bump. Whirlwind of motion. And suddenly, Mark couldn’t catch up to Donghyuck trapping his hand and leaning in for a kiss.
It was a stellar collision. A 2-hour-long collision of Mark screaming at Donghyuck. Meaner than he normally is. Cutting. ‘I hate you’ but this time he meant it.
Even Johnny had to intervene, and by the end of it, Donghyuck realised he didn’t want to be like Mark. He wanted to be kinder. But he wanted Mark all the same, and he wanted him kinder too.
Had forgotten that — it’s easier to construct something new rather than to fix something better:
4 years later, Mark and Donghyuck were 19 and 18, with a bond that matured into something stronger than it’d ever been.
Donghyuck grew out of Mark’s second-skin, and stepped into his stage name. He pushed Mark in a way that mattered, softening the blows when Mark pushed himself instead. Meanwhile, Mark stopped tolerating Donghyuck and started embracing him — brought the Donghyuck out of Haechan and nourished the Haechan inside of Donghyuck.
And then Donghyuck fractured his shin, and had to take a break. Oddly enough, Mark handled it worse than Donghyuck did.
Mark was constantly on the edge of too much for himself. Jittery and anxious, crumbling from the weight of his own world. Nothing to bolster the impact.
“I’m a fuckin’ mess, Haechan,” Mark had whispered into thin air, cool night breeze.
It was late December, and Donghyuck’s almost three-quarters into full recovery. Mark had come over to Donghyuck’s house to visit, brought a ‘get well soon’ balloon that he should, honestly, be giving to himself. He was supposed to leave by 8PM but Donghyuck’s mom found him sobbing into her son’s shoulder and decided to let him stay overnight.
Donghyuck had turned over in the bed they shared to face him. Mark was gazing at the ceiling, eyes swollen and his nose rubbed red, and Donghyuck couldn’t do much other than to soothe circles over Mark’s chest with a warm palm.
“Sometimes the pressure gets to the point where I feel like I can’t breathe,” Mark huffed, something like a laugh, or a scoff, or a cry, “I donno if I’m made for this…like I think I’d be happier being a normal kid.” He sniffled, “I could’ve had a white-picket-fence kinda life in Vancouver. Wear a tie and carry a briefcase and everything.”
“Hm. You’d want that?”
“I guess. I don’t know.” There’s a long pause before Mark lays on his side and places his hand over Donghyuck’s, keeps it tight to his chest, “I didn’t realise how much I needed you, man.”
“What?”
“You. You had to go and injure yourself like an idiot. And now, I don’t know — now I don’t know what to do with myself without you.”
Donghyuck recalls it the same way it’d been in the practice room, he held Mark’s hand and leaned in and kiss him — except, Mark kissed back with cold, unpracticed lips. Donghyuck’s hands went to cradle him around the back of his head as they pulled away from each other.
“Hyung,” Donghyuck breathed it warm over Mark’s mouth, “Let me make it better.”
Mark’s eyes were glazed over as Donghyuck guided his head to his chest, encouraging Mark to mouth over a clothed nipple, resurfacing a year-old secret that Mark had shared. Mark teethed at the fabric, cottony in his mouth, before pulling Donghyuck’s shirt off.
Eventually, all their clothes were off, and Mark was suckling on bare skin. Donghyuck wasn’t a girl, but he’d had enough softness in his chest. Donghyuck liked it — the warmth and the wetness, the sensitivity, and the idea that Mark liked it too. One hand was cupped over the swell of his pec, and the other was wandering further south, curious about in-between Donghyuck’s legs.
As Mark laid Donghyuck’s injured leg gently over his own hip, Donghyuck distantly wondered if Mark had done this before, and in the same thought, realised he probably had, with the way Mark knew enough to collect the precum from both of their cocks to coat his fingers. Knew enough to be careful when he prodded at Donghyuck’s rim. Knew how to press in, and in, and in, till’ Donghyuck was arching into it. Biting back a moan, he wondered if he should let Mark know it’s his first time, but he’d taken Mark’s first before too.
First kiss for first fuck.
“Can I put it in you? Is it okay?” he’d asked, tenderly, and Donghyuck could see the reflection of the moon in his eyes. And that’s how Donghyuck remembered him, always so earnest.
Donghyuck nodded and Mark used his forefinger to smooth out the crease in Donghyuck’s brow, “Don’t be scared. I’ll be gentle…I’ll stop when you want me to.”
Donghyuck never told him to stop.
It was only after they both came and fell asleep satiated, that Donghyuck understood that when he broke his shin, their bond had ruptured along with it.
Mark woke up first the next morning and told him ‘I’m sorry.’ Donghyuck laughed, because there wasn’t anything to be sorry about. Sorry is for regrets.
“I think it’s better if we pretend that that didn’t happen…”
Before Donghyuck could even get upset about it, Mark rambled on softly, “We could get in trouble. And we — I can’t let that happen, Donghyuckie. Not to us. There won’t be — if we — there can’t be an us in this way. You know what I mean.” Mark looked breathless by the last sentence. Like he can’t breathe.
And Donghyuck knew. He got carried away by a moment that looked like his fantasies and thought he could fuck it true.
He conceded. Agreed, with no push. No collision. Nothing. Just rubbed at Mark’s chest, reminded him to inhale.
“Pretend what didn’t happen, hyung?”
Mark exhaled and pretended right back, “Nothing.”
It’s just past 2PM when Daehee calls from the other side of the door, “Oppa, are you gonna sleep all day?”
Donghyuck blinks his eyes open, but doesn’t answer, but the door creaks open.
“Didn’t say you could come in,” he rolls over and away, burying himself further under the blanket. Daehee shuts the door with her hip and walks in anyway, sitting on his bed, crushing her weight on top of his toes, probably on purpose too, “Eh, you also didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“What do you want?”
“Renjun oppa messaged me earlier to tell you to ‘pick up your Goddamn phone’,” she informs, picking at a piece of lint on Donghyuck’s blanket.
“Yeah? Well tell him to stay away from my baby sister,” he whines high in his throat, the way he knows ticks her off.
“You can be so ridiculous sometimes,” Daehee sighs. “Making your friends worry all the time.
“Hm. They’re more of business partners.” And that makes Daehee laugh, rocking back and forth in the hilarity of it all.
“Ah, oppa. You’re so funny. I’m telling Markie. He’d be heartbroken.”
Donghyuck gets up on his forearms, deciding to focus on the blatant disrespect instead of the twang of hurt. He levels Daehee with disapproving eyes, “It’s Mark oppa for you.”
“Mm. Sure. Mark oppa,” she tosses her hair over her shoulder. And then, “Should I be worried too?”
Donghyuck pauses and asks himself when his sister had become so grown-up — taking on the responsibility of troubling over her older brother. He wriggles his toes under her thighs, “Did you ever want a better brother?” She whacks at his foot.
“What are you talking about? I already have three brothers. ‘Better or worse’ stopped mattering when I realised mom wasn’t going to pop out a sister.”
“Better older brother,” he clarifies tiredly.
“No.” Point blank. “What’s there to change about you?”
“I donno. I feel like I could’ve been different.”
Daehee takes a long time to respond. Then she shifts up the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder with Donghyuck, and without warning, yanks the blanket off of him. She throws it over herself like a cape. Donghyuck blinks, then shoves his hand under her armpit in retaliation, cold fingers and all.
She shrieks and almost knees him in the crotch.
But she’s already giggling. And then, as quick as the chaos came, it fades. Something thoughtful settles over her face.
“When we were 8, I told you I had a crush on Mr Song.”
Donghyuck hums, “Yeah, our homeroom teacher.” He snorts, “What a loser.”
She narrows her eyes, “Sure. I was the loser. But who was the one who started acting like Mr Song after that?” Donghyuck opens his mouth, and she shuts it for him with a finger to the face, “You. It was you. You started speaking with really shit satoori. And you’d tuck your pens and pencils behind your ear because that’s what he did too.”
He’s hit with a distant memory of him speaking in dialect for a couple of weeks until his grandma scolded him for talking funny. Damn. “Why are you making shit up? I don’t remember this at all.”
“Probably blocked it out of your system because it was fucking embarrassing that you were trying to copy Mr Song. Badly, by the way.”
“That’s basically accusing me of wanting to be your crush,” Donghyuck’s really only mildly offended, but he steals his blanket back, “That’s actually disgusting, Daehee-ah.”
Daehee gets up on her knees, “No, idiot. You just wanted me to like you more.” She sighs, “But I already did — do, whatever. But, yeah. Because you are my brother and I grew up with you.”
Something sweet and lingering, rolls over his chest for a moment, before his phone starts ringing again.
It’s Renjun.
Begrudgingly, Donghyuck shows up at the dream dorm — halfway through punching in the door code when Renjun swings it open for him on cue.
It’s a split-second of Renjun’s deadpan stare and Donghyuck faux-frowning back before Donghyuck theatrically launches himself into Renjun’s arms, “Renjunnie — oh! My beloved, I’ve missed you.”
“Fucker, I had to force you to come here,” Renjun grumbles and lets Donghyuck cling a little longer before he’s digging his fingers into the ticklish spot along Donghyuck’s flank.
“And I came. Because you’re my favourite.”
He follows behind Renjun, further into the dorm, where he settles on the couch while Renjun gets him a glass of lemon water. Renjun returns, sits criss-cross-applesauce on the opposite end, and grabs Donghyuck’s ankles to rest his socked feet in his lap. Massages his feet. Squeezes too hard that it borders on painful. But it feels like Renjun’s affection.
It’s comfortable silence whenever he’s with Renjun, though, not when Renjun frames things like an interrogation, which doesn’t happen often. But he can feel it right now — the frayed edges of Renjun’s patience and suspicion dragging itself into their quiet territory. Watching. Waiting for Donghyuck to crack.
And Donghyuck’s always had the bigger mouth between the two of them.
“Are we gonna have a staring contest the whole time I’m here — or?”
Renjun raises a brow, “I’m waiting for you to tell me why Mark had to spam text me to check on you last night.”
He says it: calm, composed, clear-cut — clean slice straight through his heart. Blood gushing out and blocking his oesophagus. It’s suffocating. The idea of Mark suffocates his life. It’s all his life revolves around anymore and it angers him — Mark inflating himself into every little crevice but he can’t even fucking check on him himself, deploying their friends like his fucking minions.
Donghyuck scoffs, “I’m surprised you didn’t ask him yourself.”
“You know hyung is harder to talk to. He thinks too hard when he talks, and it ends up not making sense. Or doesn’t think enough. Both are impossible for me to handle.” Renjun groans, and adds, “At least you’re just annoying on purpose.”
Donghyuck laughs, kicking his feet happily and jostling Renjun. He threatens to pull Donghyuck’s big toe off, and it reminds him of how Renjun is anything but a minion. He would’ve told Mark ‘no’ if he wanted to but he likes Donghyuck enough to go the extra mile. For himself and his conscience and never anyone else’s. Donghyuck thinks his heart flutters.
“So?”
“We fought…and — that’s about as much as I can say. I can’t really talk about it.” And Donghyuck clocks the beginnings of a displeased snarl on Renjun’s lips and tries to save himself, “And I want to — I do. But this is also Mark’s business, sort of. Not just mine.” He sinks deeper into the couch cushions, calves pressing into Renjun’s knees. “I’m not trying to protect his dignity. I wanna protect — ”
“The friendship,” Renjun completes for him. Hearing it stings, but saying ‘us’ probably would’ve been worse.
Renjun accepts the barely-there explanation, and Donghyuck is grateful because he wouldn’t have had anything better to offer up.
“Hate to say it, but you should talk to him, though.”
“I think the more we talk, the more we fight.”
“Because you guys talk in circles.” Renjun spells it out for him and Donghyuck swallows hard, “Mark doesn’t know how to read between the lines. You don’t know how to ask for what you want. You both know that about each other — everybody, even Jisung — knows that about the two of you, and yet, you expect what the other can’t give."
Days fly by. There’s a scatter of fancalls here and there, but nothing too energy-sucking.
On most occasions, Donghyuck enjoys the lull in activities — it’s time to be outside of a character, outside of himself. Just the sidelines. It feels selfish to like it as much as he does, but Jeno assures him it’s the most normal thing about him.
But Jeno likes it in the way of rest and recovery. Donghyuck likes it in the way of hiding and spying. Donghyuck doesn’t care to explain it, though.
With the bouts of freedom, their group arranges time to hang out. To sit, eat, and talk to each other without the camera. Unfortunately, Mark is always too busy to join.
Donghyuck has a terrible inkling that it’s because he’s there, but frankly, Mark’s full absence is better than Mark stonewalling in a group setting.
It’s Mark’s well-practiced skill, among many, many other talents.
Preteen Donghyuck used to wail over the way Mark could easily put him behind a two-way mirror, leave him stuck inside the observation room as Mark coddles the other members.
Current Donghyuck thinks it’s bittersweet that Mark bothers enough to play-act indifference. He’s too sharp for that — to not notice Donghyuck in the background. Mark plays for him, and it’s nice to see him putting in the effort so that Donghyuck would cave and apologise first.
But the whole charade being embarrassing with an audience has never changed throughout the years. It means all the glances Mark denies him will be multiplied by five. Sometimes more, when Jaemin, or Renjun, maybe Chenle, is feeling particularly nosy.
Today, the six of them are gathered back at the dream dorm upon Jisung’s request. They’re dispersed around the living room, scrolling through their phones, engaged in their own things but glad to be in one another’s space.
Until Chenle shoots up from their shared loveseat animatedly. Donghyuck is elbowed in the ribs but his pending wrath is overshadowed by: “Heol. Y’all seen Mark hyung’s story?”
Everyone turns curious eyes. Because, of course they do. Hot topic since the day he first debuted.
“Youngji sent him a support truck for Fraktsiya,” Chenle exclaims, unnecessarily excited over something that isn’t even for him. He glances back down at his phone, “She’s seriously Mark Lee’s fan.”
Funny. Doesn’t that sound familiar?
Donghyuck’s ears start to ring.
Jisung contributes, “No wonder hyung’s been bailing — that means his single is gonna be out soon.” He cheers, annoyingly googly-eyed, “Hyung’s really his own star now.”
Donghyuck’s head just about explodes and kills everybody else in the room.
His head is still intact. Nobody dies. Instead, they impulsively order more alcohol than they’ll be able to consume to “celebrate Mark”.
Without Mark even being there — which is dumb and pointless — and the only one with half a brain to mention that is Renjun, despite the fact that he’s the one ordering on his phone. Donghyuck thinks he sees the flash of an apology in Renjun’s eyes as he makes payment.
Now they’re all back to sharing silence while nursing a can of beer or a bottle of soju each. Solidarity. Donghyuck’s bottle is half-empty already.
Chenle leans his head on Donghyuck’s shoulder, pale cheeks a little ruddy from the alcohol, “Haechan hyung, can you make me a glass of somaek?”
“You can make it yourself.”
“I like the way hyung does it.”
Chenle does not deserve a glass of somaek after being the trigger for Donghyuck’s sour mood. The moment Donghyuck angles his face down to refuse, Chenle babies up like butter, and Donghyuck grumbles for him to follow him to the kitchen.
As Donghyuck rummages the cabinets for a clean glass, Chenle sits across him on the kitchen island, “Honestly, you’ve perfected the ratio.”
Donghyuck grunts in response. Starts preparing the beer and soju.
Chenle cackles over his irritation, and leans forward, “Our Haechannie hyung’s good at everything.”
“I just have a lot of practice.”
“From?”
“Mark. Always asks for it when we go drinking.”
“You do everything for him. You’re like his wife.”
The doting wife to his forgotten white-picket-fence-go-fuck-yourself-fantasy.
“He doesn’t need me anymore. He’s his own star now,” Donghyuck echoes Jisung’s earlier sentiment bitterly.
Chenle scrunches his face up in adoration, bouncing in his seat, “Hyung, you’re so dramatic. That guy practically orbits around you.” He backtracks, “Stars orbit the sun, right?”
“No. The sun is a star.”
“Oh. Huh, I should’ve listened to Jisung more.”
And speak of the devil —like the little kid who eavesdrops on adult conversations — Jisung, offers kindly, “Stars usually come in pairs.”
Chenle nags at Jisung for interrupting, and Jisung argues that he saved Chenle from looking stupid, and the bickering feels like a hug.
Donghyuck forgets his anger for a moment.
Donghyuck slides the glass of somaek over to Chenle and reaches over to pinch his cheek. Then he turns to ruffle Jisung’s hair. They’re his good kids.
Mark releases Fraktsiya the next day.
Donghyuck doesn’t watch the music video. He skips over the promotional posts. He doesn’t listen to the song because he’d heard it before— an older, rougher version that he doesn’t want a worse memory of. It was good, then. He doesn’t need its betterness to haut him.
And despite it all, he makes a story about it on his Instagram. Takes a screen-grab of the album cover and congratulates Mark. Exits the app and tosses his phone out of view.
He breathes in deeply, and waits for the idea of what he’s done to punch him in the gut — one big stunt of dignity. But the emotion never comes. All the days he’s been subjected to his own compulsion crescendo into — nothing — and ebbs away.
He wonders if Mark has been sleeping well ever since their fight.
He’s tired of pretending.
For the first time ever since Mark had moved out of the dorms, and into his own apartment, Donghyuck knocks instead of pressing in the code he’s had memorised. Two clean raps against the door.
The door clicks and it inches open, Mark peeking out from the crack. His mouth gapes slightly in recognition but his gaze is hard. It’s cold.
“Hi, hyung,” Donghyuck greets, small, tilting into Mark’s line of sight. He can already feel the door swaying shut on him before it happens, so he rams his foot into the gap of the entryway. “Hyung, please. I just wanna — I don’t want to fight.”
Mark keeps staring, but the ice melts into weariness. Wilting flowers in the middle of winter.
“Your new single. It — you” he tries harder. “I’m proud of you, hyung.” He blurts out.
Mark finally pushes the door open all the way, but he blocks the entrance. Donghyuck can see past Mark and the bits and pieces of his apartment — the dishes left out in the sink, a sock on the floor that he didn’t bother to pick up, the dim lights.
“Did you even listen to it?” Mark’s voice is gravelly. His lips are cracked. Donghyuck wonders if these are the first words he’s spoken out loud today. Donghyuck wants to lie.
“No.”
Mark scoffs. One plain, muted ‘hah’.
“I don’t need to hear it to feel it.” Donghyuck steps forward, “Please, can we just talk. I’ll be good.”
Mark steps aside and lets Donghyuck walk past him. He lets Donghyuck take his sneakers off and slide them into the shoe rack, neatening up the rest of the shoes along the way. He lets him pick up the singular sock and pad to the kitchen to dump it into the overflowing laundry basket. He lets Donghyuck tip-toe around him to switch on the lamp in the corner. He lets the light flood the room.
Donghyuck makes to sit on the beanbags in the living room before his eyes zero in on the mop of brown hair on the TV console. Mark sees him see it.
“Thought you’d have thrown it out by now,” Donghyuck tries to joke, but the chuckle gets stuck in his throat.
Mark goes over to take it, holds it like dirty laundry, walks up to Donghyuck and holds it out to him. Donghyuck looks down at it, and looks back up at Mark, and he can see the mirror of hurt in the blank slate of his face. He turns his hands, palms up.
But Mark keeps it in his grasp and shrugs, “It smells like you.”
“Like sweat?”
He shakes his head, “Like you.”
“Mark, I’m not going to say I’m sorry.”
Mark lifts his chin, eyes off the wig. Dark circles around moon-gazer eyes. It looks lonely up there.
“Mark.” Donghyuck reaches out slowly, holds Mark’s hand over the cushion of plastic hair. Fingers slip through the strands and between his own. Interlocked.
“I’ve been having dreams. Nightmares.” Mark says it low. A rumble of noise. “About you.”
Donghyuck holds on tighter.
Me too.
“It’s always the same one. You’re getting — you’re stuck in the ground. I see your face in the soil, under my feet, and — and I’m trying to dig you out,” Mark takes a shuddering breath, “I dig, and I dig and I dig, Donghyuck. I dig. Claw. And you still keep getting sucked under. And you don’t even try to get yourself out. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t — you just look at me.” A droplet, a clear little pearl, slips down his cheek, “And then I wake up and — I wonder if I — if it was me — if I killed you. Stood over you and never got out of the way.”
Mark’s voice wavers to the point that it’s all distortion. All broken words.
And Donghyuck wants to tell him ‘no, you didn’t’, ‘I’m right here’, ‘it’s okay’, but what comes out is —
“I understand.”
Mark tips forward.
He rests his forehead on Donghyuck’s shoulder.
And a patch of wet blooms over the seams of Donghyuck’s shirt.
Donghyuck hugs him close. Lets him cry.
Mark’s washing the dishes he’d left in the sink from the day before. Donghyuck is beside him, drying off the plates, the bowls, the cups, and the cutlery. Helps to put them away.
Donghyuck is wiping over a spoon as the echo of Mark sobbing quietly plays on loop. 5 minutes ago, Mark was shaking with little tremors that ran through his ribs and into Donghyuck’s chest, until they were both vibrating with it.
And now Donghyuck has to stand there, walled-in with their combined quiet ache because Mark wasn’t ready to talk — had pleaded through an uneven exhale, the kind that scrapes up the throat before it can get out.
It’s not fair.
Donghyuck hums, “I have dreams too. A lot — about you.”
Silence from Mark. The buffering type of silence.
“One was really bad,” Donghyuck turns to look at Mark, even as he just keeps scrubbing. “I killed Youngji. And you tried to kill me.”
That makes Mark tear his eyes away from the sink. Sudsy hands frozen mid-air.
“I wore her skin. And you were fucking me. Or her — I don’t know,” Donghyuck whispers it in a scatter.
And yet, what makes Mark flinch isn’t even the cruidty — the insanity of it, “I don’t like Youngji like that.”
Donghyuck feels the desperation ball up inside him, presses Mark to understand. He holds up a finger, “I once had a dream that your older brother went missing, and your mom adopted me. Because you missed him so much when we were trainees.”
Another finger, “The night you told me you looked up to Taeyongie hyung, I dreamt that hyung and I merged into one person — some, like, mutated fucking monster.”
And another finger that he jabs awfully into Mark’s chest, “I had a recurring dream of being your housewife — ever since we — ” Donghyuck cuts himself off because he’s starting to feel sick.
Mark tries to reach out for him, but Donghyuck steps away.
“And those are just the dreams, hyung. I’m — I mimic people. I tried to be a girl for fuck’s sake!” Donghyuck laughs, raw and incredulous. Then quieter, shame swelling in his throat, “I tried to become you.”
This time Mark catches him by the wrist, his soapy fingers slipping against his forearms and elbows. Something to ground Donghyuck before he spirals into a hurricane of self-hate.
“Mark, I — I don’t know who I am when I’m not trying to be someone you want.”
“I’ve never wanted anyone else,’ Mark admits, gently. He pulls Donghyuck in closer, “When have I not chosen you, Donghyuck-ah?”
“If I say I love you now, will you say it back?”
The question hangs between them like smoke. One trembling breath for another trembling breath. Donghyuck searches his eyes, “You won’t.”
“Donghyuck, we can’t. And — and it’s not because it’s you. It’s not because of another person. It’s — ” and Mark waves his hand around them, like it’s obvious. “We’re idols. I thought you understood it — all those years ago.”
Donghyuck’s heart stops. Doesn’t break open, doesn’t wither away — it stops. No phenomenal effect. Not even a painful thud against his ribs because how could he have the right to mourn? He did not lose Mark to anyone. Not even to himself. It was just the course of their lives.
“You’re choosing your job. Over me.”
Mark sighs, hurting too, “I don’t know what I am without this.” He drags his hands over Donghyuck’s arms, “It’s all I’ve — we’ve known for so long.” And he glides his hands into the cradle of Donghyuck’s palms, “I want to say I love you…but I don’t know if I can give you as much as I’ve given this job.”
“You can pretend.”
“Will you pretend that it’s enough for you?”
Donghyuck laughs again. Wetly.
Aren’t they back where they started?
You can’t fix something better. You can only construct something new.
2025. New year, same old aches.
New year, new shiny achievements. Mark’s about to release his full solo album in a couple of weeks — meanwhile Donghyuck, he had the honour of being featured on the album too. One name among others. Still, Mark had said:‘of course it had to be him’.
Lucky Donghyuck.
Mark and Donghyuck are centre-stage. They’re back to back, panting hard, smiling pretty for their ending shot even as the stagelights burn their irises.
And for a long, deafening moment, as they’re pressed tight together, their heartbeats stack on opposite sides.
Static image of a dream they once had. One that came true — and didn’t end up feeling like the way they imagined it would when they were trainees.
‘Oh, every time I close my eyes.’
But that’s how Donghyuck began.
And it’s a little piece of peace only the two of them can share, even if they’re pretending it hasn’t been a tragedy the whole time.
And that’s how it’ll end.