Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Mark opens his eyes, the hole in his wall is still there. 

His packed bags too.  

There’s an aching pit settled in the depths of his stomach, reminiscent of hunger. But he could chalk it up to anxiety too. 

Saturdays were usually uneventful, besides anticipation stewing for Sunday services. Not much happened besides Mark holding his breath and tiptoeing around more than he usually does. And of course, his father who’d spend the day restless. His mood dictated the household. Sunday, Mark would usually sit on the front bench, his eyes zoned on his father who’d preach at— what felt like— their entire neighbourhood. When he was little, he had pride in that. An abundance of it, so much it had his heart bursting with pride, his tiny mouth tumbling out the words that he wanted to be like Appa too. Mark had turned out to be the opposite, ironically, and no longer burned to be the replica of the man who raised him.  

No longer calls his father Appa either.  

His wants had swum ahead, pure greed manifested and nurtured from his parents' wishes. Crushed by their sorrows. Each year, each inch that propelled him further from his mother’s arms, only pushed Mark further into guilt. He’d grown less and less into what his parents had hoped he’d be, shortly missed the life they’d move countries for. It was only natural that the bar moulded for him was out of sight, though it didn’t stop Mark from trying to jump desperately towards it. 

His alarm goes off and he’s quick to jump to his feet. Out of the seven days of the week, Saturday is his least favourite. There’s no routine to a late start of the day, nothing to keep him on his toes and his mind at bay. Just quietness and longing for a tomorrow much louder than today.  

When he finally gets downstairs, the table is all set with plates full of hot food. Mark grimaces.  

“How long have you been awake?” Mark wishes that his mother had waited, instead of preparing for the day on her own, accompanied by a rising sun instead of him.  

His mother waves her hands, like she usually does when Mark offers a hand. “I would be quite useless as a mother if I needed my son to help me every step of the way. Go sit down and eat; your father has busied himself with the youth club’s itinerary.”  

Mark does as he’s told. It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. True to his mothers’ words his father is there, plate untouched and hand busy scrawling at his leather notebook. It’s worn and practically falling apart, yet he’d still preferred it over the laptop Mark and Taeyong had gone halves on for Father’s Day. It lay unused in his office. Mark had tried to teach him how to use the apps he used for college, but it was fruitless. His father is a sticker for continuity, and he has a work laptop that stays at work. A notebook is all he needed for home.  

Mark waits to be addressed and when he isn’t, he starts to dig into his own plate. He’s starving. Eomma serves dinner at 7pm sharp every day, which would be fine if Mark had a normal sleep schedule. Most nights end at 3am for him, phone bright and lit, resting on his face as he snores.  

Uneasiness bubbles up in his stomach and with a few more bites he decides he can’t stomach anymore. He sits there, otiose. Since he’d stepped foot back in Canada, he hasn’t been able to steadily walk back into his life. Not without tripping over his own shadow. With great difficulty, his faults had been swept under the rug. Anything to maintain the image of the perfect family they never had been. Mark feels like he’s been waiting for a pin to drop, or his father to act, his entire life.

He’s always waiting.   

“Had you preferred bible time in the morning or afternoon?” 

Mark’s mouth drops open, and he fights to close it. “Pardon me?” 

“I did send you to camp, correct? I particularly remember your first year; you were lost in the woods. We found you asleep in a tree.”  

Mark blushes and presses the backs of his hands to his cheeks. He was always taught that religion came first, and he had quite liked stumbling out of bed, shirt on with breakfast barely in his tummy as he sat with his legs crossed. The sun had warmed his skin, and his feet were out digging into the grass. “...In the morning was nice— it felt good to start the day with Christ.” 

“And what did you enjoy most besides that?” 

Mark almost blurts out, none of it. He settles for lying instead, smiling slightly down at his eggs. It isn’t like his father is going to pick his choice, if he had one. The conversation they’re holding is idle; small talk almost as useful as Mark. He mutters out something about camp bonding and plays around messily with his food.  

When his brother comes stumbling down the stairs, Mark starts to ease back into his seat. His father has a soft spot for him that Mark had long stopped being envious of.  

“So,” Taeyong stretches the syllables out, “when are we dropping Markie off?” 

Mark tries and fails to hide a smile behind his fork. It’s a Taeyong thing to do— break the dam that holds Mark’s anxieties with no effort. 

“Your father picked a late flight. There's the children’s charity, the bake sale, and Jiwoo’s baby shower. Today is busy. Despite that-” she tires herself with dishes, never stopping to rest. Though, there’s a smile on her face, all pointed at the edges. “We’ll have to make sure to stop by the Church. If we can fit in one last good deed, we might as well. Lord knows Minhyung-ah needs it.”  

It’s teasing. There’s still a smile on her face, crow's feet at her eyes, but it doesn’t land the way she intends it to. Mark punches out a laugh— it sounds awkward to his own ears, but it musters off as usual to them.   

“Taeyong,” His dad says behind a mug of tea. “Go help Mark carry his bags down.”  

It’s subtle dismissal, get rid of him without even having to acknowledge his presence. Bring up that he’s leaving without even saying it.  

Mark doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s up the stairs with his lips between his teeth, hands clenched by his sides. It’s Taeyong who takes his hands and uncurls his fingers, gently rubbing a thumb over his knuckles.  

“They don’t mean it.”  

Mark looks at Taeyong, an eyebrow raised. “You know how dad is. You know that he means it.”  

When they were younger, it was constant competition. Who could bring back the most certificates, perhaps garner the most praise. Pry the most love out of their parents. By the time they got older, the competition had dulled. Mark had realised that love wasn’t something you had to forcefully take and especially not from unwilling hands.  

It’s not that he thinks his parents are incapable of love—for him, or for Taeyong. They do, but in ways Mark will never understand. There’s a barrier in love between them.  

The only person who has ever spoken the same language as Mark is Taeyong. He kind of prefers it like that now.  

At one point, Mark couldn’t even hold a civil conversation with him without jealousy, green and cloudy, swimming in his stomach. But it was worth it, it left them with more than just them.  

His brother who he’ll miss. His brother who is staying in Canada whilst he leaves.  

Taeyong gives him a look. The specific one where he’s being cautious and telling Mark that they’d speak about this later, away from their parents' prying ears.  

There’s a silly little voice chanting in his head; there will be no tomorrow. It’s high pitched and kind of sounds like Jungwoo— a fucked up and fried version of him. Later doesn’t feel real, or it is real, and Mark just doesn’t want it to be. How can he? A later where his parents continue giving him a cold shoulder, borders away? A later where he’s leaving, and his best friend doesn’t fucking know.  

The little Jungwoo in his head is probably some sort of repercussion. Mark doesn’t mind it tormenting him, he deserves it even.  

Taeyong brushes past him and then it’s just Mark and his suitcase. He’s had it for years and it hasn’t seen anywhere outside North America. Mark isn’t even sure if it’s built for it. Zipping it up was a nightmare and he’s not looking forward to the next 48 hours of constant anticipation, waiting for his suitcase to fall apart. 

Mark pats the suitcase. “Just me and you, buddy. If you hold out long enough, I won’t replace you with a new, shinier version of you.” He’s about to pat the suitcase again but feels a looming presence over his shoulder. He shivers and looks back quickly. Ah fuck.  

“Are you done packing?” His mother sounds lost for words. That’s a first for Mark. She’s always been a steady hand— well, hands. For what his father lacked in parenting skills, his mother had tried to make up tenfold. It’s nerve wracking to witness her so lost. “-I feel like I’ve failed you.”  

He blinks owlishly, not sure how to react. Doesn’t know if he can react because he’s yet to soak up the words his mother has aimed at him, yet to internalise them. When he had left the table, he’d foolishly thought it was the end of what felt like hell’s rope, tied tight and pleasing around his neck.  

Mark rushes to open his mouth, offended on the behalf of his own Mother. His mother who’d insulted herself because Mark is a bad son.  

She stops him. “I keep thinking, wondering how you turned out like this.” Well, that’s just what every child wants to hear. “Raising Taeyong was easy.” 

Mark isn’t sure how to reply.  

“But then I look at your father and I understand. Taeyong is unlike your father and me. He soaked up the qualities we wanted him to. You are a lot like your father.” He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it; for Mark, he’s never been more hurt in his life. It borders on an insult, to who he is. To whom he thinks he is. “There’s so much about your father that I have never understood, and you bear that and although it had stumped me at first, I love your father in his entirety. Why wouldn’t I love what he has passed down to you?” 

Although loving words, they bite into him, hitting nerves and near paralysing him. Mark wants to laugh. He and his father could not be any more different. Mark thinks he’d rather impale himself on the pole at the end of the railing than be like his father.  

At the thought he pinches himself. He wouldn’t be here without him.  

Deep down, Mark thinks he resents him for it. Resents them both.  

“Carry it downstairs before it does break. You have a heavy hand, Minhyung-ah.”  

Lifting his hand from the suitcase, Mark mutters out “Sorry.” He has no idea what for, but it feels like the right thing to say.  

As he’s struggling to trudge down the stairs, his mother lays a gentle hand on his arm. “Who knows, God might lead you to your soulmate. Let’s hope she’s as devout as our Minhyung.”  

Her arm raises and fingers pinch at his cheek. He feels guilt well in his heart, the smile on her face is genuine for once; there’s hope in it. Mark can’t reciprocate that, he’s still stuck at ‘devout’, feeling like he’s been encased in a lie.  

He smiles back at her. It’s more of a grimace and he is his mother’s son; she can tell that it’s out of place.  

Taeyong swoops in before Mark can get badgered with questions, swinging car keys around his fingers. Some things will never change.  

“So,” he drags it out. “Appa said I could drive us there if I got your permission.”  

Their mother huffs, amusement in her smile. “Is your name on the car?”  

Taeyong stutters. “No. But, I have my drivers' licence now.”  

“Congrats.” She pats him on the shoulder. “Now work on getting your own car.”  

A chuckle barks its way through Mark, and Taeyong looks back at him in betrayal.  

Mark lifts his hands up. “Eomma’s got a point!” 

As their mother walks away from them, Taeyong points a finger at him. “That’s the last time I’m saving your ass.” Mark tries not to think about how it quite literally is the last.  

“Thanks, Yong.”  

“Don’t worry about it,” he slaps a hand on Mark’s broad shoulder, “you can repay me by daily facetimes. I want you to call as much as you can, okay? Want it to feel like you haven’t left at all.”  

Mark’s lips quiver at that and Taeyong pulls him in, concern in his eyes. “You mean it?” 

“You’re my little brother. Of course I want you to call me, Markie.”  

He laughs wetly. “Kind of feels like no one wants me around-” he cuts himself off with a stilted laugh. “… I kind of ruined everything. That’s why they’re shipping me away right?”  

“You didn’t ruin anything.” Taeyong squeezes his shoulder when Mark tries to interrupt. “Not for me at least.”  

“But Eomma and Appa—” 

“They’ll learn to live with it.”  

“But God—” 

Taeyong rolls his eyes. “Well, he’s had, and will continue to have, an eternity to live with it. For God’s sake, Markie. He created us, why would he place us here broken?” 

“A test?” 

Taeyong places a hand on his cheek, it’s kind of awkward. Him and Taeyong aren’t exactly not affectionate but it’s side hugs, casual pats on the back. Just bro things.  

“God’s challenges aren’t meant to make you despise yourself, Minhyung.” 

It feels like he’s been ripped raw. That somehow, Taeyong had managed to sneak a glance into Mark’s mind, a peek into the pandemonium that lies within his heart, running wild off hatred— for himself, for God for making him this way and then for himself again, for hating God.  

Sliced open, then delicately peeled back like the rind of an orange is something that has been sold to Mark ever since his reading taste had evolved from Percy Jackson to epic poems which he’d eagerly read. The urge to be known, wished for by every Tumblr poet Mark has laughed at. Deep down, he knows it’s because he despises the concept; there’s no running away from a butcher’s knife, dead set on coating itself with his blood. His next move already mapped out.  

When he moves away, Taeyong has already caged him in further. “Nuh-uh, repeat after me: ‘I, Mark Lee, promise to phone my brother daily and not decline his calls when he rings’.” 

Poking his cheek with his tongue, Mark mutters in agreement.  

“Good,” Taeyong says, patting his head like he would a cat. “Make sure you love yourself extra hard for me. Take care of yourself properly. I won’t be able to do either of those things for you like how I want to, so you're really going to have to do it for me, okay?” 

Mark nods, knocking their shoulders together.  

“And if you don’t call me, don’t forget Johnny’s over there. I’ll force him to check up on you.”  

Mark giggles, one of his ugly ones coming from the depths of his stomach. “Johnny is in London. That’s on the other side of the country.”  

Taeyong waves a hand. “England’s tiny. I already checked how far away you are from each other. Mark the distance is smaller than Québec. I’m sure Johnny can afford the train ride.”  

“Whatever you say, hyung.” 

He gets a slap on the butt, and a nagging finger in his face. “Go clean yourself up in the bathroom. Wash away the dried tears and fix your hair.”  

Mark’s mouth falls open, “I was not crying! And my hair being ruined is your fault.”  

Taeyong shrugs. “Eomma’s gonna think it’s your own fault.”  

Mark mutters something about favouritism and stalks off to the bathroom, his lips twisted at the corner.  

His Dad drives them to Church, the very same one Mark had visited almost daily. Floor worn in the same spot he had knelt at; forehead touching the floor, praying for a miracle. Longing to be fixed.  

Mark has an itch to kneel, to throw himself in front of God and bear his wrath with all he can. To maybe beg for forgiveness, and salvation. When his knees buckle, red, hot shame chases him back up.  

He’s not sure if he can trust himself on his knees. Mark had craved it too much and well; it’s gotten him an inch from ostracised. 

It leaves Mark with no other option but to stare at the floor, pinned to where it’s worn, and try to pray. The words get lost in his mind and he can’t quite clutch them close, he’s too busy trying to push down his heart, hoping it wouldn’t crawl up his throat. He’d ruined the floors, and religion had wrecked him in return.  

He sneaks a glance over to Taeyong.  

He’s next to their Father, shoulders touching as they pray on the bench. Mark tears his eyes away, heat rushing to his cheeks.  

He feels caught but neither had noticed him watching over them with a longing gaze.  

But God had. There’s no other explanation for the way his chest feels like it's going to cave, his heart long absent, nothing to keep it afloat. Or, for the relentless weight of eyes on his back, waiting for him to fuck up.  

He tilts his head, clenches his eyes close and struggles to take in air as he recites parts of exodus he remembers, 20:12 sprinting to his mind instantaneously.  

Prayer is a lost cause for Mark; no words he could string together could save him. Maybe God would accept His own instead.  

He’s speechless by the time his father walks over to him, leaving a considerable space between them. They’re away from Mark’s mother and brother, a purposeful barrier built by the awkward silence that wounds like a slap to the wrist.  

Mark is almost convinced that this is some sort of chastisement, silent treatment to bully Mark onto his knees. Incentive to beg, voice raw with true desire to be saved.  

When bleacher-gate had happened, months ago, his father had looked at him like he was confused at what lay in front of him and, when he confronted Mark who had stayed silent, he stared at him like a complete stranger. Mark hadn’t borne his neck, nor had he asked for forgiveness. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he was too afraid to hear the answer. Afraid of rejection sinking into him and rotting his bones any faster.  

His father hadn’t known that and had taken it as defiance. As if Mark had ever in his 20 years of life willingly turned his cheek from the hand that had bathed him. 

Clothed him. Fed him.   

“Mark.” The silence almost killed him; acknowledgment isn’t any better.  

Mark nods, eyes darting to anything and everything. Pen and paper, the pot of rosaries, the charity box.  

“Acknowledge your father with your voice, Mark.” His name is spoken with a sigh and he kind of wants to die.  

He’s not sure how many more times he can disappoint his father. It’s a steel knife to the gut, it’s almost enough to knock him off his feet.  

“Yes father?”   

He holds his hand out, worn and rough, with expectation. “The keys?” 

Mark lets out a little “Wha—”, blinking in confusion. His eyebrows must be at his hairline.  

“The house keys.”  

He freezes before his arms digs into his pockets, fishing them out. Holding them in his hand, Mark looks back towards his mother who’s pointedly not looking at him and commenting on the interior design. The design that hasn’t altered in the last 50 years, the same one he’s sure his mother had looked at daily for the last forty or so years. He lets out a scoff of disbelief, looking away when his father’s mouth twitches. Figuring he’ll get it over with, he places them in the still outstretched hand.  

If Mark was feeling any incomplete earlier, this had truly ripped a chunk from him. And he’s bleeding out, a spectacle for both his parents to watch. There's nothing for him to hold onto, only blood ties him to their household. One he can’t even fucking enter, door locked, and Mark has a sinking feeling that he’ll never have the means to open it again.  

One more sigh from his father before a keyring is placed in Mark’s palm, devoid of any actual keys and instead Mark’s attention is forced away from his whirlwind of emotions to an embellished piece of wood. He’s staring at a crucifix, turning it over when his father urges him to.  

Sodomy is a sin, Mark knows that. His own ashamed thoughts remind him of that; they plague him at night. He doesn’t need a keyring scribed with a reminder from Genesis, as if he’s miraculously forgotten what happened to the people of Lot.  

Mark knows this isn’t a gift, it’s a deterrent. Not that he needed it, his own means were enough. 

Anger surges in his stomach, he tries to keep it at bay. This is a gesture of goodwill; his Appa is only looking out for him in the only way he knows how to.  

“Thank you, I, uh, appreciate it.”  

His father lifts his arm like he’s about to pat Mark on the back before he hesitantly drops it.  

Mark pointedly looks away; he hopes the tears welling in his eyes aren’t obvious. There’s a rock in the back of his throat and it hurts to stay silent. To speak. There’s no reprieve for him, no solace from what feels like Jael’s hammer, hacking away at his skull.   

Standing in the middle of the Nave, Mark finally succumbs. Never once has he been in these four walls so clueless on his future.  

He had it all planned out; he would meet his soulmate, woo and marry her, maybe even go to law school. Have kids. Become a beacon of all things devout and holy. Spend his life tearing his limbs off for the woes of others until he’s immobilised, guiltless. Or whatever the fuck there was planned for him.  

It’s only himself to blame, his own quivering finger that pulled the trigger— his sins alone to atone for.  

Mark may have free will but it’s that akin to how the dead lay round. He’s predestined to a fate picked out for him and if not for that, there’s certainty that his mother has her own wishes. And yet, a fate of fire is willingness to turn from God. He isn’t inclined to a pit of raging flames, but Mark’s choices are leading him there either way. 

“The college your mother and I have picked for you has a quaint Church on campus.” Mark nods. “Under no circumstances do you align yourself with such sort. John has already given his recommendation.”  

There’s no point in Mark fighting this. Johnny is only four years older than Mark. He grinds his teeth, almost afraid of what his mouth is capable of.  

Immense relief hits him when nothing further is said, his father walking away with a grimace. Mark had caused that.  

Like an infection, the rot within him had spread and there’s relief in the fact that they’re sending him away. Amputating the infected limb so the body survives. It’s all logical and Mark can’t fault them, can’t place any blame. It was his mistake, and it remains no one else’s responsibility.  

He needs air. Rushing past his father, he mutters out a few apologies, not waiting for any replies. Mark is none the wiser.  

It’s all a blur until he’s ripping open the door to the Narthex, falling in half when he hears it shut loudly behind him. Despite the barrier, Mark still can’t quite manage to get his lungs working again.  

Most of Mark’s earliest memories are packed within this little space, from the narrow entrance to the vase and its flowers. Wilting petals. Fit for the predicament Mark has found himself in. It’s suffocating. As children, they were loud, boisterous in only a way two boys prohibited from anything deemed fun and worthwhile for a kid could be. When their father led his sermons, they were kept away. Out of sight in risk of ruining it. At Church, his Appa was not their father, that was kept separate from his duty. Their mother had her own duties too. Mark and Taeyong were not one of them, not if they were stood between these beige walls. Soon, Mark had become Taeyong’s own duty.   

Once he learnt how to tie his shoelaces, ride a bike— the things Mark hadn’t been able to do and thus, all the reason for Taeyong to look after him. How his brother hadn’t grown to resent him baffles him. Maybe he had and Mark had been too stupid to see it. It was for the best, it would have broken his little heart and if he hadn’t had Taeyong, he wouldn’t have known who to go to when it needed to be pieced back together. 

His palm itches. Mark isn’t able to soothe it, not here.  

He had only been four the first time he remembered standing out here, alone. Except he wasn’t alone, he had Taeyong with him.  

They had stuck together, whispering far too loud. There was a gap between the two doors leading to the insert where their father stood, tall and proud, all dressed in Black. Mark’s Eomma had dressed him and Taeyong up in white. When she put a little bow tie on him, she urged him to look in the mirror with a proud smile. Called him her ‘growing boy’ when he combed his hands through his hair, styling it like his Appa did. His hair had inevitably messed up, a tussle outside on the grass with one of the other Church boys. It got him an earful but, guiltily, it was worth it. The boys at Church never included him in anything. He was never tough enough, but he was for that.  

Staring at his Appa, whose hair was still neat, had Mark fidgeting. His Appa liked when Mark tried to copy him. He smiled sometimes, when Mark wasn’t bad at it. 

“Do you think we should go to the flowers?” 

Mark gasped. “No! What would Appa think?” 

Taeyong threw a punch to his shoulder and Mark forced himself not to cry. Not here where everyone could see him. The teasing would last for months.  

“Be quiet, Mark! Appa isn’t paying attention to us, but if you scream any louder he will.”  

He bit his lip; the flowers were pretty. His brother knew how to make bracelets and crowns. Mark still hadn’t gotten over his Eomma throwing away the ones Taeyong made him last time.  

But he still saw his father’s silhouette, hovering over him even metres away. He paid attention, ignoring Taeyong. Mark didn’t know what fornication meant, he just knew it was wrong.  

He turned to Taeyong. It couldn’t hurt? Mark already knew it was wrong; he didn’t need to stay— he’s heard this speech before. Too afraid to verbalise it, he let his wandering eyes do the talking for him. 

Taeyong knew he had won and without even waiting for him, flew past the statue of Christ, and burst through two doors, which had sheltered them from the sunlight. So much for being quiet. 

They hadn’t done much but played gently. Mark remembered feeling guilty and that must have been the reason he, and in extension Taeyong, had held back. An hour later someone had come and looked for them. 

Mark was forced to leave his flowers behind, fix his hair and clean the mud on his trousers off with a wipe.  

They had been scolded. Far later, away from the congregation, just Taeyong and Mark.  

So much of Mark’s life has been temptation, it’s embarrassing. Appa had spent a decade flushing it out of his system, no bar of soap could leave him reborn. Untouched by human error and desire. A cat would have lost its fight by now, but not Mark. There’s something wrong with him, stirring in his stomach. He’s sure he’ll see it on the floors too. He’s a second away from hurling up the few bites of eggs he’d pushed down at breakfast.  

Mark leans back. Like stars gravitating towards each other, Taeyong’s hand is already there, soothing at his warm neck. It’s nice. 

“What’s wrong, Mark?” 

He shakes his head.  

“You look like you’re about to faint. Let’s get you back into the car.”  

It’s when Taeyong is strapping him into the passengers' seat he notices their parents hadn’t come with them. With a sinking feeling, he shuts his eyes tight. His mother hadn’t wished him a proper goodbye. His father had the chance to and didn’t take it. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t, hardly when the person who actually raised him is sat next to him, fiddling with the AC even though it’s autumn and fucking cold.  

“They’re not going to say goodbye, are they?” 

“You know how Eomma is…” Mark does, she’s not the type to say goodbye like this, or at all. It’ll break her heart, having to send him away with actual words. It’s selfish. She’s selfish. But so is Mark and he had desperately hoped she’d make an exception for him.  

“It’s whatever,” Mark mumbles, “gonna go to sleep. Wake me up when we get there.”  

He hears Taeyong rustle around. This is the first time he’s been able to drive the car on his own.  

He falls asleep to hands in his hair and he’s not awake when the car finally starts. But his mind is. It never stops, never allows him to rest.  

For God speaks in one way, and in two, though man does not perceive it. In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls on men, while they slumber on their beds, then he opens the ears of men and terrifies them with warnings, that he may turn man aside from his deed and conceal pride from a man; he keeps back his soul from the pit, his life from perishing by the sword. (Job 33: 14-18)  

For the last four years Mark has had the same dream plaguing his nights. Calling it a dream is kindness he shouldn’t give to the scene engraved into his eyelids. It’s a nightmare, come to chase him, strip him to the bone so he is bare to the world. Naked, ashamed and it’s his truth. His parents hadn’t seen the real him, nor had Taeyong. He’d kept it hidden under layers of flesh, unfamiliar to him, that weighed down on his bones. Wore the skin of another person in hopes they’d love him for what he wasn’t.  

It hadn’t been enough. Mark never was. And when his parents saw him, finally, as he is, they sent him away.  

Taeyong is still driving when Mark turns to him. His brother is pretty, in ways he isn’t. It isn’t jealousy that’s burning through Mark but something similar.  

“How long until we’re there?” He struggles to get the words out, sleep still holding him.  

“An hour or so. Appa booked the flight at the airport furthest from us.” Mark has always been car sick over drives longer than thirty or so minutes. “But it’s all good. We have time to talk this way.”  

Mark makes a noise of disbelief. “You cornering me now?”  

“I mean, yeah. You have a unique ability at avoiding these types of things.” Ouch.  

“And what does that mean?”  

“Don’t be difficult, it doesn’t suit you.” If Taeyong didn’t have to focus both hands on the steering wheel, Mark is sure one of them would be burrowed in his hair.  

Mark purses his lips. “Okay, well. What do you want to talk about?”  

Taeyong snorts. “The weather.”  

Mark groans. “You don’t be a brat.”  

“Well, if you’re gonna evade everything I bring up then…” Taeyong turns to look at him, one hand on the wheel. Mark turns his face forward with a hand.  

“Eyes on the road, hyung.”  

“Just listen to me, okay? Don’t interrupt, or sulk, or ignore me.”  

Mark nods, a frown on his face. 

“Appa and Eomma might not see what God has graced them with, but I do.” 

Mark groans.  

“I said no butting in! I see who you are and how you treat the world around you. It’s beautiful. It’s a shame that it hasn’t treated you with the same respect. Don’t look at me like that Mark. The only crime you committed was coming home and letting Appa feed you his bullshit like its gospel, like it came from the Lord’s mouth itself.”  

Mark isn’t ready to have this conversation. The doors are locked and there’s no way in hell he can break through windows so his chances of jumping and rolling out of the car are slim to none.  

“Appa’s been preaching God’s truth for longer than we’ve been on earth. What do you want me to say? ‘No, you’re wrong’. ‘Sorry you think I shamed this household but actually, I think you’re incorrect.’ Do you want me disowned?”  

“No. I want you to nod your head in his face and then turn around and not believe in that shit because it’s fucked! His words aren’t to comfort you. You internalise it like he wants you to. You’ll rot from the inside out and what happens when I can’t recognise you? When you’re so disfigured I don’t see you, but him?”  

“He’s not the devil. He’s not leading me astray, Hyung. He’s kinda doing the opposite, that’s kinda the whole point of a pastor?!” 

Taeyong frowns. “I’m worried for you; will you take it seriously? I don’t think we’ve ever had time to talk about it, not like this. Without them hearing.”  

“You’re being paranoid.”  

“One of us has to be since you let them feed you like you’ve been depraved.”  

Mark rolls his eyes. “Like you’re any better? You pray shoulder to shoulder with him. You're like his perfect fucking clone.” He looks like him too. If Mark stares Taeyong in his eyes too long, that same shame wallows in his stomach.  

“I don’t think we can have this conversation without you being a child.” Taeyong’s patience is wavering thin and it’s a blessing to Mark. 

He stays silent. He’d never had the opportunity to be a child, not like the other kids did, and if it means ignoring Taeyong until his brother has had enough of him, Mark is more than willing to act like a child. It’s satisfying, not being the bigger person. Care less about the sins written down on his left shoulder.  

They stew in silence for a little while before Mark falls back asleep again. It’s dark out when Taeyong shakes him awake, the car parked. Mark’s too tired to speak. He listens to Taeyong as he fastens the coat at his waist. Forces his own beanie onto Mark’s head. He leans into Taeyong’s touch when he’s cupping his face in bony hands, whispering words of encouragement and love that fly over Mark’s head. He whispers back ‘bye’ when he stumbles out of the car.  

He doesn’t remember getting on the plane and isn’t sure about leaving his home until he’s knocked out, once more.  

When he wakes up, it’s to a flight attendant asking him if he’d like his meal yet. Mark says no and fights his eyes open. He has an hour of his flight left and it still hasn’t sunk in, none of it has.  

He looks to his right and there’s an abundance of fog. But he can’t focus on what’s in front of him. Other images come to mind—his father in front of the fireplace, his mother on her knees wiping the blood on his face. His brother, arms behind his back, Mark none the wiser to why, playing with his car like he usually did. Guilt makes him nauseous, and he mumbles out a few words to his left and barely stops himself from tripping over a row of legs before he’s heaving up liquid into the toilet.  

There’s a large sense of embarrassment he feels, trying to prevent himself from falling onto the floor, his head tucked between his arms hoping the pressure will still any headache waiting to surface. He hasn’t even set foot in England and his eyes feel seconds from popping out of his skull.  

A knock on the door behind him and Mark finds himself flinging it open, apologising and stumbling back to his seat. Thirty minutes left of the flight and he’s twitchy. Scared like a little child. He opens his phone and meticulously goes through each of his accounts, one by one, and deletes any trace of himself. In Canada or the states. If he’s going to do this, he’s doing it properly.  

He’s so invested in scrubbing his digital footprint from the world, it takes a second for him to realise they’re landing, and his time is up.  

It’s literal seconds in his mind until he’s out of the airport and into the car park. Though, it had probably been half an hour. Mark hadn’t been mentally present for any of it, walking through the airport in motions. Distantly, he’s aware he’s supposed to be looking for Johnny’s car, a blue BMW because of course Johnny would land a high paying, non-soul-sucking job and then reward himself with literal sex appeal compacted into a car.  

He fails to locate the car, drops his phone twice whilst trying to navigate the roads and almost gets run over a few times. His last straw is when he bumps into someone, and they send him flying towards the ground. He’s not upset, he can’t be upset and the tears in his eyes are just tears of frustration. He usually doesn’t tear up easily, besides Mark’s a grown man and grown adults don’t cry over falling over. He picks himself up and then gathers his bags. Why should he cry? 

He’s never seen his father shed a tear. 

The keyring his father gifted him is on the ground, accompanied by a photo keyring that he’d brought for his old keys. It looks a little stupid with just a piece of word and an image keeping it warm.  

Apprehension abandoned; Mark kneels, hesitating to pick it up. It feels like a test from God. He could leave it, or he could take it with him. Let it sit in his pocket like a heavy weight, anchoring him.  

There’s not much running through his mind when he breaks through the glass encapsulating his family. He uses his heel to smooth shards into the gravel below him. It’s all in effort to get to the photo itself and as he gently scoops away the fragmented shards, he realises that he’s bleeding all over the photo.  

The red on his skin and the blush on four-year old Mark’s face bleed together. He’s sat on his dad’s lap. It’s a family picture, filled with love and he aches for it. Slightly crumpling the photo in his hand, he thirsts for a tiny speck of the adoration his father once had for him. Even his father’s anger brings him comfort, means he might still care. An axe to his ribs, yet sickeningly worth it. 

Mark’s staring down at his own little face, small and offset by his big eyes, when the tears truly start to fall.  

An adult is what he should feel like. He can’t help but feel he’s grown into his body wrong, that maybe God had accidentally left his mould on its side, perhaps used the wrong clay to shape him. Whatever he’s grown into isn’t what his parents want, it’s not what he wants either.  

He’s still a little boy, choking on his father’s grief. 

Chapter Text

Albatrosses. Three of them, large and daunting, pitch black if not for moonlight shining down, illuminating one with its heart bare and lying in its ribs— a cage made from its own bone. Almost a platter, serving its heart raw for the living albatrosses who peck at it with greed, alight and glinting in their beady eyes. Mark feels naked at the scene, hand cupping his chest in phantom pain. 

The same fucking dream he can never fully remember yet constantly lives on edge over, fear cornering him in his own sanctuary. In his own mind. The terror that wakes him is longer than anything he remembers. 

Mark had taken a pre-lit elective when he was 13, the fear of the unknown, it had been something to get out of algebra. If he knew at the age of 20, he’d be sprawled out, shaking— on his best friend’s soulmates’ bed— and attempting to grasp concepts he was taught almost a decade ago, he would have appreciated his teacher a little more. Maybe even put in actual effort. Dreams have substance, an albatross isn’t some random pigeon; his subconscious is spelling something out. Weirdly, it feels like an omen.  

He pulls up Google like any other self-respecting 20-year-old. 

A psychological burden.  

It’s a little too late to warn Mark about the atrocities waiting for him, he’s actively going through them. 

He scoffs, throws his phone onto the bed and slowly clambers out of the blanket. The living room light is still on, and Mark winces. Johnny’s asleep on the couch, tv playing loudly. Mark shuffles over, grabs the remote and turns it off. He flops onto the other couch and stares at Johnny. It’s kind of satisfying, in a non-weird, totally not perverted, and really, really not stalker way. 

Mark doesn’t get to do this very often. He’s not a big fan of eye contact and other people aren't particularly fond of having their faces stared at, pinned down. It’s a social taboo. Johnny’s face is unguarded; a childish lax to his face, curled up in a way he’s sure only his parents have ever been privy to. Jaehyun as well. He looks a little rough with usually trimmed, short hair, now long and shaggy like he’d been holding off on a trim. Things have always come easy to Johnny. If England is hard for him, then there’s a large chance that this will ruin Mark.  

As Mark turns to make a beeline for the kitchen, Johnny stirs. Holding his breath, he tiptoes. Johnny’s apartment is huge, colourless and devoid of any personality, yet it stretches for acres. He doesn’t want to wake him up. He knows Johnny’s work schedule is slowly killing him, fast-paced and never-ending. Johnny doesn’t get to sleep in anymore and in his rare day off, he offered to pick Mark up. Even offered his apartment to him. It’s only fair he should replicate that selflessness Johnny continues to show him.  

Just as he thinks he’s gotten away with it, he hears his name ever so softly. Mark is a weak man, and he acknowledges it. U-turns, then walks back to Johnny. He finds that most roads end up leading to him. 

“Shit, did I wake you up?” 

Johnny squints at him, sleep still in his eyes. “Nah, I think the light did.” 

Mark purses his lips. “The lights been on this entire time, man.” 

“Must have forgotten to turn it off,” he shrugs. Taking a second to stretch, he throws a question at Mark. “Why are you awake at… four am?” 

Mark hasn’t even noticed the time. “Jet lag, I think.”  

“You were dying to fall back asleep when I picked you up. You fell asleep in the car, on the sofa, practically in my arms at one point.”  

“I did not fall asleep in your arms,” he whines. “And I got way too much sleep on the plane... and in Taeyong’s car.” 

Johnny’s face is impassive and it’s hard to believe he has any credence in Mark. “Okay. Your legs been shaking the entire time you’ve stood there, so do you want to tell me what’s going on or should I ring Taeyong?” 

Taking up Johnny’s offer to stay with him meant accepting another parent over his shoulder, it’s why he was initially so hesitant. No matter how hard he tries to launch himself from the thirteen-year-old, spotty little boy Johnny knew him as, he’s still the same burden. Tossed from hand to hand like he’s iron, hot and unforgiving. Mark’s faults hadn’t left him with age; they’d only clung deeper, hidden ever so slightly.  

“It’s like dinner time there. Are you really gonna ruin dinner over a bad night’s sleep?” 

“You still have trouble sleeping?”   

Fuck. “What? No, I’ve grown out of that, man.”  

“Is it the same one?” 

“I didn’t say I had a nightmare, John.” 

“Well, maybe you should have. How am I meant to help you if you refuse to speak up?”  

Eerily, Mark is sure they’ve had this exact conversation before. Was he still in Toronto? Maybe it was in Vancouver. Either way, the outcome hadn’t been too pretty for either one of them— Mark with his puffy eyes and Johnny, a bloody nose. Taeyong and Johnny were good kids; they didn’t fight and certainly not with each other. But when it came to Mark there really were no limits.  

“You don’t need to call Taeyong. I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look it.” 

“Well, you don’t look so hot yourself, dude.” 

Johnny scoffs. “I looked hot when I was bald, dude. I always look good.” 

The thing is, Johnny really did look hot bald. God. Despite the cobalt lighting harshly blinding him, Mark has never been so warm to touch— his mind is stirring with copious nasty thoughts and if he isn’t too careful, it won’t be the only thing. 

“I don’t get why you’re all up in my business.” 

Johnny looks at him like he’s grown horns. “Mark, safeguarding literally called me. I had no idea I was your emergency contact— I’m in fucking England. I think I have the right to be in your business when the residency at Brown is phoning me about how you—” 

“Okay, I get it! Everyone fucking knows that I’m fucked up— so like, what do you want me to say?” 

“I want to know how you’re doing, Mark. I want to know that you’re okay.”  

He shakes his head. “All you guys want from me is to spill my feelings like I’m some fucking teenage girl. You guys haven’t like—”  

“Let you breathe?”   

“That,” Mark chuckles. “Yeah.”   

Johnny takes a second to run his eyes over Mark’s frame. He would never judge Mark, and yet the fear within him still lives. 

“Well, what do you want?”   

No one has had the guts to ask him that. “I guess, well, how are you? How’s London?” Mark kind of knows, but he wants an answer from Johnny. Not from Taeyong, Jungwoo or even his parents. It sucks a little that even his parents had gotten updates, and all Mark had really gotten was one empty inbox.  

Johnny breaks out into a smile. “You’re such a good kid, Mark.”   

He wants to hide. That’s all he is to Johnny. He blushes, purely out of embarrassment. 

“London’s nice. When I’m not on the clock at least and well, I can imagine myself here. Jaehyun too.” 

“Really?” Mark asks, blinking owlishly. 

“Yeah, it’s why I kept bothering him to fly out. Just because I think it’s the perfect place doesn’t mean it is. I have perfect taste, but you know how Jae is, he might hate it.”   

“Oh, really.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I’m excited for both of you. Uh. I’m sure Jaehyun will like it, and even if he doesn’t, it’s not like there’s not like, hella countries out there for you guys.” He hopes Johnny ignores each time his voice cracks. Mark deflates. Fuck. All of this had been happening under his nose and Jaehyun had just— “What do you mean Jae’s flying out this month?”   

“Yeah. You know how my company loves a good excuse to throw a little party together. I needed him for my plus one.”   

“Why would you need Jaehyun to go with you?” Mark murmurs, mouth furling at the corners, genuine confusion painting each one of his round vowels.  

“Is there a reason he shouldn’t?” Johnny questions.  

“It’s just that, uh, I usually do it… go with you. And like- well. I’m here, aren’t I? And he’s not.” Surely Mark is the best option for this. He’s always done it; he has the most experience. Knows what to say to get a laugh out of Johnny’s older coworkers. He’s a familiar face to them.    

“Jae’s flight is already booked.” He takes a second to look at Mark, an odd look on his face. “Aren’t you happy? To see him? When’s the last time you’ve seen each other?”   

“April— May, maybe? Anyways, that’s not the point— when did you say the event was?”   

“October.”   

“I’ll already be gone by then.”  

“That’s no problem, baby. Jae will just come up to you, we’ll make a day out of it.”   

That’s not the problem, not for Mark at least. “Hmm. Sounds nice,” he says, tight-lipped.  

“Are you good? Come closer, you’re too far away.”   

Mark is just peachy, he’s fine where he is.  

“I think you’re just tired, huh? Is it the same dream?” Johnny asks, lifting the blanket. Practically beckoning Mark over. 

A sofa should not look that comfy. But it does, and Mark just wants to crawl under the blanket. He hadn’t realised but Johnny is right, he is tired. He’s so tired, and any moment now Mark is going to crumble out of pure exhaustion. It’s the only reason he clambers in. He had no other choice. It was practically either pass out or let Johnny play knight. Mark’s hands were definitely tied. 

“Thanks, Johnny.”   

Mark can feel him laugh. They’re snuggled up nicely. The blanket may be thin, but their combined body heat is enough to keep him warm. It reminds Mark of when they were younger. Sleepovers between the two, and Taeyong, with Mark in the middle. 

No matter how sweet this should be, it’s just another reminder that he’s not a kid anymore. Out of the trenches of adolescence and thrown straight into the hardships of adulthood, changes are seeping into every corner of his life— the only constant is his struggle to keep up. Johnny’s chest, however, is one very welcome and very apparent change. Incredibly large and muscular, caging Mark’s back. Fuck, does Mark have to get over this. Change his underwear too whilst he’s at it.  

“I tried ringing you yesterday.” Straight to the point.  

Mark bites back a laugh. “Did you?”  

“Don’t pretend you’re clueless. You declined my call!”  

“It was late, hyunggg.” And he was wallowing. In Johnny’s arms, but wallowing, nonetheless. 

“It’s late here right now but I’m still calling.”  

“Yes, because you’re perfect and I should strive to be more like you.” And then, “I’m nervous, I think. It’s the first time I’ve been like, fully alone, and you’re not even here to settle me in.”  

“You don’t need me there with you,” Taeyong snorts.  

Mark makes a noise of disagreement; he’ll always need him. “Hyung, what do you mean?” he whines. “I can’t function.”  

“You went to college in the States and forgot all about me. And Doyoung. And Johnny.”  

“That’s different.”  

“How?”  

“That’s only a border away. How am I meant to function in England without you? Like. You raised me, hyung.”  

“That’s funny, you didn’t say any of this in the car.” Well, Mark hadn’t really wanted to speak. “I don’t know where you got the idea of me raising you from.”  

Mark stays silent. It’s hard for him when Taeyong acts like this, he can tell just by his wavering tone still ever so apparent despite the shitty connection. He sounds like’s going to cry, and Mark knows that whatever is bound to leave Taeyong’s mouth has the capability of reducing him to tears too. He doesn’t remember a whole lot of their childhood— he isn’t sure whether it’s true avoidant suppression or if his memory is just shit, but it’s Taeyong who remembers everything. He’ll say something and all of a sudden, Mark’s been knocked off his paddle, plunged straight into the deep end.  

“I was too busy raising myself. Sometimes, I feel bad that I turned out semi-okay, but it wasn’t my responsibility to look after you. And I know you were mad at me, always, about Johnny and Doyoung and how I kept leaving you out. But could you really blame me? Appa made me take you everywhere , I needed a break. And like you really can’t blame me. Do you remember when you told Eomma I was smoking because I wouldn’t let you hang out with us?”  

It seems like Taeyong had been holding this in for a while. Mark is going to need at least two years to recover from this. He can’t remember anything about cigarettes. It’s something he’d have done. Mark holds grudges. “Well, they didn’t raise me.”  

“No, they didn’t.”  

“Then who the fuck did?”  

“You did.”  

Mark bites his tongue. Figures he’d turned out so fucked up.  

“Well thanks for calling and ruining my day. Do you need anything else?”  

Taeyong laughs. “How has it been at Johnny’s?” 

“How much has he told you?” 

“Not much, just that you had a few little hiccups, but he did say you seemed more like yourself.”  

“Did he?” At Taeyong’s affirmed ‘yes’, Mark decides he’s going to stop being a pain in Johnny’s ass. Maybe some people truly are looking out for him. “Everything’s been pretty good over here. How is home, hyung? Is work still okay?” 

“Work is good… home is home.”  

Mark lets Taeyong leave it at that. He’s not sure he wants to know, and his parents haven’t made any moves to see how Mark is either. Why should he care if they haven't? Hasn’t Mark tried to make things work, done everything he could possibly do? It might slowly kill him— the waiting, the hope that he’ll wake up as the son they want, the son they reach out to. Prioritise. Nineteen years, and it hasn’t happened. Mark can’t go another nineteen years willing for it to happen.  

Not even if he still wants to ask.  

“Well, uh, Johnny’s made breakfast, I think, so I think we’re gonna have to cut the phone call short—” Mark doesn’t give Taeyong a second to reply, throwing his phone onto the bed before throwing himself at the soft pillow too. He buries his face in the duvet hoping to suffocate himself. God. If every phone call with Taeyong ends up like this, Mark’s mind scrambled, he thinks he might have to change numbers. Maybe run a car over his phone.  

Before he can descend into one self-made pity chamber, there’s a knock on the door.  

“Mark?” 

He hums in affirmation, not bothering to lift his head.  

Johnny stays outside, not letting himself into the room even though it technically is his. It’s just a Johnny thing to do— considerate, thoughtful, and gut-wrenchingly kind. It leaves a fuzzy feeling in Mark’s chest, but Johnny’s voice is what leaves his stomach fluttering. “Funnily enough, I actually did make breakfast. Get dressed and come eat.” 

“Were you eavesdropping on my call? Again? Johnny,” Mark whines out in frustration.  

“No comment.” The fluttering doesn’t stop and somehow, it worsens.  

It’s in the dregs of night, when Mark has one hand stuffed down his night bottoms and the other muffling any sound wailing out of him that he feels it at its worst.  

Hollows that Mark falls into. Each time, his impact eats away at the surface, the large black pit all the more damning and his fall even more sickening.  

It’s a mental thing, but sometimes, Mark would prefer it if it were physical. Something he could beg his mother to take him to the hospital over and treat at its root. Recover in a stable way because the sickness he’s left with is incurable. There’s no such cure for what was born with him.  

Other times, he realises that it’s a blessing.  

God has shown him mercy; it’s invisible, naked to the normal eye.  

No one looks at Mark Lee and guesses that he’s a raging homosexual. Only his fourth-grade gym teacher who had, in passing, called him a ‘pansy’. It wasn’t for his ears, even though it was about Mark, but it stuck with him. He’d always known something was wrong with him, but this had confirmed it. For all present-day Mark knows, it could have been racism, could have been both. He does know, however, that whatever sits under his skin, must stay hidden. He’s already off putting by nature, there’s no need to make it harder for himself.  

The guilt isn’t enough to stop him from barrelling into his orgasm though, letting out a squeak as his toes curl. 

If he was still at home, he wouldn’t get off like this or get off at all. Not with his parents separated by a thin wall, scriptures hanging from the same thinly painted surface.  

He’s not at home and yet still feels fear at the back of his throat, ice cold, as he cleans off his stomach. Shame follows him well into the morning, because Mark can’t force himself to sleep after such an act.   

It haunts him throughout the day, and it must show on his face. Johnny takes one look at him and takes him out for coffee, muttering that he ‘looks like he needs it’ and well, Johnny’s not wrong so Mark doesn’t bother protesting. Let’s Johnny lead him out of the apartment and into his car.  

“If your nightmares keep happening you should probably see someone about them.”  

Mark spits his coffee back into his cup.  

Johnny laughs at him before grimacing. There’s still a snicker on his face though when he teasingly calls out Mark’s name. “Another latte? Or something else. Watching you spit out your coffee was bad enough, I don’t wanna be subjected to you sipping it back up.”  

“An iced latte would be nice. Thanks.”  

Johnny stands up with a pat to Mark’s shoulder and it gives him a couple minutes to gather his thoughts. He’ll be in London for only today and tomorrow. He’s not sure the next time he’ll see Johnny, so he really has to make these last hours worth something.  

He’s already got his best puppy eyes on when Johnny slides back into his seat, pushing his drink towards him. “Soooo, like. What do you usually do in London for fun?” His voice is a bit too high, and he flakes out at the last minute on the eye contact.  

“Is this your way of asking me out on a date, Mark Lee?”  

Mark laughs, loud and sudden. He would never do that. “Come on, stop teasing me. I just want to do something today.”  

“Well, I have a few friends that are interested in meeting you.”  

Johnny’s friends. If they’ve earned that title, then they’re worth meeting. For some reason, Mark had wanted Johnny to suggest something just for the two of them. But this works out well too, Mark can’t be too selfish.  

“That sounds lit dude. Are they like Engl— from here or are they from work?”  

“You wanna know if they’re white?”  

“No… yes, kind of.”  

“Is that really what you should be worried about? Remember, I work exclusively with 50-year-olds.”  

Mark’s face drops. “We can’t go clubbing with 50-year-olds Johnny!” he whispers it out, trying not to draw attention to himself.  

“Clubbing? I’m not sure when I mentioned that.” Johnny’s looking at him all amused. Mark begs for his heart to stop jumping in loops.  

“Well, I figured it was your day off and that like you’d want to do something you actually like?”  

“To be honest, it’s not that bad of a shout. Not sure if everyone’s free, but I can ask.”  

Mark beams in plight of reply, sips through the straw of his iced latte very happily. Not only does Johnny like his idea, but Mark’s suggestion means hanging out together. In the club. It’s not like it’s his first time in a club but it is his first time in one with Johnny. He feels giddy excitement surge through him, and he can’t even bother to be embarrassed at Johnny laughing at him so openly.  

Johnny’s friends are exactly as he imagined they would be, not remotely like Mark; they’re cool and almost untouchable to a degree that has Mark cosplaying his younger self. He has much bigger issues to fry, but tonight his biggest problem is making sure Sehun and Yuta think he’s almost as cool as them. Maybe even one-eighth.  

Every shot he throws back is because Yuta has already knocked one down. Mark is a lightweight. Dizzy from the moment he sets his eyes back on Johnny, who’s had almost the same number of shots. The difference lies in the fact that Johnny is still composed. It must be the height. All the extra inches have to help metabolise it better— it’s not Mark’s fault that he’s bad at handling his alcohol; it’s his shit genetics, and probably the fact that he’s held himself back from drinking for so long, from anything he could use to reward himself like a damned dog undergoing punishment.  

“Don’t you think the shots are enough?”   

“You’ve had the same amount. Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Alcohol tends to make Mark bratty.  

Johnny presses two fingers to the temples of his head and lets out a loud sigh that kind of is hot. No, very hot. “I just think you should be able to wake up the next day and remember your first time in the club.”  

“I’m 19, I’ve been to a club before.” Not legally, and Mark had left within five minutes, flighty enough that he’s sure the bouncers were keeping an eye on him, kind of like they knew Jaehyun had smuggled him a badly done fake ID from Ten. But Johnny really doesn’t need any more details.  

“Does your brother know that?”  

Mark scoffs. “My brother’s not my keeper.” 

“Again. Does your brother know that?” 

He groans, shoving at Johnny’s shoulder before throwing back another shot, wincing as it attempts to travel back up. He shoves it down and regrets his life choices. Yuta makes it look easier than it is.  

Or maybe Mark really isn’t a fan of how alcohol tastes. How it burns.  

A hand on his neck distracts him from his sudden epiphany. Long nails scratching at the scruff of his neck and Mark leans into it, automatically. It feels good and he can allow himself this one fleeting touch.  

“I saw him from the corner of my eye.” A sweet tone, velvet accent, not that Mark could differentiate any; they all sound the same to him. “Mind if I steal him? Don’t think he’s fulfilling his utmost capability over here.”  

Her fingers travel down further, hooking into the collar of his shirt and tugging him backwards, towards her. Mark looks at Johnny with panic, has half a mind to reach out towards him but it’s too late.  

Sure, Mark misses being a whore, but this is a little too early for him. He has to settle in. Marinate in the sins he’s about to commit. Mark’s too panicked to even feel any disappointment. He’s being traded around like cattle and by Johnny no less.  

Johnny, the fucking traitor, grins at him and then at her. He gently pushes Mark away from himself, “he’s all yours.”  

“ Sweet. ” 

And before he knows it, he’s being dragged to God knows where. A hand on his wrist and plenty more brushing over him as he’s waltzed past strangers.  

He feels a rush, that sanitated feeling in the morning. Stomach empty and tingly, a day ahead of him. Mark bristles at the thought. 

He turns around and finally catches a glimpse at who had quite literally snatched him off his feet. She’s shorter than him, just by an inch or so, tanned skin and tiny moles freckled on her skin like they’re trying to complete their own little constellation.  

Mark grins. Definitely his type and all of a sudden, he has no qualms in slutting it out his second night in London.  

“Where are you kidnapping me to?” 

He’s hit with a sugary laugh, just short of being too sickly for him and it has him grinning wider. His body feels loose, and he is the lightweight Johnny claims he is.  

She tries to shout over the music, “It’s a secret!” She could take him out back, where the dumpsters are, kiss him and leave him with less than he had arrived with, and he still thinks he’d leave satisfied.  

“It better be good then.”  

“Oh, it’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”  

He doesn’t doubt that. He hasn’t had much well ever. Mark is in the presence of a very hot woman, he’s hyper aware of not fucking his chances over.  

The lasers above them, purple, pink and blue, blind him, one second, he’s still in the club, the next he’s in some dark room. He can feel the beat, shitty music and all, leading him forward, guiding him to her frame shrouded in the dark too.  

“You looked kind of confused back there, felt I had to do one good deed today, to come and help you. First time in a club?” 

He mumbles out a no, grasping at empty air, blindly trying to root himself to her. He feels nothing. Panic springs up his throat and bile threatens to follow, fear not far behind and lurching in his gut. The lack of anything corporeal, any real touch has him disorientated but it’s not long until a smooth hand grabs his own from where it was still outstretched, waiting patiently. 

“When’s the last time a pretty girl has helped you figure out where you’re going, huh? Watch your steps. Are you a Leo by any chance? You have the face for it.”  

He’s confused. She sounds like one of the white girls in his Latin class, reading his ‘chakras’ to predict how his 2024 would go.  

‘Solid and smooth. Just like how it’s always been, except this time, there’s more.’   

If this is the more predicted, he hopes it takes him further than it leaves him. He lets her lead him until he’s crowding over her against a wall, locked in a kiss that’s way too nice for him.  

“I don’t have your name,” he whispers against the soft plush of her lips.  

“Himari.” It’s pretty, just like her. 

“Mark,” he offers in reply.  

She laughs at him. A hand at the back of his neck draws him back into her. Nice and easy. He’s not even horny, no heat simmering beneath his gut. Mark fumbles around in the dark, hands brushing over the buttons of her jeans but just a tad too nervous to wander in. Instead, they travel lower, down to the seams.  

“Don’t be shy.” It’s taunting and Mark almost falls for it. The guilt thick in his throat leaves him lightheaded and a lot wiser. He leans in for a kiss again and, unlike the last, it’s all teeth, clashing blindly against each other. A chipped tooth bound to happen. Lips bitten raw, sweat bunching to his hairline and all Mark can think is that this is how he should be kissed, even in her earlier politeness, she is not sweet. Sweet has never merged well with him, and he hopes it’s why he’s never been kissed with it. He lets his hands wander and when they go slightly too south, he pulls back with haste.  

“Definitely a Leo. Finish what you started, Mark.”  

Mark nods fast, his eyes are unsteady, but his fingers are firm as they race further down. It’s her eyes, ever so encouraging, that finally persuade him to press down, rub in circles over her jeans. It can’t be any good, not with thick material dulling any sensation, yet the low-lidded look she gives him, mouth dropped open in a moan, eats away at his stomach. None of this is quite new to him, he’s kissed a girl before, but it wasn’t like this. There was no depravity, just the innocence and awkwardness of a first kiss. She’s pretty. Mark is easily enamoured by pretty things and though a tattoo is a grave decision, he’d think if he were drunk enough, he’d get the way her mouth curls around his name engraved on his ribs. It does something for him, that even just dumb circles of his wrist can keep a blush on her face.  

“Come on,” her breath is short, and it interrupts her words every second or so and it’s Mark who’s left her like this. “Let’s continue that way, I’m not in the mood for public indecency. At least not tonight.”  

And then his hand is ripped away from where it had finally found purchase, there’s a rippling sensation of disappointment clouding his head, but it’s gone when he catches the grin on her face. There’s a promise taunting in the way she kisses down his neck, each one she leaves will bruise and he can only hope for a chance they’ll mar his skin. They bump into a door; Mark knocks his head against a bolt; She almost falls backwards, dragging him with her. It’s nights like this that allow him to live guilt free, forget who he is and what he’s done. Nothing is stopping her from getting her hands on him, it’s almost inspiring.  

He's pushed into a fire door, his brittle bones used as some sort of boulder, forcing it open, and he prays that that too will leave a mark.  

Mark is in no way an exhibitionist; in fact, he’s rather the opposite, the thought of someone watching him bathe in sin sends his spine awry. It’s a relief that when he’s pulled outside, it’s to a dingy alleyway shrouded in darkness, empty and quiet in ways that leave him safe. It’s a privilege to be concealed from God’s all-knowing eye.   

“Can you lean against the wall for me, sweetie.”  

He nods clumsily, falling back far too eager. He thinks it's in his nature to please.  

“Would you do anything I say?” Himari breathes out almost jokingly, a thumb brushing against his cheek in not admiration, but astonishment. If Mark crosses his eyes and lets the world turn hazy, he thinks he can trick himself into thinking it’s affection. “You really would, wouldn’t you?”  

Mark nuzzles into her thumb, the alcohol sitting in his bloodstream has almost soothed him. He takes her thumb into his mouth and lightly bites. She giggles at that, like she wasn’t expecting it, and Mark can’t help himself but lean in with pride. Every giggle, every moan fills the gaping crater in his chest and if he fills it up with enough praise, maybe it’ll mean something by tomorrow.  

She kisses him one more time, no tongue and no teeth. It’s short and sweet.  

Patting his face, she gets down onto her knees. “I want you to be really quiet for me. Can you do that for me?” 

Mark nods his head, mouth slightly open. 

Dainty fingers brush over his stomach, under his shirt, leaving butterflies in their wake until the cotton is bunched up. He holds it still, clutched in his grasp just the way she prefers it. He does it obediently knowing praise will follow. Mark likes being good. Likes when he’s treated sweetly. He likes it awful too, likes to beg for less than he deserves.  

The thought is chased away by a small, startled gasp. Mark looks down in confusion but winces at what’s found.  

She thumbs over the cross scarred onto his hip. Looks up at him through doe eyes and leans into mouth over the same spot. Her teeth scrape his skin, there’s nothing that should be physically pleasurable about it, the pressure of her teeth is only just enough to leave a red hue to his skin, not enough to leave his cross surrounded by a mirage of blue and purple. But it’s the principle, he’s stiffening up in his cargos.  Like clockwork, her eyes light up— she knows what makes Mark tick. She leaves soft little bites trailing down to the waistband of his pants, Mark places a gentle hand on the back of her head. To stop her, to urge her on; Mark has no clue. Her eyes have him pinned against the wall, waiting with bated breath to snatch up anything more. Like falling into bad habits, Mark can’t help but want to take, it’s greed and it has all but consumed him, it won’t stop until he’s consumed what she has to offer too.  

Biting on his zipper, she uses her teeth to unzip his pants, and silky soft strands are all he has comfort in. Gripping with a heavier hand, he’s more confident when he urges her on. He wants this. God might be watching, but his parents are oceans away and the pounding sensation of being caught can’t corner him here.  

“Pull them down a bit for me, pretty.”  

Mark rushes to do as he’s told, blushing at the compliment. Pretty suits her more than him, boys can’t be pretty , but Mark wants to be what she wants. He lets the compliments wash over him, keen like a kitten with yarn dangling in front of its claws. He can’t remember the last time someone had gotten him off like this. He remembers the last time he’d gotten someone off, down on the floor too. That had all been taken from him and for a solid few months, it had been Mark and the ghost of his right hand.  

It’s definitely why he cums with no warning straight into her mouth. He sees his own apprehension beneath his eyelids, squeezed tight. He wants them open. To see her swallow his own seed but fear keeps them shut.  

If Mark has no sight of it, it can’t have happened.  

It’s stupid because his body will remember. The feeling, the rush of adrenaline, how fucking tight the back of her throat is.  

As Mark opens his eyes, he’s greeted with the sight of her just below him where she’d been all along. Looking up at him like she hadn’t just given Mark the best head he’s ever gotten.  

Like she hadn’t just taken months of abstinence from him.  

Most of his cum manages to land in her mouth but there’s a few stray ropes that paint her lips and chin a layer of pearly white. She holds eye contact when she scoops it up, sucking it down like it’s the tastiest thing she’s ever gotten her tongue on. Mark knows it's not. Doesn’t mean anything to Mark though or his weak dick, twitching at the sight.  

“I knew I was good, but I didn’t think I was that good. Not to get you off in under a minute.”  

Mark chokes out a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. He’s painfully aware of the fact that his dick is still out, the cold creeping away at him. “Well, uh, I guess it’s been, like, a while.”  

“Well, you’re welcome?” She frowns. “Find that hard to believe.”  

Mark holds out a hand, helping her get onto her two feet. “Nah, not that. Just didn’t have the opportunity.” He tucks himself away, blushing. 

She questions him with a tilt of her head.  

He falters.  

He’s not sure how to wrap the last few months into one simple sentence that won’t chase her off.  

I kind of fucked up everything and now my parents don’t wanna talk to me or be seen with me because I’m a manwhore and they don’t recognise the son they once had.   

Or, 

The last time I’d gotten off I was on my knees, just like you, wrapping a pathetic hand around myself just to itch away at the iron lining of need coating my stomach.

It all fucking sounds stupid.  

Mark never has a way with words fresh in the moment, he’s more of a sit at his desk and rewrite the same sentence thirty times until it feels right type of guy.  

He has no idea how to make his turmoil sound palatable enough that he won’t completely fuck up and have her running. She’s so pretty and her mouth is wet and warm, and her lips are glossy. They catch the light occasionally and it has Mark seeing stars again.  

He doesn’t want to lose that; he’s lost enough as it is.  

“Maybe my dick game is just bad.” Mark curses himself internally.  

She laughs, it’s pleasant to his ears and he catches himself falling into her. “I doubt that. You couldn’t pry that information from a man if it were true, and you just gave it willingly. A man’s ego hinders vulnerability.” 

“Maybe I’m just ego-less.”  

“Well, I’m going to stop you there, Mr. Collins.”  

Mark gasps, placing an offended hand on his chest. He’s opening his mouth to retort when he realises the swift twitch at her eyebrows. He’s mid-way going through all the ways he’s fucked this up, finally chased her off when her words cut through the panic impeding down on him. 

“It’s not a soulmate thing… Right?” The slight copper in her hair somehow looks darker, like the hesitation in her voice has sucked the vividness from it, leaving behind mousy brown and dull strands.  

“No,” Mark flings it out and he means it. Mark hasn’t met his soulmate. He’s not sure he ever will, half convinced he was born without one. He’s dysfunctional enough for it. 

“You sure? You’re not one of those ones who save most of their firsts for their soulmates, I’m kind of tired of getting rejected for the same reason.” 

She’d half figured him out, but Mark still lets out an offended scoff. “No?! Why would I do that?” 

“You’d be surprised; men can’t hold themselves back all the way. They need someone to itch off the scratch, but they don’t need that someone.” 

Mark’s mouth flutters open. “Well— this wasn’t. This isn’t that.”  

“Good. ‘Cause I’m tired of picking up lying assholes.”  

Mark is neither of those things. An asshole or a liar. The former is a bit debatable, but Mark is as honest as they come. His chest tightens and for some reason he feels like the liar he’s been accused of. Knows that whatever looks his face is pulling isn’t helping his case at all.  

He’d just come down the throat of someone who was definitely not his soulmate.  

If he thought he’d chased the shame away, he was wrong. It’s still there, burrowed between his gut, hibernating ever since he got off the plane, full of the same shame Mark’s sure he was born with. Mark knows why his parents are disappointed in him. Not because he can’t tell right from wrong, but rather he does but still can’t help but muddle the two up, willingly. No number of God-fearing lectures could drill away the innate desire he was born with.  

He only realises he’s hyperventilating when Himari has her iphone torch shining on the skin between his eyes. Only realises he’d slid to the floor when he tries to run, his feet sliding uselessly on wet floor. He’s not sure if she’s saying anything, can’t hear it over the thumping beat of the music. If Mark really listens close, he can almost hear the imminent doom, clenching at his insides like it wants to mush his guts together. Mark wouldn’t be too angry at that. It’d save him from the embarrassment from anyone finding him here, on the floor and a second away from tears. 

“Stay here—” Mark’s not sure if he can move, “I’m going to go find your friend. Don’t move.” 

There’s only been a handful of moments in the span of his twenty years that he’s felt close to irredeemable, that it would be hard to drag himself up from what feels like rock bottom. This isn’t one of those moments. If it were, it would give him an excuse to act like this— pathetic, on the precipice of giving up. Without Johnny, Mark thinks he would be somewhere in that club trying his shot with another girl. Anyone he could find, anybody wanting and willing. 

Things like this don’t happen to people in Mark’s circle. Good Christians spend their lives imperfect but repenting, stuck in a cycle that won’t damn them because they’re victims of petty sin. Small sins that have them on their knees, thinking late at night whether that one action will tip them over the precipice of being saved. Mark isn’t like that, he isn’t able to do anything in small mediums; each breath he takes is in extreme— his sins are large and his repentance all consuming, all of it in vain. If Mark were truly repenting, he’d have stopped after all. He barely stops himself from seeking comfort in Johnny.  

Temptation is everywhere and he’s made no move to turn from it. Except this one time because Johnny is not his, not like how he needs him to be. Not his to want, need or call and yet he tries anyway. If he calls Johnny by his name, fond enough, perhaps he’ll finally see Mark the way he sees Jaehyun. It’s all wishful thinking. Mark is far more afraid of the consequences on earth than after it. He can’t lose Johnny too. 

It all starts and ends with Johnny. Continues with it too, Mark is sure that it’s his abs he feels pressed against his back, his hand he feels on his right bicep, his voice urging him to drink the iced cold water trudging its way down Mark’s throat, dispersing the fire burning him inside out. They’re in a taxi, they’re walking. Yuta is in his face, Sehun is locking lips with someone short. He hears his own name. Mark can’t see.  

He's sure it’s just the two of them.  

“Come on, Mark,” Johnny huffs out, trying to get more leverage under his legs. “Put in some effort, I can’t carry you all the way up.”  

“You’re five times the size of me, I’m sure you can.”  

“Drunk Mark, huh? Are you going to be kind to me if I lift you up the stairs?”  

Mark hums in false pretence, buries his face in Johnny’s neck. “...Maybe.” 

“You’re touchier than usual.” 

“I’m always touchy.” 

Johnny laughs. Mark jostles in his arms. “You hate being touched when you’re sober… or not sleepy.” 

Not true, he’s absolutely fine with physical touch. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”  

He hopes he’ll drop it. Mark isn’t hardly ready for this conversation when he’s reaped a full night of sleep, sober, and hasn’t ejected all liquid from his body. He doesn’t want to talk at all, in fact, he’d wish that Johnny would stop talking at him. It’s hard focusing on not slurring his words and staring at Johnny’s biceps.  

“Yes, you do. You left and all of a sudden little Markie doesn’t wanna be hugged. Or looked in the eye.”  

Mark isn’t the one who left first, they all had left him at one point or another. It’s not fair, when had he ever complained? 

Johnny helps him settle back onto his two legs, bare feet touching cold wood and he must have shed his socks, his shoes at some point in the night, but it eludes him. He’s stood in the middle of the room naked at his feet, spit dried around his mouth and eyeliner surely smudged down his cheeks. It’s stupid, he’s stupid, and he has the sudden urge to disappear, physically, metaphorically, in every sense of the word. He’s small, minuscule, insignificant and childish. He hates all types of confrontation, has not a single quality his family holds dear running in his veins; instead, it’s he who runs— past Johnny, past the bedroom, the colossal white wall and into the bathroom, remembering to lock the door barely before Johnny gets there.  

“Are you okay? I was joking, you know I wasn’t being serious, right?” 

Mark is tired of this. 

“Is it your stomach? Are you going to throw up? Should I come in?”  

“No.”  

“I’m glad you’re finally speaking to me, but I need more than a word— what’s wrong? Is it me? Something I said?”  

“Nuh-uh,” Mark whines back. He manages to sit firmly in front of the door, attempting to barricade Johnny out. It’s a challenge though, considering his arms feel like sludge and each minuscule movement has him reeling. Mark hasn’t felt this fucked since he’d first stained his lips red with wine.  

“Come on, Mark. You’re under my roof and under my care, open the fuc— just open the door, okay?”  

“...If I open the door, you promise not to be mad at me?” 

The door handle shakes and Mark pushes back against the door in retaliation.  

“Christ. Of course I won’t be mad at you.”  

“Don’t believe you. Sound angry.”  

“I’m not angry.” He can hear Johnny take a deep breath and something shortly hits the floor. A dull thud. “I just need you to tell me what you need right now. I’ll listen from outside the door, I promise.”  

“Need hyung.”  

Mark feels it straight away. Ice creeping up his toes, mimicking the sensation of pins and needles. It’s the wrong answer and he can tell from the way Johnny is dead silent. Great, he’d blown it with the prettiest girl and now he’s disappointing Johnny. Again.  

“Taeyong isn’t here right now, Mark. But I am and I’m way better,” Johnny says. Mark doesn’t slump in relief. Mark doesn’t need Taeyong , but he’s a little too afraid to say it directly, put it into words that he needs Johnny.  

“No.”  

“No?!” Johnny parrots back at him.  

“Say it like you mean it.”  

“Mean what?” 

Mark buries his head in his arms wrapping them tightly around his legs, knees all the way up to his chest. “That you’re better.” 

“... Are you fucking with me?”  

He flinches in shame. “Never mind. Just leave it. ‘M gonna come out soon, you can leave.”  

“Have you talked to Jae yet? I think you really need to, Mark. He’s worried and I think it’ll do you some good.” When will he stop bringing him up? Mark throws his head back against the door, moaning at the pain it leaves him with.  

“Okay. That’s it. Open the door, Mark.”  

And it’s not like he doesn’t love Jaehyun; he does. So much so he doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t even deserve to love him this much, surely there’s someone out there better suited for this— who knows not to fuck everyone in their life over.  

“Mark if you don’t open this door, I’m gonna drill it open. I’ll pop it off its hinges and it’s coming out of your pocket.”  

But like, it’s not fair. Mark had him first. 

It’s not words he should be thinking or, God forbid, even entertaining. He loves Jaehyun. And it is simply not enough— the ugly feelings that pester Mark chew at him regardless, until his exterior is devoured. All that’s really left is the unbecoming of himself, the shitty parts he won’t allow himself to display. Mark knows it’s wrong— you don’t put yourself between soulmates and fate. Yet, the itch is there and the only thing that stops him is the knowledge that Johnny would never settle for him. He didn’t back then, when they were much younger, wide-eyed and eager to ignore fate knocking on their door. Dumb and innocent. Why would Johnny conspire against God’s plan for little old Mark? 

“I know you’re hearing this, you have ears. Two of them even! For once in your life, just use them!” 

Jaehyun’s not even a piece in the puzzle that prevents Mark from barrelling his life over. It’s this self-awareness that stops Mark from contacting him. He doesn’t deserve to. 

“Move from the door, I really mean it.”  

It’s got to be some sick little joke. Mark wouldn’t be in such pain if he had never introduced Jaehyun and Johnny. His pain is self-inflicted; he’s their catalyst.  

There’s nothing he can do though.  

“Johnny I’m sorr-” Mark cuts himself off with a deafening screech. Johhny’s weight pushes him flat against the bathroom floor; his head narrowly misses the sink.  

“ Now you open the door?” Johnny complains clutching his own head which had hit tile right next to Mark’s shoulder.  

“I don’t get why you're complaining; my body softened your fall. Why were you even against the door?” 

“I was trying to push it open,” Johnny mutters, sitting up. “Since someone decided to lock themself in the bathroom.” 

“About that,” Mark replies, voice cracking as he screws his eyes shut. His ass is starting to throb, and he questions whether his eyesight had always been this blurry. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m being like this.”  

“I do.” 

Mark panics and all he can think to do is push Johnny back over and scramble to get out of the bathroom. Johnny can’t know. He’s fine fucking over his life. One fucked up life is fair enough, three is too much.  

“Mark what the fuck? I was gonna say you miss home. Didn’t have to knee me in the fucking balls.”  

“Need to pee,” Mark pants out pushing the bathroom door open. 

“I hope you don’t plan on peeing in the bedroom.” 

Oh, right.  

Mark turns around sheepishly, and he’s met with Johnny’s unimpressed, yet pained stare. “Dude… can you leave?”  

Johnny stares at him some more before getting up, grumbling under his breath.  

Mark needs to reign himself in. Splashing cold water onto his face, he dreads what’s waiting for him outside the door. He fiddles around with his phone for a little and then splashes more water onto his face. Only leaves the bathroom when he’s sure he’s sobered up a little. Johnny knows something is wrong with him, Mark won’t let him find out anymore. It’s not a matter of protecting himself, it’s a matter of protecting Johnny. Of protecting Jaehyun.  

In the kitchen, Johnny’s working hard at making two cup noodles. The salty aroma hits him full force as he walks in and it takes effort not to gag. Eating is the last thing on Mark’s mind; food is a reward. There’s no reward in almost wreaking havoc in his best friends’ relationship.   

Mark is wretched, bitter taste of original sin fresh on his tongue moments after latching from his mother’s chest; he hadn’t been born right and despite it all, Johnny is there. In front of him, making it impossibly hard to hate himself. Sweat slithers down Johnny’s temple, beading at his jaw. Trailing down his Adam’s apple. Cloth clings to tight muscle, Mark’s tongue clasps to the roof of his mouth. He wishes he were blind to temptation, blind to man.  

At some point, Johnny must have changed into a tank top. Mark’s still in his sheer shirt, caked with his own spit and vomit.  

“I left my tee for you on the table.”  

Low and behold, Johnny’s shirt is there and a couple sizes too big. Mark changes into it. It smells like Johnny’s aftershave. He’s pretty sure it’s one of his oldest shirts and vaguely, he can remember Taeyong wearing it. Jealousy is what he remembers most though, it had followed him the entire day like his second shadow, permeating the air with its stench and yet, no one blinked an eye at one grumpy Mark. It was almost natural when he was 13, bitter and spiteful. Similarly, he sits at the table waiting for Johnny as a 20-year-old, still ever so sulky.  

Johnny passes him a bowl and Mark takes it. Chopsticks in his hands, he frowns. There’s no way he’s willingly putting this into his body. Or matter of fact, anything into his body.  

“If I eat this, ’m gonna throw up hyung.”  

Johnny scoffs. “Do you wanna talk about what happened in the bathroom then?”  

Even angels have their own vices. They’re probably not in love with them though. Mark shovels down his noodles and once again, regrets being born. Maybe he could drown himself in alcohol instead.