Archive of Our Own

I'd rather live with a tender heart, because that is the key

to feeling the beat of all of the other hearts.

(SLATE, Jenny. "Little Weirds")

“Love is awful. It's awful. It's painful. It's frightening. Makes you doubt yourself, judge yourself. Distance yourself from the other people in your life. Make you selfish. Makes you creepy. Makes you obsessed with your hair. Makes you cruel. Makes you say and do things you never thought you would do. [...] Love isn't something that weak people do. Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope.”

(WALLER-BRIDGE, Phoebe. “Fleabag”)

“I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong.”

(SNICKET, Lemony. “The Beatrice Letters”)

The sun starts to set at 17:07 and it's a gift. Once upon a time the sun would set on its own, but now someone has bought it too, so the sun sets at 17:07 for a rich man's wife — Jaemin, for one, has grown tired of being mad at the commodification of the stars. There is only so much rage a heart can take; for now, he enjoys leaving work to see the sun set behind the skyscrapers.

Kids around him pass by in rollerblades and laugh joyfully at the idea of a Friday, he extends a hand and brushes the hair off of one of his students' face. "Have a good weekend, Mr. Min!" he says, buttoning a bright yellow parka.

"Have a good one too, Youngjae," he replies with a smile, though the tiredness seeps into his body as soon as the last child walks past the door, and Jaemin lets out a small sigh as he looks back at the minibots cleaning the classroom. "Can I help with something?"

"No, Jaemin," one of the minibots waves him off with a small mechatronic hand. "Go home and enjoy the weekend!"

He nods — Jaemin has never existed in a world in which people didn't have bots to help them out, but he still asks out of courtesy. It's a good thing that the minibots of his classroom don't get offended by it. He picks up his coat from the hanger and bids them goodbye, stepping into the courtyard to find some of the older students still lounging around, talking of their plans for the weekend, trips for Mars and all that. As all the red in the sky is replaced by beautiful purples and blues, Jaemin takes the cablebot to a lower level and leans against the safety railing, watching as the city prepares itself for the night under him. The year is 2999 and he's been here for twenty of those, but Jaemin has never gotten used to the city that never sleeps — once he's on the ground again, pulling the coat tighter around himself, he looks up at the skyscrapers shining in green, red and blue for eternity. In a sense, everything around here is like this; once the sunlight is gone, everybody's bound to be a little pink, illuminated by LED screens and neon lights, and Jaemin thinks he likes it like this.

There is no rush to get home, but he still walks fast like there is — Blackout won't start for a few hours, but he likes to get work done before the lights are out. Jaemin knows he's home when he sees the colorful lights filtering through Hyunjin's blinds as she prepares herself for a match, as well as the low rumble of Yangyang's music that makes their shared sidewalk tremble from time to time. Jaemin, for one, is the happiest when he's home, his house sandwiched between the other two's. He collects his mail and puts in the code to his door.

Humming, Jaemin throws most of the mail on top of the kitchen table and rips open a letter from his mother. It reads itself out loud for him immediately: Hello, my love, I hope you're doing well-- he listens carefully as she goes about her time in the Moon colony. It's funny to think his mother is up there, anyway. She's always been one to aim for the stars, just like him, except that she actually went there and did it. Jaemin takes her letter with him upstairs and sets it on his bedside table so he'll remember to write back on the weekend, successfully tripping over a few books he's left scattered on the floor.

"Your boyfriend called," says a voice from Jaemin's desk. He walks over to it and brushes his thumb over the droid's head — it is, essentially, a weird little thing that he has found in the trash. Jaemin is not one for mechanics and doesn't have the money to repair it, but he's done the best he could. He's never had a droid before, but with Jisung it seemed like a good start. "I told him you moved out."

Jisung is an antiquated prototype for a movie that never truly got its live action, though Jaemin had searched the animated version time and again to try and emulate what the droid was supposed to look like had it been actually finished. Hyunjin warned him against using actual, real people pronouns with the droid, but Jisung is just endearing — with his almost-shiny, squared head and body, Jaemin can only see him through rose colored glasses. He still makes weird noises when he walks, a product of malfunctions that have been barely fixed over time, but the Hello Kitty stickers covering his worst fractures make him look like one of his kids’ art projects, and for one, Jaemin loves him dearly.

"You have to stop being mean to Renjun," he replies as Jisung's head pops out of its little body, the two small lenses flickering at him like he's blinking. Yangyang told him not to name the droid as if it was a human, but this one had been very vocal on how he expected Jaemin to treat him. "What did he say?"

Jisung struggles to get moving as his engines haven't been oiled lately, but soon enough he's able to roll down the ramp Jaemin has built at the edge of his desk so he can follow him around the room.

"He wants to meet at that cafe you like, and was wondering if your phone had died, and then I told him again that you had moved out so he'd hang up. He is very insistent, isn't he?"

Jaemin lets out a laugh as he shrugs off his coat. Essentially, Jisung's dislike for his boyfriend comes back to the day Renjun mistook him for a portable charger in their first encounter, and the droid hasn't been able to let go of it yet. Aside from that, Renjun knows nothing about technology, which just seems to infuriate Jisung like nothing else. Jaemin figures there isn't much about the droid life that could become pet peeves for him, so he settles for having a personal vendetta against Jaemin's boyfriend. It's only natural.

Though there does seem to have more to it, from time to time. Jaemin knows his brain to mouth filter is moderate at most on good days, and his situation only worsens at times where his defenses are down, like when he’s tired or — God forbids — drunk. Jisung might have listened to one too many rants about Renjun’s flaws until he decided he would not put up with him anymore, and Jaemin can’t find it in himself to blame him for it as much as he blames himself for failing to remember Jisung cannot, physically, forget anything. Well, anyways; Jaemin cannot afford a therapist nowadays, so he makes do with the tools he has at hand.

Jaemin's phone is partially charged when he steps out of his shower — he'd been meaning to get a newer model, but every time Jaemin thinks he's saved up enough for it, something in this little house of his gets broken, either because of Jisung's clumsy ways or Jaemin's own carelessness —, and a bunch of notifications light up immediately. Jaemin thumbs at the screen as he dries his hair and goes through an infinite amount of texts from Yangyang that could have easily been summed up in three or four, a notification from his work's app on his schedule tomorrow and, of course, a few missed calls from Renjun. He frowns, knowing the latter's usual aversion to phone calls, and wonders if Jisung will try to interrupt him if he decides to call back. But since they're meeting up today before Blackout, Jaemin opts for writing an apology for not replying earlier.

As he hears the distinctive sound of Jisung venturing himself in the kitchen, probably trying to make coffee for him, Jaemin lets out a sigh as he drops the towel over his shoulders. He's been tired lately, both of them have, but the perspective of seeing Renjun later puts him in a good mood. Jaemin picks up the books scattered on the floor and sets them on the desk — who knows if Renjun will come over lately.

It’s a date like any other, mostly. Renjun greets him with a smile and quickly dismisses his apologies concerning the missed calls, pleasant and indulging like he always is, and Jaemin doesn’t flinch away when he leans in for a kiss. If he puts enough work into it, things are so normal they manage to become untouched by the mundane realities of life again — however tired he is, Renjun lifts the weight off of his shoulders by simply standing there, though Jaemin knows well enough that a burden can be deposited back to its original owner as easily as the wind changes directions. They talk, they eat, they catch a rerun of a bad television show Jaemin bought the data for and never got around to actually watch, and it should be fine; it should.

And it would be, most of the time, but Renjun opens his mouth and Jaemin knows that, more than anything, the luxury of before was not comfort in itself as much as it was a currency trading he would sooner or later use to get his own end of the stick. It starts off as something silly — they’re bantering to each other, play-fighting and arguing with just the right amount of tease, and then they are not. Suddenly, the mood shifts dramatically, like the scene where the villain first appears in a telenovela, and Jaemin has to hold back a sigh as Renjun starts humming to the same dragged, old sigh he always seems to heave out nowadays.

Even then, he can’t stop himself from asking; despite it all, Jaemin cares. “Are you okay?” He brings a hand to Renjun’s shoulder, trying to squeeze the tension away to no avail.

Renjun’s lips curl around another sigh. Jaemin doesn’t remember the last time he got asked if he was okay — it shouldn’t matter. It does, but it shouldn’t. “It’s just… Work, you know,” he settles for saying, putting down words carefully enough for Jaemin to know that there is no going back.

See, the thing about being in his situation is that there is no way to break free from your own doings. His mother often told him this — Jaemin, you put everyone else above yourself, and she was right to say so, though listening to advice has never been his best or most polished trait. This is a tale as old as time: Someone’s face will color itself blue like growing mold, and Jaemin will be on their tail soon enough, asking the three words he’s used in his lifetime twice as much as he has said anything else, and they will either give him a short answer or a long one.

Some people lie. It’s easier to tell someone you’re doing well when you’re not sure yourself of whether you fit or not into the description of “doing poorly”, and Jaemin gets that. However, as a stubborn person prone to despise roundabouts, he insists enough for the first facade to break easily — from there, Jaemin either has the option to walk away or sit and eat an entire bowl of someone else’s dread, if only to make it go away. In some wicked sense of his, it feels good; it feels nice to help someone, to be the place where they end up after a rough path, but the self satisfaction doesn’t last nearly enough to make up for the copious amounts of sadness deposited into him every day, to the point it seems easy to lose sight of anything past that.

And he loves Renjun. He does, truly; which is why he submits himself to longer and longer conversations about every single little thing that has been going wrong lately, and why Renjun despises it. Jaemin does it out of love, despite the opinion of several therapists, and it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s okay that he barely has any time to himself. It’s nice that he only ever gets to hear the bad side of Renjun’s life, and rarely gets an “How are you?” back. It’s something he likes and enjoys because — well, because Jaemin doesn’t know anything else past that. He’s not sure what to do with his body when he is not giving pieces of himself away like an overly excited landlord, desperately claiming that ‘You could make this place beautiful, see? If you put a little effort into it, you could like it, couldn’t you?’ to every passing stranger.

He can almost hear Jisung's robotic voice complaining about it. Not just his — any reasonable person and/or droid would agree that Jaemin’s behavior amounts to an idealistic, self-immersed load of absolute crap at the end of the day, and that putting yourself down in order to make someone else feel better is nothing if not a cruel altruistic paradox he should have left somewhere between HQ Comics and tasteless novels. He lets out a sigh before he can stop himself, and regrets it immediately as soon as he sees the look in Renjun's face.

"I'm sorry," he says, raising a hand to rest on Renjun's shoulder once more. "I didn't mean-- I got distracted."

Which somehow makes it worse. Renjun waves it off, licking his lips as he looks down at their empty cups and plates on the table. "It's fine, let's pay for this."

Jaemin takes a second to recollect himself as he stares at the back of Renjun's head on the way to the counter. He supposes Renjun won't be staying over tonight, or asking him to do so, which is fine, Jaemin wouldn't miss an opportunity to sleep this week off, but he has a sour taste on his tongue despite having had dessert.

A large digital clock right outside the cafe tells him Blackout will start in a couple hours, and it adds pink highlights to Renjun's bright purple hair as they stand on the sidewalk, Jaemin's hands curled into fists inside the pockets of his coat. He repeats to himself: he's tired, they both are. It happens.

"See you tomorrow?" he asks tentatively.

It happens, it truly does. It’s fine, Jaemin reminds himself. He knew this would happen eventually, because Renjun strays from him in one too many ways — where Jaemin needs someone to understand him, Renjun needs someone who can complain along, someone who is willing to sit at the same table with some of his worst horrors and remain cynical enough to look past them. If Jaemin tweaks his personality just right, crouches low enough to fit in the tiny space left for him in this relationship, then things will be fine again; whatever the cost of that will be in the long run.

"I'm busy tomorrow," Renjun replies, which eases and tightens Jaemin's chest at the same time somehow. "I'm covering for someone's shift at the Archive."

Jaemin nods. "It's alright. Have a safe ride home, Renjun."

"And you take care during Blackout."

Though Jaemin's endeared that he remembered, it does nothing to calm him down. When Renjun enters the nearest subway station and that mop of purple hair disappears from Jaemin's sight, he turns on his heels and takes the long way home. He supposes he can't help being sad that this isn't working out, but Jaemin beats himself up for it anyway — he mingles in a tiny crowd crossing the street and tries to distract himself with the lights. Soon enough they will all be out, so he'll enjoy them now; although thinking about Blackout could only make him feel more gloomy.

What a waste of a day. Jaemin pulls his phone out and calls for a car — he usually doesn't allow himself such luxuries, as he can always walk anywhere, but he could use some comfortable silence with a driver bot that doesn't speak unless spoken to. Checking the plate number, he pockets his phone once more and leans against a lamppost, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

It doesn't take long for the car to arrive. Jaemin takes one look at the murderous machine standing in front of him, barely a car and definitely a war gimmick, and brings his eyes to the sky in exasperation. He doesn’t know what he was expecting — sometimes you get so lost in your own small life you end up forgetting how others are pushing through their own endeavors, and the vehicle in front of him might be the biggest tattletale of someone’s personality anything can be. Jaemin doesn’t know why a bot would own such a thing, but figures some rich douche ended up renting his own cars for private transportation, and the thought does not make him any more happier.

It’s not even unkind to the eye. Jaemin recognizes the Blackout LED lights before he even gets into the car, tracing its neat lines of construction and following along its hood, still very much out as the entire city is still awake and in light. He can’t possibly think of a reason anyone would be out with shining lights past six, but some people have death wishes that fall dangerously close to adoration, and he knows, for one, someone out there would absolutely love to have their car smashed into pieces by Jennie Kim’s custom made Maserati — or whatever the hell they are called.

He must say it, though; the car’s bubblegum shade of blue makes it all that easier to digest amongst so many other black, polished hoods that wait impatiently in front of a small magnetic field with a big red light stamped onto it. If Jaemin tried hard enough, he could even pretend things are fine as he enters the car, the smell of mint leaves and actual, real leather making his senses stir in recognition. He turns to the driver, and is taken aback at how human-looking the bot is, with big, round eyes and the best saturated green hair he’s ever seen, all of those features ending in a sharp jawline and long cheekbones that would have any plastic surgeon shaking in their boots.

"Good evening," he says, because his mother raised him well. "Take the third exit on the next roundabout and then take a left three blocks down, I live near--"

"Excuse me?" the bot replies, its eyes enormous. Jaemin isn't used to androids that look this much like humans, they make him feel uneasy most of the time. Not all of them can be like Jisung, anyway. It's not their fault.

Jaemin raises his eyebrows. "Well? Just go!"

A car honks behind them, which must have knocked some sense back into the bot, because it starts the car once more and Jaemin sighs happily. "I'm sorry," the bot tells him when they're two blocks from his pick up spot. Jaemin starts saying that there's no need to apologize, even bots make mistakes, but the bot raises a hand for him to stop: "I'm truly sorry, but I have to ask: why did you just walk into my car? Don't you know how dangerous that is?"

Jaemin lets out a nervous laugh: "What?"

"This is my car," the bot repeats. Clearly. Jaemin wouldn't expect it to steal someone else's car, driver bots aren't programmed to inflict harm. "I am not a cab. Are you trying to get yourself kidnapped?"

"I..." Jaemin stares. That's why this bot looks so real; it isn't a bot. It's a human being. He presses a hand against his own face, as he can't believe he's this stupid — suddenly, the weight of his poor decisions are just too much. He's just walked into a stranger's car, and worse, he's paid for a ride he won't even take. And he could get kidnapped. What is wrong with him? "I'm so sorry."

The stranger stares back at him. "Are you crying…?"

"No," he replies immediately, though swallowing a sob. Jaemin is crying, but it doesn’t matter at this point. "So, well, if you could just drop me somewhere… I could pay you, of course, for the inconvenience. I don't usually enter people's cars, I'm sorry if I startled you--"

They stop at a red light, and Jaemin reaches for the door but it's locked. He looks back at the stranger — maybe he will be kidnapped tonight. It would be just the cherry on top. But the stranger just looks at him, and Jaemin looks back, and the stranger asks: "Are you okay?"

“Do I look like—"

"Honestly? No. But you look like you could use a listening ear, and I happen to have two.”

When he doesn't reply, still propped up against the door, the stranger extends a hand. "I'm Mark. I swear I'm not a kidnapper, I'm just a guy. What's your name?"

Reluctantly, Jaemin takes his hand. It's clad in a black leather glove, which looks fitting for the weather but makes Jaemin realize that the stranger-- Mark is, too, clad in black from head to toe. It's different from what people around here usually wear. "Jaemin," he replies. He's so going to die tonight.

"Hello, Jaemin," Mark smiles, retrieving his hand. "So, what's up?"

Jaemin sobs. “My bot back at home is going to be so fucking angry at me.”

Mark’s smile subdues considerably. “Ah, that’s not good. I have a snarky bot at home, myself — Donghyuck, the little shit.” And Jaemin knows well enough that the stranger is simply trying to keep the conversation going, if only to distract him from his own misery, and the worst thing is that it seems to be working. “Listen, I can take you for a drive if you don’t really want to talk, but you’ve got to check license plates more often when you order a cab, alright?”

Though it is an incredibly stupid idea to wander off with a stranger like this, Jaemin nods. He's never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed, and Mark hit him where he was at his weakest — he asked if he was okay. “If you kidnap me I’m going to be so fucking pissed. I’m seriously going to be so angry; and I’m going to cry more; it’s going to be so embarrassing for the both of us. I'm warning you beforehand that I am really annoying when I cry.”

“I’m not kidnapping you, Jaemin,” he hums to his direction, nonchalant. “How annoying can you be, anyways?”

Jaemin hiccups, going on with his nervous ramble: “So annoying. I can be so annoying.” He rubs his nose in a crass manner, far too gone to care about something as trivial as portraying himself in a respectable way. He's never going to see this man ever again, anyway. Mark offers him a tissue from his glove compartment, and Jaemin takes it. “Once, in seventh grade, I talked so loud and so quick I got a bot to glitch. He had to be put down.”

"Oh," Mark lets out a giggle. "Good thing I am not a bot, then."

“Who knows," Jaemin murmurs, drenching a tissue with his tears as he looks out of the window. "Maybe I'll talk so much that your brain will shut down, or you'll suddenly throw me out of the car."

Outside the window, the city passes by in a blur of color — "I can't take you too far, I have a thing later," Mark had warned him at some point. Jaemin doesn't mind. He watches as life becomes a blur; it's been a long time since Jaemin was inside a car this fast, and even then he doubts it would even come close to this. He's sure that they could go anywhere in the world and Mark would be able to get them back to the city in a heartbeat; it feels like flying. He blows his nose as quietly as he can when they slow down, eventually coming to a stop. Seoul is far enough to be mistaken as a doll town, Jaemin could step on it if he wanted to. He leans his head against the window and looks up to the starry sky, to the Moon. If his mother knew he's hanging out with a stranger in the middle of nowhere, she'd kill him.

"So?" Mark asks.

"So?" Jaemin repeats.

The other man giggles, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “What’s up? What has gotten into you that you went and walked into a complete stranger’s car?”

“Maybe I’m just mentally unwell, have you ever thought of that?”

Mark makes a face as if he's not sure he's allowed to laugh or not, pursing his lips into a tight line. “I’ve noticed,” he settles for saying. “But seriously, what’s up with your life? You look like a kicked kitten.”

Jaemin takes half a minute to absorb Mark’s words, and sighs. “Things… Have been bad.”

The other man stares at him as if he was expecting Jaemin to elaborate on his words, but he can’t bring himself to say it without being forcefully coerced into sharing his feelings. He smacks his lips together: “And I… Have been sad about it.”

“Wow, Jaemin,” Mark whistles, pretending to wipe tears. “That was so moving.”

“Shut up,” he spits out, crossing his arms, but a laugh settles somewhere behind his tongue and Jaemin has to wrestle it away. For one, the silliness is welcome — Jaemin could very much use something lighthearted. “I’m serious. Why should I tell you? You’re a complete stranger. What if you’re selling my data to the government? What if you’re a pig—”

“I’m not a pig.” Mark interrupts, grimacing. "Why would you say that?"

“Because they’re getting sneaky these days, Mark,” Jaemin huffs. He’s always been the chatterbox, and he elaborates on it anyways, because he can’t bring himself not to: “Anyone can be one of them nowadays. Your car is blue."

"Because it is my favorite color."

“Well, change it.”

Mark smacks his lips together, looking away. Jaemin can almost tell he's embarrassed, and then realizes this is what he gets for talking to strangers like they're friends. But it is so easy to talk to him, he can't help it. “I don’t really care, for your information,” Jaemin announces. “I just like contradicting people. It's a personal hobby.”

He snickers. “I know, Jaemin. I’ve noticed that from the everything about you.”

Jaemin, for one, lets out a genuine laugh. He presses the heels of his palms to his cheeks to get rid of any possible tear, and Mark flashes him a smile. He can breathe at last. “I got it from my mama, you know,” Jaemin tells him like it matters. “But she’s on the Moon now. Stupid Moon. Who cares about it? It's just a rock floating in space. I have a degree in Astronomy so I'm legally allowed to say it's stupid."

"I was born on the Moon," Mark replies, though he doesn't look offended.

Jaemin slaps his own forehead. "Oh," he responds eloquently. "Of course you were. That's just my luck."

The other man nods, a smile tugging at his lips. He starts the car once more; the Blackout hour is approaching anyway, they must go back to the city. “You know, for someone who says they don’t care, you’re awfully heated up about embarrassing yourself in front of me. See anything you like?”

Jaemin hums, turning around in his seat. He spots something on the backseat, a hat or something. "Well, that looks expensive. I like it."

"Do you like expensive things?"

"Sometimes I let myself pretend I can like them, yes."

"Take it home, then," Mark replies. "Knock yourself out."

Jaemin lets out a laugh, but when Mark doesn't join him, it eventually dies in his throat. "What, for real? I don't even–" he reaches out for it. It is not a hat per se, but a helmet. It's pastel yellow and smooth to the touch, surprisingly heavy enough that when Jaemin reaches out for it, he almost lets it drop to the ground. Mark keeps it from falling as they come to a stop light, reflexes outstandingly good. “I don’t even game,” Jaemin murmurs, suddenly embarrassed.

Mark snickers, but not at him — it’s in that way someone does when they see a particularly cute kitten, or a puppy that’s too clumsy. He reaches for the helmet, turning in his seat to gently fit it on Jaemin’s head, if only to see how it would look like. "Well, there is only one game I'm interested in," he replies, smiling. “See? It looks nice.”

Jaemin scoffs. There is nothing particularly interesting in this helmet — he figures it would only work if it was paired to a video game console, like the one Hyunjin has at her home. Still, he looks back at Mark and tries to strike a pose the best way he can, with hands on his hips. "What kind of games do you enjoy, anyway?"

"Racing."

"That's so boring," Jaemin responds, taking the helmet off. He tries putting it back on the backseat but Mark pushes it back onto his lap. "Just go out there and race for real. It's what everyone's crazy about, isn't it? That's what Blackout is for."

"Are you not?" Mark asks, and when he frowns, he adds: "Crazy about Blackout. Are you not?"

Jaemin shrugs, sliding his hand over the helmet's shield. It is so polished and smooth, it doesn't even allow him to leave fingerprints. Must be a really high tech VR headset. "I admire people's passion, but I do not share it myself. I have other passions to care about."

He takes a look at the car's console, raising eyebrows at the clock. "Crap, Blackout will start soon. Do you think you can get me home before your thing?"

“I could get you to Tokyo before my thing,” Mark casually says, though Jaemin knows there’s a tinge of pride to his words that doesn’t leave unnoticed. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Jaemin frowns. “You’re clearly not my cab driver, and that’s all I need to know. It’s all that concerns me.”

The man chuckles. “Feisty. I was just curious.” He presses his lips together for a second, eyes back on the road, then says, gaze refusing to meet Jaemin’s: “Are you watching the Blackout tonight?”

“No,” he sighs, shoulders slumping. “I never do. I’m usually too tired to care.”

“Oh?” Mark hums curiously. “Is your job exhaustive?”

Jaemin shakes his head, unbuckling the helmet and fidgeting with the buckles. “Not at all. I work with kids, you know — kids are angels. It’s just… Capitalism.”

The man’s laughter rumbles like an engine. “I see. You just don’t care, then? No interest in shining lights and the dark?”

“Of course not,” Jaemin answers, leaning back against the seat. Through the window, his surroundings become more familiar. “No interest in the dark whatsoever. The lights, well; they get old sometimes. But I can’t handle the dark, personally.”

“Why?” Mark asks, taking a turn. “Are you scared?”

“Maybe.”

Jaemin, for one, knows it's silly to be scared of the dark at this age, so instead of giving Mark a chance to ask why, he says: "If you turn right on the next block, we'll be near where I live."

Mark hums in agreement. As the streets get more familiar to him, Jaemin suddenly finds himself dreading that Blackout will start in less than ten minutes. When Mark parks the car right in front of his door, he hesitates to pull at the door handle.

"Uh, thank you for today," Jaemin tells him, though shy to meet Mark's gaze. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience caused."

"Stop saying that," Mark replies softly. When Jaemin opens the door, he reaches out with a hang and delicately curls his fingers around Jaemin's arm, and the latter looks back at him. "Can I use your phone for a second?"

Jaemin frowns, though he reaches inside one of the pockets of his coat to pull his phone out. He hopes Mark won't mind the cracked screen. Mark takes off one of his gloves and types quickly — Jaemin is distracted by the shape of his hands, slender but boyish. "Why, though?"

Mark hands him the phone back with a smile on his face: "Just in case you ever need a ride."

"Oh," Jaemin replies eloquently."And you said you weren't my cab driver, huh?"

As he gets out of the car, Mark leans over the passenger seat to look at him. "You’re the one who trusts strangers; not me."

Jaemin takes one last look at the time before pocketing his phone. Three minutes until Blackout. "Is it safe for you to be out here when the lights go out?" he asks.

Waving it off, Mark returns to his seat, buckling his seatbelt. "Worry about yourself, babydoll. I'm one with the night."

➳♡゛

"Where the Hell have you been?" says the voice on Mark's in-ear. "You were supposed to talk to the press before tonight's race, Mark."

"Sorry," he replies, blindly searching for a spare helmet on the backseat. The lights went out as soon as Jaemin stepped inside, and now Mark is fashionably late — once he slides in a helmet and the world stops being pitch black, he presses down on the pedal familiarly to hear the engine rumble. "Something came up. I'm going now."

Jaemin lives in a part of the city where the streets aren't long enough for him, but the time he spends maneuvering the car out of this neighborhood isn't going to hinder him back. Mark could join Blackout an hour later and it wouldn't hinder him back; he says it out loud.

"Don't be so greedy," the voice replies. "Maybe you'll eat dust tonight."

"I thought you had taught me better, Jennie."

"I did," she insists. "I'm glad you remember. I chose you for a reason. Now get on track, would you? All these people are getting too comfortable."

Mark's hand ghosts over the gear once he reaches Seoul's main highway — he can hear the slow rumble of the other cars already, getting closer by the millisecond. The clock displayed on his helmet's shield tells him they must be on the second round already, but that's no problem. He'll catch up. Once a flash of neon green rides past him, Mark sinks his foot against the pedal.

The thing about racing is that it’s not about ability, per se — though it counts, Mark knows it’s not enough to go all the way. The person who wins is not always the one who’s most skilled, but the one who’s more willing to give up on frivolous things such as personal safety in order to win, which brings it back to a matter of morals rather than ambition. Besides, what is Blackout if not a show? Every Friday when the clock hits 20:20, all the lights of Seoul are turned off — whoever's brave enough to hit the road then must know that it doesn't end until it strikes 02:20.

See, it’s not all that elitist. Anyone can join the race; but only few can actually finish it, since there are years and years of training for a reason. Mark has been raised by racing, living to the tide of every Blackout, so it makes sense that he is this good and this reckless — since racing is the only thing he’s been living for, it’s only fair that it became the one thing he’d die for.

But maybe he is overdramatic, and this story isn’t his to tell. It’s been years since someone actually died while racing.

“You’re doing well,” Jennie’s voice rings on his in-ears sometime closer to the middle of the race, a backhanded compliment followed by: “Could be better.”

Mark snickers, speeding up against his own will as the racer behind him tries their best to bump against him. “Working on it,” he answers shortly, circling around on a particularly large highway until the racer behind him is far too tired to keep chasing him, to which Mark backpedals and causes his first — but certainly not last — elimination of the night by forcing the other driver off track. It’s not personal; it’s racing. Someone has to be the first to take someone out, and Mark is way too grown to pretend he’s not dying to take the matter into his own hands. “Better now?”

She snorts. “You’re awful. The car you should be looking for is bright orange. Japanese competitors, fox sign at the bumper. Take them down and the night’s yours.”

“Thank you,” he singsongs, speeding up through the pitch black Seoul streets. Mark catches a glimpse of his car’s fluorescent blue LEDs, reflected by the mirrored buildings, and turns his gaze back towards the track. It’s been years since the night has not been his, but the rush is still the same as the first time, and perhaps even more intense. When he gets a sight of the car he should be looking out for, he tells her: “Jennie, Japanese or Mexican for a victory dinner?”

Mark cannot see Jennie’s reaction, for one, but he knows her well enough to see the eye roll even in her tone. “Japanese,” she answers, clearly unimpressed. “Don’t get too cocky. You’re still the one to beat. Eventually, someone is going to knock you off of your little pedestal.”

As he approaches the bright orange car, he makes a point out of laughing out: “I won't be knocked off, silly; I’ll jump from it when it’s time.”

The rest is the rest, because Mark doesn’t bother with it. He manages to take out the Japanese racer with only mild effort, even putting on a show for the audience as he imagines the tons of money that would be passed from hand to hand tomorrow after the footage of his win is released, and finishes the race with considerable comfort in comparison to the other racers. It’s only eleven when he’s done with the Blackout for today, jumping out of his car with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins as Jennie escorts him into their team’s booth, where Lisa lazily seems to be rewatching his moves from earlier again and again.

There usually are more people from their team, but tonight it’s just family. He supposes it’s only fair they started rationating more racers the closer to the Winter Olympics they get; Mark wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt if they can avoid it.

When he steps into the room, she looks at him with a smirk. “If it isn’t South Korea’s favorite racer.”

“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes, pulling out a water bottle from his bag as Jennie uninterestedly lounges around the tables of snacks the administrators always prepare for them. If he were to be honest, Mark wouldn’t even say he’s tired — at this point, he’s just pissed off by the inconvenience of having other people on his track. “You’re up next.”

She pulls her orange hair into a high ponytail, lip piercing twinkling against the lime lights as she smacks her lips together. “I could’ve sworn you were doing a back-to-back today.”

Mark barely takes out the water bottle from his lips before he says, “No way in Hell. These people are insane. At this point, they’re not even competing — they just want to be able to say they bumped into one of our cars.”

“Maybe if you stopped showing off,” Lisa fake coughs, face opening into a smile not long after. “They’d stop wanting to be shown off. You're a bad influence, did you know that?”

He’s about to answer, but Jennie beats him to it by announcing: “Jeno called.”

Mark sets his water bottle on a nearby table, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand. He extends a hand for one of the tablets displayed on one of the walls and a robotic arm hands it to him, and he's already poking at the screen before sitting down on one of the comfortable couches in the lounge.

The screen flickers for a second before Jeno's smiling face appears before him in a hologram. Any tiredness and discomfort Mark could feel because of the race wash off immediately at the sight of him.

“Did you win?” Jeno asks the second the connection is good enough for his face to be disturbingly high-quality. He bats his long eyelashes: "Did you dedicate your victory to me, perhaps?"

Mark rolls his eyes: "Just because Heejin does it, it doesn't mean I have to."

"Even if it would make me just so happy?" Jeno lets out a tired sigh, then smiles playfully at him. "I know you won, I was watching it. How do you feel? How are things on Earth?"

"Pitiful because you're not here," Mark teases, and he flips Lisa off when she fake gags somewhere to his left. "Honestly, when are you coming back? Mars can't be that good of a trip. Too many sand storms."

His best friend whines. “I know. Rhinitis is killing me.”

“Just breathe,” Mark hums absentmindedly. “It’s that easy.”

"It is not! You're ridiculous." Jeno glares at him accusingly, but eventually says: “It’s only a few more days. Heejin got a haircut and — and, well, I will not use all of our call time to talk about my girlfriend, but it looks hot. You can’t agree with me, but know it looks hot.” He turns to Mark once again. “What about you, though? Have you been getting any action on Earth?”

Mark scratches his cheek lazily, turning to stare at the helmet he's left by the table at the entrance. He didn't allow himself to think of what happened earlier today so it wouldn't affect his performance, but sitting here right now, he lets himself think of teary eyes, long eyelashes and pearly white teeth. "Something strange happened today," he replies. "Some dude got in my car out of nowhere."

"A fan?" Jeno frowns. "Are you alright?"

"It wasn't a fan, he thought I was his cab. His name is Jaemin."

His best friend cocks his head to the side. “He didn’t recognize you?”

“Dude,” Mark starts, half a laugh at the tip of his tongue. “He did not have an idea. Jeno, this dude started crying. He was so stressed out — I don’t think he’d have recognized God at the Golden Gates in that state.”

“And you just let him inside your car, like that?” Jeno nags, though Mark can tell he’s interested in the story from the way his eyebrows twitch in curiosity. “Oh, so he was cute cute.”

He sucks in a breath. “And if he was?”

“Then what did you do?”

Mark smiles. “And if I gave him my number?”

“Mark Lee!” Jeno squeals. “You dirty slut. You didn’t even know him!”

“Hey, listen—” He makes to defend himself, raising a hand in the air out of habit. Lisa sends him a weird look for it off camera. “Listen. I felt a connection, Jeno.”

“The connection of your di—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Jeno rolls his eyes. “Please tell me you were at least careful. Please tell me it wasn’t your main phone number.”

When Mark doesn’t say anything else, his best friend sighs out dramatically: “I am not cutting my trip short because you got kidnapped and/or killed, alright? You gotta tell the guy to wait until my flight lands.”

Jeno's hologram tremulates for a second, and then he sees Heejin hooking her chin on the curve of his shoulder and looking at Mark in curiosity. Her hair is, well, it's a lot shorter than Mark thought it would be — Heejin was known for her waist-length dark locks, and now she sports a pixie cut. It goes very well with her elegant features. "Did I just hear you gave your number to a guy you didn't even know?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "I figured you'd be lost without us, Mark, but not to this extent. What if he was a creep?"

"Mark wouldn't care," Jeno adds. "He can only ever think with his di—"

"He was not creepy," Mark interrupts him. "He was very beautiful.”

Heejin points at him with a finger — the hologram extends until it brushes Mark's nose, barely a breeze. If she was here in person, Heejin would probably have him pinned to a wall with an elbow in his guts just to make a point. "And he could still be a creep. Stranger danger much, Mark Lee?"

He scoffs. "You guys, it's alright. I was more dangerous to him than he was to me. I mean, you had to see it — the guy was sobbing. I felt almost bad. Like, I did feel bad for him."

Raising an eyebrow at him, Jeno asks: “So you gave him your number out of pity?”

Mark splutters. “Of course not. I thought he looked very pretty when he cried.”

Heejin disappears from the hologram as she groans, probably throwing herself back to the mattress or something. When she comes back, Mark adds: "I just thought he was really cool." After some consideration, he continues: “I gave him one of my helmets, by the way.”

This time, it’s Jeno’s turn to groan out. “So that’s it? That’s what it takes? Someone bats their pretty little eyes at you and you just give out your shit for free?”

"I mean," Mark shrugs. "If it's Jaemin…?"

"Dude," Heejin shakes her head. "You're actually insane. Who does that?"

Mark doesn't tell them he was kind of expecting that Jaemin would watch Blackout tonight. He was terribly intrigued when Jaemin told him he's not interested in the event — racing is Mark's life, but it is not even an important thought in Jaemin's mind. “He said he didn’t like racing,” Mark calmly puts down. “He said it wasn’t something he was interested in.”

Jeno slaps his own forehead. “I see what’s going on.” He turns an accusatory finger to the camera. “You got tired of having all these people loving you for being a celebrity, so you went and found yourself someone who actually does not give a fuck about you or what you do.”

"You make it seem like I did it on purpose," Mark pouts. "I told you I met him by accident. It was, like, fate or something. Of all cars in the world, why would he even get inside mine?"

“Because it was the most expensive looking,” Heejin points out. “Because he recognized it from the TV. Because it looks like a teenager’s first car. Because he was choosing someone to rob at random. The list is so long.”

Admittedly, Mark hadn't even thought of that — it's just that Jaemin seemed so harmless, and so sad. He, for one, is waiting anxiously for Jaemin to text him; Mark doubts he means any harm at all.

"Yeah, well—" he gestures vaguely. "I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself."

"You know you can't," say Heejin and Jeno at the same time. They share a look and giggle at each other; it comes as no surprise that they're at the same wavelength. Heejin clears her throat as she looks back at Mark then says: "Use your brain, okay? We have to go now; did you know Jeno sucks at sandboarding?"

"I figured, he has two left feet," Mark replies, to which Jeno pouts profusely. "Have fun, you guys, and send me pictures later."

Jeno adds: "And you take care. We'll be back soon!"

They hang up shortly after, and Mark is left staring at the tablet in his hands, overcome with longing for his best friends. They've been gone for six months already as Jeno's father is expanding his business to Mars — though Jeno is far from being truly interested in growing into his father's shoes, he wouldn't miss an opportunity to try and promote his band on the martian colonies. He looks up only when a loud buzzer goes off, signaling that all second round racers must be ready to get on track soon, and pushes himself off the couch so he can talk to Lisa briefly before she has to go.

She’s putting on her gear — a deep red helmet with a black shield and the same all black outfit Mark has to wear — near the tables, seemingly lost in her own world, and Mark takes a few seconds to breathe before he approaches her. “Hey,” he calls, fidgeting with his long sleeves. Without his suit, Mark is back to being just himself, stripped from fame and riches and whatnot. “Take care, okay? You know our cars get targeted the most.”

Lisa chuckles, putting on her gloves. “Aren’t you worried about me, dear.” She looks at him from the corner of her eyes, gaze heavy and meaningful like it always is, and Mark rolls his eyes. She snorts. “Don’t worry about it. I have someone to come home to; I’m not doing anything crazy.”

Mark nods. “I know. Still.”

“I’ll take care, Mark.” Lisa takes an attempt at tieing her hair into a tight bun, but eventually settles for leaving the long strands into a ponytail. She buckles her helmet at last, lowering the screen so it covers her eyes. “You do, too. Don’t fuck around just because it’s Friday night. Get some rest.”

“I will,” he laughs at the thought of being told to not fuck around. If anything, Mark is too busy and too easy to recognize to ever fuck around with anyone — the fact he cannot bring himself to love anyone half-heartedly is only a small part of the problem. “Goodnight. Have a good race.”

She hums back in response, and Mark takes his leave.

He walks home. Gangnam has the best technology in the entire country, and Mark appreciates it the most when he has to get home from Blackout, being guided by the faint image of a hologram as he simply makes his way towards his apartment building. There’s an outdoor just beside it with Mark’s smiling face on it, a campaign for jeans he’s made with Jennie a few months prior, and he always thought it to be somewhat unsettling every time he passed by it. When Mark stands under his own edited and makeup-covered face, he wonders how can anyone even begin to measure up to their idealized self. Celebrity Mark Lee looks like he owns the Sun, the Moon and everything in between, all the while the usual Mark Lee looks like a twelve year old.

And, well, anyways — it’s always like that, somehow. So many people all over the world wish to see what you’re really like when you’re off cameras, and when they do, you fail to measure up. Mark has learned how to get over it years ago, if only out of necessity.

Mark walks by the Heavenly side of the Moon as he allows himself into his apartment building, standing in front of the face scanner for a few seconds before a voice chimes in his welcome. “Hello,” the soft voice of a robot finds his ears in the elevator, no holograms allowed in such a private space. Mark remembers when that was a discussion — people said it was too uncomfortable. “Tomorrow the weather will be slightly colder than usual, with moderate chance of rain and little to no pollen spread. Would you like to hear the latest news? Last updated on June 21st, 23:30.”

He looks at his watch out of instinct. It’s a quarter past midnight now, meaning his win has already been shared to the press. “Yeah, sure,” Mark answers, leaning against one of the elevator walls. His palms hurt for having gripped the steering wheel so tight during the race, and he just knows Donghyuck will have a mouthful to say about it.

“Scientists all around the world have started their next step in mass producing non-biodegradable plastic, resulting in a recession of 70% in most of our ambiental problems,” the robot tells him as he watches the levels and levels of his apartment complex disappear under his feet. Mark lives on the very last level, the 123rd one, and it’s always a long ride home when he steps into the elevator. “Chile announces its first ever lovebot, hand-designed to fit its owner, but leaves no dates as to when it’ll be affordable for the general public.”

He raises an eyebrow. Lovebots were also a discussion back in the day, but Mark supposes it’s only understandable that people want to give up on sharing relationships with each other so easily. The robot continues: “Mark Lee wins the first round of tonight’s Blackout, marking it as his thirtieth consecutive win ever since he signed up with Eclipse Inc, under the guidance of ex-racer Jennie Kim.”

Mark clicks his tongue, proud. There are few things better than listening to yourself being domestically praised, as it matters much more than just the presses’ opinion. He likes to know that he’s adored not just by companies and CEOs, but also by the people — there’s no shame in that. He tunes out of it by the time he arrives at his level, but catches the last breaking news of the night; something about innovations in the housing system. He’d search about it later.

The elevator’s doors ding open directly to his living room, where Mark steps down with only half the mind to actually get to his bedroom. He supposes it’s not particularly radical of him to be this tired at only midnight, but he’s past the age of partying until dawn; he’s an adult, and has been one for long enough to know that a night of good rest is better than anything he can ever be offered at a party. Mark shrugs off his shirt and pants mindlessly, grabbing one of the hoodies thrown over his couch and slipping into it with one swift move, already on the sofa before he can even register it.

He’s about to congratulate himself on not waking up Donghyuck when he hears the oh so unwelcome sound of his setup starting, and then, not even five minutes later, the sound of his bells ringing through the apartment. Mark laughs to himself at it — he decided Donghyuck was sneaking up on him too much nowadays, and as a solution bought him a collar full of loud, golden bells that tell him where Donghyuck is at all times.

“You’re late,” the bot mumbles. It’s ridiculous looking, that much Mark knows, but he thinks Donghyuck is fashionably tacky with his cheetah print setup. It’s Dior — that has to mean something. “You were supposed to be home at 23:40, max. I’ve checked traffic and calculated the time while adding short bathroom breaks. What made you stray out of my calculations?”

Mark groans. “Hop off my dick, Donghyuck.”

The bot’s unimpressed face stares right back at him. Technically, Donghyuck does have a human face — it’s the feature Mark bought him for, considering it would feel somewhat like facetiming a friend rather than talking to a literal machine, but he turns it off whenever he has something mildly risqué to say, and he forgot to turn it on again since the last time. Tomorrow he’ll do it. “So? What happened? Don’t waste my time. I still am yet to fully recharge.”

“‘Don’t waste my time’ — Excuse me? What could you possibly be busy with? You’re a robot.”

If Donghyuck could snort, Mark knows he would. The bot settles for mimicking a laugh. “Humanist, much?”

Mark rolls his eyes. “You can’t claim I’m oppressing you when you live — rent free, mind you, and all charges covered — at my house. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, when the bot revolution comes and I have to kill you—”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Donghyuck continues, making his way around the coffee table and back into his charging spot near the refrigerator. Mark never asked, but he thinks Donghyuck likes it so much because he has a crush on his refrigerator; if he even can get crushes at all. “Goodnight, Mark.”

“Goodnight, Donghy— Wait, what are my plans for tomorrow?” He asks, shooting up from his lying down position. After a heartbeat, he adds: “Any texts?”

Donghyuck does something that could very well be the sound of a whine, and Mark wonders where he learned it from. “Tomorrow you have an interview for ARENA around six p.m, that’s an interview for ARENA around six p.m.”

He giggles. Mark doesn’t regret buying the mod that makes Donghyuck announce his schedule like an old TV seller. “You also have accepted to go to lunch with your sister tomorrow.”

“Alright,” he nods to himself. “Any texts, Donghyuck?”

“Two,” the bot tells him. “From an unsaved number. Would you like to listen to them?”

“Yes.”

Donghyuck clears his throat, but not really. It’s a sound effect. “Hey, Mark, it’s Jaemin. Thank you for the ride; it was very sweet of you. If you’d like to, I could make up for the inconvenience by buying you a coffee or something of the sort. Let me know what you think.” The bot takes a quick pause, meaning one text is over and he will be moving on to another. “God, now I sound like the kidnapper. I’m sorry. Colon, left parentheses, left parentheses, left parentheses, left parentheses, left parentheses—”

“That’s an emoticon, Donghyuck,” Mark interrupts him. “It’s a sad face. It’s not parentheses, parentheses.”

“I see,” Donghyuck answers, but Mark knows he doesn’t care in the slightest. “That is all.”

He hums. “Okay, buddy, thank you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“Wait, fuck— I’m sorry— Can you turn off the lights?”

Mark hears an artificial sigh, and then the lights go out completely, just like he is used to. “Goodnight, Mark.”

“Goodnight, buddy.”

He pulls the blanket over himself, lying his head on one of the fluffy pillows Lisa got for him last Christmas. Mark likes it here — it’s a nice place with a not so nice robot and the promise of Jaemin ever getting him coffee one day, which is better than the average news. This is a beautiful city, with beautiful people living in it.

Mark makes to fall asleep to the soft hum of Donghyuck retreating his engines and the idea of Jaemin’s longer-than-life eyelashes, but has his intentions interrupted as Donghyuck seems to light up once again: “Wait, who’s Jaemin?”

“Go to sleep or I swear to God I’ll unplug your battery.”

"You will do no such thing!" Donghyuck protests. Mark hears it as he leaves his powering station and pulls his comforter over his head, as if to shield himself from confrontation. “Who is Jaemin? Mark. Who is Jaemin?”

“Look it up, Donghyuck,” he groans. “Look it up on Naver.”

“I don’t know his full name.”

“Exactly. Goodnight.”

Donghyuck bumps against the couch — repeatedly. Mark pulls the comforter down to look at him. "Who is Jaemin?" he repeats. Every time he bumps against the couch, the bells in his collar jingle. "Who is Jaemin? Who is—"

Sitting up, Mark pushes him off. Donghyuck is not that heavy, but he's not the lightest bot either; he struggles against Mark's hold. "He's just a guy, Donghyuck. He's, I don't know, he must be a preschool teacher. I don't know, okay? I don't know."

Donghyuck lets out a long and thoughtful beep. "I see. Goodnight, Mark."

He's used to Donghyuck's antics already, so when the bot turns on his heels and returns to the powering station, Mark lets himself fall back to the couch and curls around himself, ready to sleep.

➳♡

Jaemin stares at the helmet Mark gave him fixatedly.

It’s been at least half an hour into the Blackout, and this is the latest Jaemin has been up at night in the last three years. The helmet stares back at him, almost accusingly, as Jaemin seriously considers drop kicking it off of his desk. He ends up giving up on such an idea, considering Jisung is already fast asle— Fast recharging, and Jaemin should be, too, though the gadget refuses to stop flickering lights in his direction like a bot gone-manic.

He frowns at it for the tenth time that night, considering what to do to shut it off without actively ruining it in the process. It was a gift, and, well; his mother raised him well enough to value anything he did not pay for, but got anyway.

Inevitably, the lights end up waking Jisung up, who grumpily leaves his charging station through one of his newest ramps to stare at Jaemin from his desk. “What are you doing?” He asks, probably grumpy. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

Jaemin pouts. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

“I do tell you what to do,” Jisung points out, curiously circling the helmet with one of his synthetic "eyes" cocked to the side in doubt. “I tell you what to do all the time. And you do it.”

“Fine, your point?” He rolls his eyes, though he inches closer towards his desk to lovingly pat Jisung’s figurative head. “I can just shut you off when I don’t want to be bossed around by a sixteen centimeters tall piece of plastic.”

If Jisung could roll his eyes back at him, Jaemin knows he would. “You would not live with yourself if you ever shut me down. Even as a joke.”

Jaemin stays silent for a second, caught red-handed, but eventually snarls back: “Fine. I’m soft hearted. What about it?”

“What is this?” Jisung points a hook towards the helmet’s direction.

“A helmet.”

“I know.” The bot approaches it carefully, tapping one of his hooks against it and surprising himself at the sound it caused, jumping back slightly. Jaemin knows he was programmed to be alarmed by every little sound because of the movie he was supposed to be in, but God if it isn’t adorable. “Where did you get this from? Hyunjin would love this.”

“A… Friend gave it to me,” he answers, scratching the back of his head and trying to pass off as nonchalant. “As a, um, as a gift.”

“Which friend? This is expensive. Hyunjin can't afford this, and it doesn't look like something Yangyang would give you.”

Jaemin frowns. “I have— I have other friends.”

“Who?”

He clears his throat. “...Renjun?”

“Renjun does not exist to me.”

“Well, he exists to me—”

“Not for long, hopefully!”

“Jisung,” Jaemin reprimands, exasperatedly rubbing his temples. “Did you wake up just to point out every single one of my flaws?”

“No,” the bot answers. “I woke up because I am curious about this helmet. I am very curious. You know so. Now, who gave it to you?"

"It doesn't matter. Go to sleep— recharge, whatever."

Jisung does retreat to his spot at the desk, but instead of curling up on himself, he bumps his frame against the helmet once. "Jisung–" when he does it again, the helmet moves closer to the edge of the desk, and Jaemin lunges himself out of his bed to grab it before it falls to the ground, cradling it safely to his chest. His shoulder hurts like a bitch as he looks up to the small bot looking down at him. "This probably costs more than this entire house," Jaemin tells him. "If you broke it, I'm not sure if I'd forgive you."

"Something's value in money isn't always the same as its true worth," Jisung replies matter-of-factly. "You told me that yourself."

"Maybe so," Jaemin sits up on the floor, back leaning against his bed frame. He studies the object in his hands — in the darkness of the room, Jaemin's hands and arms are illuminated by the LED screen, tinting his skin pink and blue. Something like this has no place in Jaemin's home, just as someone like Mark has no place in his life. He feels bad for even letting it in his desk, among his Astronomy books, old leather journals, a manual for hormone therapy through chips and the flyers Jaemin gets on the street and has no heart to throw away.

Jisung lets out a loud beep. Jaemin looks up at him.

"Are you not going to put it on?" the bot asks.

"No?" Jaemin frowns. "Why would I?"

"Because it wants you to put it on."

"How would you know?"

"How would I not know?"

Jaemin has no means to know if Jisung is serious or not, but he would rather not risk it. There are many things in between humans and robots whose lines have not been crossed yet, and he's not sure he wants to go there — instead, he takes one last look at the helmet, turns it around and puts it on.

At first, nothing happens. He's about to remind Jisung that he has no game set up to play with, but a screen flickers in front of his eyes, startling him. His room fades away and in its place, a road lights up — when Jaemin looks down at lap, those are not his hands, but someone else's grabbing a steering wheel. He can hear Jisung asking what he's seeing, but his voice is but a whisper when compared to the slow rumble of the car engine.

Jaemin braces himself on the bed frame as if he's afraid that he'll end up leaving the room somehow, taken anywhere else by this vision. One strange hand reaches out to the car's gear and he catches sight of a bright pink cat keyring dangling on the ignition, and it suddenly hits him that he's back in Mark's car. Not only that, but he's—

He's in the Blackout. Jaemin inhales a sharp breath; he has never known the lights were so bright and so beautiful. He's not even mad that Mark didn't mention he'd be racing tonight, Jaemin, too, would do it, had he the opportunity to keep something like this for himself.

When Mark takes a sharp turn, Jaemin tucks his knees to his chest, wrapping arms around himself. There are no cars ahead of them, just an infinity of darkness and the occasional flash of light when Mark rides past a mirrored building. He realizes, suddenly, that Mark isn't only a racer; he must be the best of them. Every once in a while he's able to hear as the other man snickers, talking to someone Jaemin can't hear, and he sounds a lot different than how it was like when Jaemin was with him. This is work for him, and Mark does it very well.

The fluorescent silhouette of an orange car appears on the very back of the screen, though Jaemin supposes it’s just because Mark is a few miles behind said car. It’s absolutely hypnotizing — the lights are blinding and so, so alive, as if they made up an entire ecosystem of their own. Jaemin didn’t know what he expected of Blackout before, but to see it through a racer’s eyes is a completely different experience than to see it by the sidelines, because nothing could’ve prepared him for the neon noir jungle that makes up Seoul once the clock hits 20:20. In a way, it starts to make sense why so many people would kill and die for this; Jaemin may have not understood before, but he gets it now. He does.

Suddenly, the car comes to a stop — a number on the bottom of the screen tells Jaemin that they've been here for around three hours, and he can't believe time has passed this fast. He hasn't even moved from this spot on the bed, and watches as Mark turns off the engine and gets out of the car, stepping into what Jaemin assumes to be a pit-stop. He wonders if Mark can hear him; he wants to tell him congratulations, or well done, or anything else, but no words come out anyway. Anything he could've said would come a few centimeters short from what he truly meant.

By the time Mark takes off his helmet, Jaemin is already staring at his own, back again at his desk. It’s in wonder, mostly, but wonder is the industry of fools — there are one too many things going through his head, the adrenaline of not only participating in the race but watching it through a big racer’s eyes settling in somewhere between his ribs and refusing to come out. He can’t possibly imagine why Mark would’ve given him this. He can’t possibly imagine how many people would throw millions of money on his face in order to take one small peek into this helmet, and, consequently, into Mark’s reality.

Jisung fusses with the ramp that leads him to the bed for a few minutes before actually getting to Jaemin, bumping against his side repeatedly to show affection. “Are you okay?” He asks, the cold metal surrounding his engines hitting against Jaemin’s sleeping shirt and creating a shiver down his spine.

“I’m fine, Ji,” he answers truthfully, extending his palm for Jisung to climb on it. He does, and Jaemin brings him to eye level as if the bot could possibly understand the depth of human eye contact. “I’m okay. It was just… That was just weird. I think— I think I might’ve watched someone race for Blackout.”

Jisung mimics a hum. “How so?”

“I don’t know, I, I just did.” He exhales shakily, leaning his forehead against the heel of his palms. “I don’t know how I did that.”

“Did you like it?” The bot asks, his voice above Jaemin’s head.

“I don’t know.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know, Jisung,” Jaemin almost groans out. “It was too much to take in. ‘T was overwhelming.”

The bot stays silent for a second, then speaks up: “I don’t understand. What’s ‘overwhelmed’?”

He pulls back to stare at him. Jaemin knows the range of Jisung’s knowledge is simultaneously absurdly big and small, but it’s in moments like these he finds himself swooning over the innocence needed to not only know, but try and understand something incommunicable. “It’s like…” He starts, pressing his lips together in thought. “It’s like when there’s too many files in your system and I have to turn you off for a little.”

“I see,” Jisung answers. “You got overheated?”

“Yeah, Ji,” Jaemin pats his squared head. “I got overheated. I need to reboot my system before I explain how it was, so I can understand it better.”

The bot seems to be satisfied with his answer, nodding. “Would you like for me to turn off the lights so you can recharge?”

"You can't even reach the light switch," Jaemin reminds him in a soft tone. "But I appreciate the effort. I think it's time for the both of us to recharge, Ji."

“Agreed.”

Rather than Jisung's habitual morning beep beep beep, Jaemin wakes up with a startle as the ground shakes for a solid minute. He hasn't heard anything about an earthquake taking place recently, so it can only mean a thing — the heavy bass gets louder once he stumbles into the living room, bones still heavy with sleep as he grabs a coat from the hanger. If Jaemin were to press his hand to one of the walls in his home, he'd be able to feel it trembling as well; Yangyang is known for blasting music as he cleans his house, and as he does pretty much everything else. But it is too early for that, and Jaemin wishes he could sleep for a couple more hours, so he zips his coat, puts on some slippers and steps out of his home.

"Oh, good morning," says the figure leaning against Yangyang's door. Hyunjin looks as sleep-deprived as he is, a sleep mask on top of her head as she rubs her eyes. "Do you want to have breakfast together after I murder him?"

"That'd be lovely," Jaemin replies. "Have you tried calling him?"

Hyunjin scoffs, leaning in to bang her fist against the door. "Do you think he'd hear it?" she asks.

“Kun would hear it,” he says, leaning his forearms against the door and using them to help Hyunjin make a louder noise.

They bang on it for a few more minutes before a humanoid figure blasts the door open, his features perfectly aligned to emulate a human frown. Kun’s robotic gaze travels from Jaemin to Hyunjin curiously, hands on his hips, and he asks: “May I help you?”

"Good morning, Kun," Jaemin tells him. "Would you mind reminding Yangyang that the sun has barely risen?"

Kun stares at them for a second too long. “Come in,” he ends up saying, moving aside so Jaemin and Hyunjin can walk into the absolute mess that is Yangyang’s apartment.

The door closes behind them, and Jaemin wonders to himself, again, why someone as rich as Yangyang lives in such a messy dead-end almost an entire city away from downtown Seoul. He guesses the 1% sometimes wants to live the proletariat fantasy, but there seems to be a disconnect between Yangyang’s expensive couch and the actual trash deposit that is the rest of his living room, clothes and partitures scattered all over the floor. Kun maneuvers his steps around the mess quite gracefully, but Hyunjin and him don’t have the same luck, holding onto each other in order to not fall into the abyss that is Yangyang’s living room. Jaemin is sure he wouldn't survive were he to fall into a trap of designer shoes.

The man in question has all of his musical devices gathered over his kitchen table, a mess of bluetooth speakers and mini-radios leaving no trace of the table’s actual surface. A TV on the very right corner of the kitchen hums to the morning news, footage from the Blackout playing out as a man with a nasal voice informs the racing committee of last night’s events, Yangyang’s head angled to it naturally as he works on one single fried egg.

When he notices their presence, he turns around on his heels excitedly, rows and rows of teeth forming around a smile so stunningly white Jaemin has to look away. The golden canines are showstopping as well. “Good morning, my lovely, lovely friends!” He chimes like a morning bird, his bright mood coloring even the simplest of his words. “What an exquisite morning. Eggs?”

Hyunjin makes a face, pushing his extended hand away. “Who eats eggs in 2999?”

“I do,” Yangyang hums with a soft chuckle, checking his freshly painted stiletto nails before going back to his task. Last week, he was all about cheetah print, but right now they're just lime green, which is modest for him. “Be my guests. I have amazing news. The best news. Absolutely ethereal news, if you will.”

Jaemin laughs, disturbance long forgotten as he takes a look at Yangyang’s face. “What’s up, Yang?”

He smacks his lips together bashfully, grabbing the remote and turning the television’s volume to the max. Jaemin grimaces at the noise, but Yangyang gives it no mind as he points a finger to the TV: “That motherfucker. He’s on the news every Friday, and I’m playing for his best friend’s party. Can you believe that?”

Hyunjin snorts. “Mark Lee? Since when do you have any connection with him, at all?”

Jaemin frowns, pressing his lips together, but doesn’t add anything to the conversation as Yangyang squeals: “Lee Jeno! I’m playing for his welcome back party! Hyunjin, this is huge. I gotta call my mom. He's coming back from Mars, and he's the son of one of the richest men in this country, and I'm playing for his party!” he sighs dreamily, and then sends them a look: "To which, by the way, you're coming with me."

“I doubt Jaemin will be going,” Hyunjin sends him a sideway glance, snickering. “He hates rich people.”

Yangyang rolls his eyes. “That is not your decision to make, sugarplum. Plus — he’ll be going because he is my bro, and we are joined in holy bro-trimony. It’s the rules.”

“Who’s this Mark, again?” Jaemin asks, ignoring their bickering and sitting by Yangyang’s dinner table, eyes focused on the TV. He wasn't able to see who Yangyang was talking about, but something didn't sit right in his guts. Could it be…? “Like, what’s his deal?”

“Who’s this Mark again— Jaemin!” He groans. “This dude is young money. He’s like… Everywhere. How come you don’t know him? He's super hot as well.”

He frowns. “I don’t pay attention.”

“Mark Lee is one of the biggest racers in the world,” Hyunjin tells him as she makes herself at home in front of Yangyang’s fridge, pulling out some leftovers Jaemin is sure should not be eaten by anyone in their right mind. Though Yangyang is known for being obsessed with cooking shows, he's not that great of a cook. He likes to experiment and put his own health at risk. “He’s, like, our best champion. Yesterday was his 30th consecutive win. And, well— Like Yangyang said, he’s super hot. Our decades’ heartthrob. I personally prefer his counterpart, Lisa, but it is what it is.”

“Then how come I don’t know him?”

“You’re fucking stupid, that’s why,” she answers nonchalantly, popping a cherry into her mouth. Jaemin doesn’t even want to know where she got that from. “You’re one of those people who are stuck in the past. What’s the name of that artist you like, again? Something something, the one with the blonde hair?”

Jaemin huffs. “Britney Spears.”

“The very one. She’s like Mark Lee from the past.”

He settles back in his chair, somewhat satisfied with Hyunjin’s answer, and allows Yangyang to pour him a glass of orange juice as they sit together to have breakfast. The television is still very much on, but Jaemin tunes out of it when Yangyang offers him a piece of toast with a thin layer of vegan chocolate on top of it.

They’re simply eating and going on about their days when Yangyang yelps, pointing a finger to the TV: “That’s him! That’s the motherfucker I’ve been talking about!”

Jaemin’s gaze falls back upon the TV, and the image staring at him is none other than the man he mistook for his cab driver not even a day ago. On reflex, he accidentally hits his glass of juice, sending it to the ground with one swift move as Mark’s face pops up on the TV close up, green hair slicked back and the drawing of a blue flame adorning his left eye, handsome as all things. Jaemin has a few seconds to gape at him as Yangyang whines out a complaint about his new carpet, rushing to get a paper cloth all the while Hyunjin frowns in his direction.

“Jaemin, just why are you so curious about Mark Lee?”

He debates on telling them the truth, but ends up taking the opposite view. Mark is a dream Jaemin would very much like to keep to himself for the time being, if only to avoid Yangyang having grey hairs at the tender age of twenty years old. “Just curious,” he blinks, crouching down to help with the spilled juice. “The kids, um, the kids have been talking about him lately.”

Hyunjin doesn’t look fully convinced. “Is that so?”

“Hyunjin, I swear to God, if you don’t help me with this—” Yangyang interrupts their conversation, and Jaemin sighs in relief as Hyunjin seems to get distracted enough to leave the topic be for now.

The three of them are kneeled under Yangyang’s kitchen table, then, drenching papercloths in bright orange stains as Yangyang whines about how much money he’ll have to spend to fix it, though Jaemin knows he can afford it. At some point it’s only him and Hyunjin, and she looks at Jaemin with the same unconvinced glint from before, mouthing ‘I know you’ as she scrubs off one of the bigger stains.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about’ Jaemin mouths back, resurfacing from under the table to find Yangyang and Kun having a discussion in Mandarin. He doesn’t understand it, not fully, but grasps a few of the words — ‘stain’, ‘fuck’ and ‘price’ being three of the most used. When Hyunjin resurfaces back, too, he makes a point out of ignoring her glare towards him.

They continue their morning as usual because Yangyang couldn’t stay angry at him if he tried, and Jaemin excuses himself back to his apartment around a few minutes after nine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks at himself in the mirror the second he walks into the bathroom, and the man staring back at him is, well — nothing like what he imagines Mark Lee is used to.

Jaemin doesn’t even think of himself as someone who is ugly, but he can’t compete with people like Lee Jeno, for example, who keeps winning ‘Most Handsome Of the Year’ every year. His dark circles and gritty orange hair have some flare to them, and Jaemin knows he’s got the pretty kind of dirty face that makes people act just a bit nicer to him, but he’s not an international star. He’s a preschool teacher with too little of a salary to pay the bills and a failing relationship, so it makes no sense that Mark Lee showed any interest in him at all, though he did and he does.

“Jaemin!” Jisung’s voice thunders through the apartment, the rumble of his engines coming alive as Jaemin watches him wheel towards him with, well, ‘>:|‘ for the face displayed on his screen. “Who is Donghyuck Lee and why is he sending you emails?”

He frowns, turning to Jisung who is watching him from the ramp near his bathroom mirror. “Who?”

The bot huffs, but it’s not quite it — it’s more as if he were overheating, fans turning on quicker and louder. “He sent you an email. Another bot, Jaemin, unbelievable! Who is he? Since when have you been contacting him?”

“Ji, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he turns to his own image again, picking up his toothbrush. “I don’t know any other bots besides you and Kun.”

“Then why is someone else’s bot sending you emails?” Jisung insists.

Jaemin snorts around his toothbrush. “Can’t you just read the email so I can know, at least, why is it being sent to me?”

The bot blinks at him for a second, but proceeds to do so as Jaemin brushes his teeth. “Hello,” he starts. “This is Lee Donghyuck. If you have received this email, you are one of the three Jaemins in the area who are preschool teachers. If you are not the one who has encountered Mark Lee last night, please disregard this message.” Jaemin peeks at Jisung curiously, but has to turn around in order to spit out the toothpaste. “If you are, please continue listening carefully. Mark has accepted your invite for coffee, that is, Mark has accepted your invite for coffee. Report back as soon as possible. Have a good day.”

Jaemin wipes off his face with a towel as he asks: “Does that look like I’m having an affair with another bot to you, Jisung?”

If Jisung were able to, he’d stomp his small wheels against the ground. Since he isn’t, he settles for answering: “I have to make sure. Who is Mark Lee?”

“You know who Mark Lee is. Knowing you, you already looked him up.”

“I have, indeed. Where have you met South Korea’s biggest racer, and since when?”

“I just… I just met him somewhere,” he turns to Jisung, pulling out a napkin to clean him up from the dust gathered around his metallic body, and the bot allows him to do it reluctantly. “It doesn’t matter. Mark Lee’s never going to…” Jaemin bites his tongue before he says date me. “He’s never going to be interested in me.”

Jisung shakes his head, difficulting his endeavors. “There is no such a thing as not being interested in you. Have you finally gotten ridden of Renjun?”

“Jisung,” Jaemin reprimands. “We don’t talk about him like that.”

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t,” he says as he scrubs off the dust from Jisung’s screen. “He’s still my boyfriend, you know. Nothing has changed because I’m going out with Mark for coffee.”

“You sound very nonchalant,” Jisung comments. “Are you aware of who Mark is? I can read his Wikipedia page for you.” When Jaemin doesn’t answer, the bot starts: “Mark Lee, born August 2nd, 2978, is a Lunar-Korean professional racer and public figure based in South Korea. He is best known as a racer under Eclipse Inc., his current agency, and has raced for both the Olympics and the World Cup before the age of twenty-two. Mark made his professional debut on the tracks in April 16, 2996, through Nocticolor Inc., but quickly became a member of Seoul-based Eclipse by being added into Jennie Kim’s team of mentees, of which he is a part of to this day.”

“Jisung—”

The bot ignores him. “Mark Lee has won the KBO League Award at the age of nineteen, becoming the youngest racer to do so. Furthermore, Mark has been publicly associated with Lee Jeno, heir to Eclipse Inc. and front member of Indie band ‘The Killjoys’, and Jeon Heejin, a fellow racer. Though not big on political activism, Mark Lee has been traced back to a handful of donations toward non-profit organizations that aim to lessen economic and social differences, as well as fund the education of more than a hundred and fifty thousand Korean students.”

Jaemin bites down a smile, going on about his day as Jisung follows him across the house, still belting down Mark Lee’s Wikipedia page like his life depended on it. “As of now, Mark is Lalisa Manoban’s counterpart in a racing duo called ‘Binary Star’, referring to the Astronomical phenomenon of two stars that lie very close to, and are often orbiting, each other.”

“Are you done?” He asks, pouring some coffee into his mug as Jisung struggles to climb over the kitchen table through his ramp.

“No, Mark Lee’s Wikipedia page is ten pages long,” the bot confides, standing in front of him and carefully maneuvering himself around his coffee mug so as to not knock it down like he used to do all the time when he first came home. “I only showed you information I thought you’d like to know.”

Jaemin hums, taking a sip of his coffee. “I wonder what was the criteria used.”

“Basic information, charity connections, Astronomy and public friends,” Jisung answers. “There weren’t any mentions of significant others, but Mark is openly queer.”

“Queer as in… As in, trans, or—”

“He is openly gay,” the bot hums. “Though presumably cisgender.”

Jaemin huffs. “Everyone’s gotta have a flaw, I suppose. Mark Lee is no exception.”

"And will you meet up with him for coffee?"

"Oh," Jaemin sets the mug on the table. "Well, I did invite him, didn't I?"

"And will you tell Renjun?"

He doesn't reply straight away. Jaemin absentmindedly traces the rim of his mug with the tip of his finger, cradling his chin with his free hand. It's not like it is a date, anyways; Jaemin doesn't have to warn Renjun every time he goes out with a friend. They're not even friends in the first place — Mark and him, that is. They're barely acquaintances, in fact, he's surprised that Mark has agreed to grab a coffee with him. The invitation was, mainly, the result of Jaemin freaking out for acting completely insane with a stranger. He was just trying to be nice, and now that he knows Mark is Mark Lee, universally famous racer, he's even more surprised.

"I don't know," Jaemin replies at last, bringing the mug to his lips once more. "Maybe later. I should probably reply to Mark's bot, right?"

At the mention of the other bot, Jisung's small engine rumbles as if he's mad. "I suppose."

"You don't have to be jealous, silly," Jaemin tells him. "Ji, you're the only bot I need."

"I am well aware of that. What would you like your email to say?"

Jaemin hums, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "That I am, indeed, the Jaemin that met up with Mark yesterday? That I'm happy he accepted my invite? I don't know. Blah blah blah, best regards."

"You don't want me to write that," Jisung points out. "I think all the coffee is doing something to your brain. Maybe you should have invited him for… Dinner. I have looked up the best "date spots" in town–"

"Jisung, I have a boyfriend. When I go out on dates, it's with Renjun."

"But you like Mark more. You're never that interested in Renjun."

Though he's fully aware that this is Jisung's bias talking, it does make Jaemin feel a little funny. He stares at his mug of coffee like it could tell him all the answers to his questions — he wonders if his relationship is at such a low point that even a bot like Jisung can tell. He's… He is interested in Renjun. He's been so for the past six months. Though it is true that they're past the early stage of their relationship, when everything was bright and bubblegum flavored, Jaemin likes to believe that it didn't fade away, it just matured into something with more sober tones. He is trying to believe that, that is.

"Don't say such things," he reprimands. "I don't like it when you talk like that, Jisung. If Renjun hears you, he'll be upset."

"How so? He hasn't been here in weeks."

"We're both busy people. You wouldn't know, because you're a bot."

“But you’re not busy for Mark Lee.”

“I’m—” Jaemin starts, but he doesn’t have anything to say. Jisung can be such a know-it-all sometimes. “I’m done having this conversation.”

The bot ignores him to ask: “Have you eaten yet?”

“I’m not letting you near the toaster again.”

Jisung blinks back at him, unimpressed. “That was one time.”

“One time was enough,” he wipes his mouth with a napkin, staring out the window. Seoul is already awakened, as it always seems to be, and the world is oh so endless from the tiny frame of his kitchen window. “Have you considered that I will go positively insane if anything happens to you?”

“If I caught on fire, you could simply buy me another body. As long as the system isn’t corrupted, I can never, truly, die. Not in a way that matters, at least.”

"I see. Well, you still aren't getting anywhere near the toaster. I ate a little something back at Yangyang's."

"Then you should eat more, because Yangyang doesn't know how to cook. I reckon you told me that once."

Though Jaemin isn't hungry in the slightest, he does prepare some toast for himself only so that Jisung won't pull at his pigtails any further.

➳♡゛

“Your hair looks awful,” is the first thing his sister, Olivia, tells him as he walks into their restaurant booth, her eyes turned to him in mischief. “Cosmo would be proud.”

Mark huffs, grabbing a seat in front of her and pulling out his snapback to run a hand through his hair. “Who the fuck is Cosmo?” He asks in lieu of a greeting. “And it doesn’t look awful. You’re awful.”

“It looks awful because you don’t brush it.” Olivia leans her forearms against the tabletop, her own hair falling in long, dark locks all over her shoulder. She snickers: “It looks like you have a bird’s nest on your head. Humble yourself.”

“It does not— Olivia, have you invited me for lunch to poke fun at me? Because I swear to God I’ll leave—”

Olivia giggles. “No, stupid. Don’t leave.” Her eyes fall back upon him, and Mark gets the ill-intended sting of nostalgia soon enough, though it’s impossible not to when Olivia is around. When she smiles, she looks like the morning sun, and Mark keeps getting caught in the thought that having a little sister is never as bad as he makes it out to be. “I saw your win last night. Pretty cool. The kids at school have no idea I’m your sister.”

Mark snorts. “Why not? It could get you some popularity. You’d stop being a loser.”

“I’m not a loser,” her smile falls dramatically. “I have friends.”

“Gowon doesn’t count.”

Olivia smacks her lips together. “Yerim.”

“Yerim is forced to be friends with you because we’ve been going to Church with her family for the past twenty-five years,” Mark teases, picking up the menu to hide behind it once Olivia starts seething in anger.

“Yeah? Well, your head is enormous and all your helmets are one size too big than average to fit it.”

"What's the correlation to what I just said?"

"You tell me, with that big brain of yours. I'm sure you can fit a lot of outstanding comprehension skills in there."

He sighs in defeat. “I hate teenagers. I wish we would’ve gotten rid of you when we had the time.”

Olivia smiles brightly. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.” Mark goes through the menu easily, already set on what he was eating when he stepped into the restaurant. Admittedly, he’s quite the picky eater — it comes with the things stardom does to you. “How’s school?” He asks, because he has no idea of what else to talk about.

When he’s with Jeno or Heejin, Mark can talk about anything because they’re, well, adults. But Olivia is his little sister, and it’s been years since he last stepped foot into a high school, so the interests they share are few and the conversations they’re legally allowed to have are even fewer. She hums uninterestedly. “Boring. School’s school. How’s racing?”

“Um, well… Racing doesn’t really change,” he eloquently answers. God, why is he letting a sixteen year old get under his skin like this? “It’s just, you know… Cars.”

“Wow, you make such a good speaker.” Olivia rolls her eyes, toying with a strand of her hair as she peeks over the menu. Mark’s paying, of course — the amount of money he gives Olivia per month is astoundingly high, and he can’t even say he regrets it. What is being rich if not being able to pay for your little sister and her girlfriend’s dates? “This is all so…”

“Expensive? Olivia, I don’t care, seriously — order whatever you want.”

“I wasn’t going to say expensive,” she interrupts him, biting down on a laugh. “But okay, Mr. Universally Famous. Will keep that in mind. I was going to say this is all too fancy. Don’t they have hamburgers? Some chicken stripes? I'm dying for curly fries.”

“Those are bad for you, Olivia,” Mark reprimands weakly, half-hearted at best.

She cocks her head to the side. “All foods are good for me in some way or another, have you ever thought of that? The problem with our society’s eating habits is that we demonize some foods and put others on a pedestal—”

“Okay, Jesus, I’ll ask for curly fries”

Olivia smiles. “Thank you.”

A demon, just as Mark remembered her to be. He almost wants to sob — how does he let a sixteen year old get under his skin? Jeno would throw a fit were he to know. He’s about to order through the minibot standing by their table when his cellphone chimes up from where it sat on the tabletop, calling for his attention. Mark reaches out for it, holding in a breath, and unconsciously smiles when he sees who it is.

Jaemin: Your bot got my bot jealous. Not cool.

Jaemin: Are you maybe interested in having dinner instead of coffee? I’m trying to cut down on caffeine lately.

He’s typing out a response when Olivia speaks up: “Who got you smiling like that? Have you finally gotten yourself a boyfriend?”

Mark scowls immediately, smile closing. “I’m not discussing my love life with a sixteen year old.”

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You are already,” Olivia whistles obnoxiously. “Who is it, seriously? You never smile at your phone like that. You never even use your phone. You don’t text me back. I keep wondering if you say "Hi" and then throw your phone across the Pacific ocean.”

“I text you back,” he frowns. “It may take a little time, but I text you back.”

“Don’t deflect from the conversation.” She points an accusatory finger in his direction. “And no, you don’t text me back. If you do, you sound like grandma.” Olivia’s voice gets lower and embarrassingly slow, mimicking his speech: “Very cool, Olivia. Hahaha, Olivia. You’re growing a lot, Olivia. Like a fucking elderly lady.”

Mark feels like he should scold her for swearing, but doesn’t — he’s not her father, no matter how much he acts otherwise to that statement. “Come on, I’m not your age anymore. I don’t know— I don’t know what’s cool anymore, okay?”

“I told you to not deflect from the conversation!”

“It’s no one,” he tells her, punching in their orders into the minibot’s keyboard. “And it doesn’t matter who it is, because you’ll never meet him.”

“So you confirm that there is a ‘him’?” She smiles victoriously.

Mark groans. “Olivia. Personal boundaries, remember?”

“No, I don’t think I do,” Olivia singsongs, resting her chin on both her hands like a child. Mark adores her to death, but he wonders how much freedom of speech is enough between a brother and a sister. “I’m serious, come on. I told you all about it when I got with Gowon.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that, Olivia.” He rubs his temples exasperatedly. “And that’s because that was your way of coming out. You said, and I quote, ‘I’m gay and I have a girlfriend, so if you’re homophobic don’t try any shit because I am stronger than you’.”

“See? And you weren’t homophobic, after all.” She cocks her head to the side, a tender glint in her eyes. “You never tell me anything. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t even know your favorite color.”

“Blue.”

“I knew that already, but still—” Olivia pouts. Mark knows this isn’t going to end well when her eyes go rounder than the Earth in itself, twinkling under the artificial lights. He sighs to himself; he was sold before he even knew. “Who is he?”

Mark presses his lips together, debating on how far down the story he should start. He settles for saying: “His name is Jaemin, I met him by accident, we’re going out for dinner. Is that enough?”

She cheers on her seat. “It is! That is so cool, Mark. An actual, human male that is not Jeno nor Jaehyun. I’m proud of you. Is he a racer, too?”

“No, he’s not.” He brings a hand to his nape, awkwardly scratching. “He’s, um, he’s a preschool teacher. Astronomy or something; I don’t know. It’s near your school.”

“Near my school?” Olivia hums in thought. “There’s, like, three to four preschools in the area. How does he look?”

“Uh, well,” Mark stammers for a second. “I thought he was very beautiful. He had, um, orange hair and glasses. Round ones. And he was wearing a coat — a blue one, I think, it was all fucked up. I thought he looked very beautiful.”

She clicks her tongue. “I see. I don’t know why, but orange hair… Blue coat… It just sounds so familiar.” Olivia stares out of their table for a second, turning to him a few moments after. “I think… Gowon’s little brother, Youngjae, he’s in preschool. I think I might’ve seen your Mr. Right walking around a few times.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “His name is Jaemin, not Mr. Right.”

“By how many times you repeated it, I could swear his name was ‘Very Beautiful’.” Olivia raises an eyebrow.

He gulps. “Well, I told you. I thought he was very beautiful. That’s all there is to it.”

But Mark doesn’t add that it’s been years since someone has gotten him this interested, and that despite everything else, Jaemin was, indeed, very beautiful. Maybe more than he can ever remember; he read somewhere that the brain can’t take such high levels of beauty all at once. He, for one, would like to see him again, just to make sure.

She blinks softly at him. “Aren’t you the romantic at heart, Mark?”

“Shut up,” he bites at her, though half-hearted. “I’m your older brother. You don’t get to know any more about my love life.”

"But who else will walk you down the aisle when you get married?"

Mark laughs in disbelief: "Mind you, I am far too young to get married."

“Not now, but soon enough,” Olivia answers matter-of-factly. “Isn’t it all about Mr. Very Beautiful, anyways? Who knows where that might take you?”

“Olivia, it’s Jaemin.”

“Okay, fine, whatever, Jaemin. I’m asking Gowon about him later.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t.”

“I will,” she ignores him. “I will, I’ll have to. I know you want to know more about him.”

Mark can’t even bring himself to lie. “Fine. But don’t embarrass me.”

Olivia smiles. “I would never.”

But she would, and Mark knows she would. They talk and they eat and things are okay because Olivia is okay, and that means Mark can sleep a bit better now, knowing his little sister is well and needs him only for money. He likes to say he can do better for her other than checking in on her state a few times a month, but the truth is that Mark is quite new to this himself, and he can only hope Olivia forgives him for the mishappenings along the way. He’s still learning how to remain tender with this much blood in his mouth, and she’s growing too fast for him to catch up. When push comes to shove, Mark is there for her, but he can’t promise to be there all the time.

He’s taking the long way home when he texts Jaemin back.

Mark: Hey, I’d love dinner. Tonight? My crib or yours?

Jaemin: Oh, I was thinking more of a restaurant type of thing.

Jaemin: ... Typing

For good measure, Mark looks away from his phone screen with a grimace. He just managed to embarrass himself with one single text; he can’t imagine how much further embarrassment he’ll be able to cause for an entire dinner.

Jaemin: You can’t really go out without being recognized, can you?

He blows out air through his nose forcefully, then gets to typing:

Mark: Not everyone is as uninterested in me as you are, doll

Olivia would make fun of him for an eternity if she knew he’s walking around calling men he barely knows ‘doll’, but Jaemin is, well — Jaemin is pretty. Mark can’t be blamed.

Jaemin: ...I see. My crib, then. Please don’t be a kidnapper.

Jaemin: I’m not rich like you, though, Mr. Ace. Don’t get your hopes up.

But Mark’s hopes are so tall they reach the Moon, and maybe even farther up.

Mark: Check you later, pretty

He throws his phone away by impulse, bringing his palms to his face, and the driver makes a point out of ignoring it by bringing his eyes back to the road. He doesn’t know why it matters, but it does — because Jaemin wants to have dinner with him, the world has color again.

Jeno calls him again a few hours later, and Mark has half the heart to break the news that he’s having dinner with a total stranger.

“You what?” His best friend all but screeches from the other side of the line, loud enough to wake up not only the entirety of Mars, but also every other star. “Mark, you’re naughty. You don’t know him!”

“He invited me! Plus, Donghyuck did a background check. It's casual, Jen. Don't worry about it.”

“Who do you think you’re fooling?” Jeno huffs. “‘Casual’ my ass. Casual is what we have, you want to climb James — or whatever the fuck his name is — like a tree. Don’t lie to me.”

“Jaemin,” Mark corrects him, but doesn’t confirm nor deny the last statement. “And it is casual. We’re just having dinner at his crib.”

He hears shuffling from Jeno’s side, and his voice comes out a few seconds later. “Do you think I don’t know what ‘dinner at his crib’ means, huh? Do you think adult people just sit in their houses and have dinner like that?”

“Jeno, I’m not— I don’t plan on having sex with a stranger.”

“I sure hope not!” Jeno all but reprimands him. “After all these years, I figured you’d have at least some impulse control. What if he sells pictures of you to sasaeng fans? What if you wake up without a kidney?”

“I’d ask him to take out my ear, instead, because I’d rather not listen to this again.” Mark crosses his arms, though Jeno can’t see it. Donghyuck looks at him accusingly as he clumsily tries to chop a banana with his wheels. “Jeno, I’m serious, it’s fine. He’s like — he’s stellar. And he’s a preschool teacher.”

Jeno sighs. “Just be careful, okay? And condoms. Condoms are important.”

“Jeno, I am not banging Jaemin on the first date—”

“So you admit it’s a date!”

He bites down a groan. How can he possibly fall on the same trick, on the same day? “I hope it is a date. I’m trying really hard to make it a date. Happy now?”

“Very!” His best friend cheers. “Come on, show me a picture of him. Something. I need to know this dude. He’s got your ass starstruck.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “So I’ve heard.” He calls Donghyuck over with a wave of his hand, and mouths to him: Send Jeno a picture of Jaemin, to which the bot grumpily complies.

When it reaches him, Jeno hums. “Okay, yeah, fine — I get it. Okay. He’s a fine fella. He's totally foxy. I get it."

“You do?” He asks, hopeful.

“I do,” his friend tells him. Mark hears as Jeno tells Heejin something unintelligible, but he doesn’t need to ask to know what it is. “Heejin said he looks nice. She digs him.”

"Nice?" Mark sighs dreamily. "He's stellar."

"You said that already. I can't believe this dude has turned you into a broken record."

Mark presses his lips into a fine line. Were he to voice everything he thinks about Jaemin, they'd be here all day. He supposes it’s too early to have any deeper-than-the-surface thoughts on him, but Mark knows, for one, that when you know, you know. And when you’re defeated by beauty, well — you’re utterly defeated. He wonders how long it’ll take him to finally lose this battle, willing and wholeheartedly.

He’d peel a layer of his skin back if only to be able to relive last night’s moments, the few seconds before Blackout where Jaemin looked at him under the moonlight and looked like he saw beyond just what Mark was, but he would never tell Jeno that. He’s not sure he’d ever even tell himself that. Some thoughts are better off as one night stands, though he's a firm believer that the nights are really made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day.

"You're too quiet," Jeno accuses. "You're really psyched for this, aren't you?"

"Yes, Jeno."

Jeno lets out a sigh. "Then I hope you have fun. Call me back if you don't wake up dead in a ditch, or kidneyless."

“Shut up,” Mark rolls his eyes, though — yet again — Jeno can’t see him. He misses having a face-to-face conversation. "Jen, he's so— am I being stupid?"

Jeno stays silent for a while, but eventually replies: "I think you're just being you."

“What does that mean?”

His best friend softly exhales. “It means that you will find someone, and you will love them to death, and you will do it right — because that’s your way. That’s you. You never half ass anything.” Jeno’s line stays quiet for a second, and he continues: “I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I just know it’s you.”

Mark doesn't reply straight away. He's been under the spotlight for longer than he can remember, the crucial parts of becoming an adult filmed and observed through and through, but Jeno has known him his entire life, better than anyone else — Mark doesn't know a lot of things about himself, but Jeno does. That has to mean something; he holds onto that thought for dear life. "So," he replies, because he doesn't know what else to say. "Do you want to help me find an outfit?"

Jeno scoffs. “Fine. But if you even think about wearing leather pants on a first date—”

➳♡゛

Jaemin is sure that it's been quite some time since the last time he saw his floor.

"I didn't even remember it looked like this," he tells Jisung, hands on his hips and quite proud of himself. "I think I did a pretty good job at cleaning up, didn't I?"

To which Jisung replies: "If cleaning up means shoving the mess in your bedroom, you probably did. What happens when you take Mark there, though?"

"I am not taking him to my bedroom. What are you saying?"

He's shocked Jisung even thought of that. Jaemin is tired of reminding the bot that he has a boyfriend; hell, even if he didn't, he wouldn't take Mark Lee somewhere he stacked up all of the things he should've cleaned up for the past, say, four months. Jaemin would clearly take him to the guests’ room, instead, and then he’d — and then nothing. He wouldn’t do anything to Mark Lee in a dark room.

"A quick search told me that when young men who like other me—”

"Look, I can sit on the couch now!" Jaemin interrupts him as he pats down the cushions. One of them looks a little funky after spending so much time covered by books he was reading for his thesis, but he doubts it'll be perceptible since Mark has never seen it in another state.

Admittedly, Jaemin should be ashamed he let his home get to this point. But then he remembers that he is a tired preschool teacher whose only roommate is a 16 centimeter tall bot that needs ramps and makeshift lifts to move around. He's also been living here his entire life, so that was the entirety of Jaemin's existence thrown on the floor. He sets a couple books on top of the coffee table — he has one! How wonderful — for the sake of making the place a bit cozier, and makes sure to snatch one last lost sock from near the TV, shoving it inside the pocket of his pants.

"I'm proud of you for cleaning up," Jisung tells him as he climbs onto the bookshelf by the window. Jaemin is about to thank him when he adds: "I wonder why is it that you never did any of this for Renjun."

"You know," Jaemin replies. "That's not the good take you think it is, Ji. Some things are better left unsaid."

Jisung ignores him for the sake of beeping to the old clock Jaemin has salvaged from a thrift shop — they're close friends, he believes, though the clock doesn't work. He tried to fix it but there is only so much Jaemin can do with duct tape. It does good things to his heart that Jisung is just as fascinated by old things as he is, perhaps because Jisung is an old thing himself; Jaemin's home is filled with broken things and weird gadgets that he finds in random places. This world of theirs is new and bright, but there has been a whole world before it. His favorite paperweight is something he discovered to be called an iPod, and Jaemin spends an awfully long time inspecting, daily, an old, old laptop he's found in an antiquarium — it has no use now, but he likes the sound it makes when Jaemin types just for the sake of it.

Once he's sure that the living room is mildly decent, Jaemin moves to the kitchen. It's not that bad since he tries to keep it under control in order to eat; just a few pots and pans out of place that he manages to shove inside the cabinets, and puts the stove on auto-cleaning before he ends up forgetting.

He wonders if he'll have to cook, or if they'll order — Jaemin slaps a hand against his forehead as he thinks of ordering food again, as he was too lazy to cook the night before. Hell, people like Mark Lee don't even worry about spending too much money on takeout. People like Mark Lee have their fridges full all the time and don't have to worry about grocery shopping because they have people to do that for them— well, Jaemin forces himself to stop thinking about it. He's not going there. Still, he wonders about the food, and asks Jisung to search for nicer but not too expensive pizzerias nearby, kindly reminding him that he's still an underpaid teacher, thank you very much.

The lower floor is fine. He's even picked up some wildflowers he's found blooming on the sidewalk and put them in an old bottle of wine, and then deems it as too much — Mark Lee has to know he doesn't live in a dumpster, but not to this extent. Jaemin isn't trying to do anything. He is not. He pulls the wildflowers off the bottle and tugs them behind his ear absentmindedly.

As the clock ticks closer to when Mark is supposed to get here, Jaemin retreats to his room and changes into something nicer than his pyjamas. He’s not one to be fancy, per se, but Mark Lee is an intergalactical superstar — Jaemin would be damned if he wore sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt in front of him. After a few minutes of fidgeting with his clothes, he settles for whatever it is that a young adult wears when they have a casual dinner in movies; a dress shirt and some old satin slacks Yangyang wanted to let go of last year. It should be enough.

"I think a car is approaching," Jisung tells him as he climbs to his usual spot by the desk. His screen changes to :D for a minute, and Jaemin's heart can't help but swell at that. He is in love with this goddamn bot. But if Jisung knows, he'll be waiting for an opportunity to use Jaemin's adoration against him. "Should I greet him at the door?"

"No," Jaemin replies, brushing the imaginary dust off his pants. "Absolutely not. By the way, if you say anything mildly embarrassing to him, I will throw the old clock away."

Jisung recoils in horror. "You'll do no such thing! You wouldn't dare."

"You'll be surprised as to how daring I can be," Jaemin says, though more to himself than to the bot.

The doorbell rings as he's going through his notifications — admittedly, Jaemin brushes his thumb over Renjun's name and wonders what on Earth is he supposed to do. They haven't talked since that very weird encounter at the cafe… He's probably busy with work. Jaemin leaves his phone to charge and goes downstairs.

He means to look through the peephole, but decides against it. Jaemin tells himself not to be nervous that a superstar is about to walk into his home and opens the door.

"Listen, I didn't know if you drank alcohol, so I brought some iced tea—" Mark Lee says, looking at the bottle in his hands for a moment before looking up at him. "Now I don't know if you like ice— Oh."

Jaemin offers him a smile: "Hello."

"H-hi," he stutters, raising his eyebrows. "I mean, um, goodnight. Hello. How's it hangin'?" Jaemin makes to answer, but Mark beats him to it by softly saying: “Um… Uh, you look… You look very beautiful.”

Objectively speaking, Mark does too — he looks nice, with a long, black coat and a white turtleneck underneath it, tucked into black slacks. Jaemin wonders if rich people are always this chic; his friends wear a lot more color. Though, well, Mark makes up for it on his face, sharp and glittery dark blue eyeliner under his eyes. “Thank you, Mark,” he answers, gently leaning his head against the doorway. God, what is Jaemin doing? “Come in, please. You look very nice.”

Mark nods eagerly, taking a step further as Jaemin moves aside to give him space. For a moment, it’s superstar Mark Lee in his living room, but then he smiles and — and that’s not a celebrity. That’s the same man that rode Jaemin through the entire city to stop him from crying. Jaemin finds it surprisingly easy to detach him from the man he'd seen on the TV earlier, unreachable and born for glory.

Mark reaches a hand in his direction, but seems to decide against it halfway. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just — wow. I mean… The… Flower.”

Jaemin’s eyes widen, hands coming up to touch the flowers he forgot to take off before he opened the door. “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry. I forgot. Does it… Should I take it off, or…?”

“No, please, not at all,” he stammers, shaking his head. “It looks lovely.” Then, softer: “You look very lovely.”

“Thank you,” Jaemin answers, unsure of what else to say and fighting back a middle schooler type of giggle. He is a grown man; mind you. “Um, please make yourself at home. I asked Ji— Well, Jisung, who is my—”

“Hello, Mark Lee.” Jisung wheels towards the door through one of his main paths, a shelf that connects the entire room. “It’s a pleasure.”

Mark raises an eyebrow in surprise, lips agape for a second too long, but eventually answers: “Hello, buddy. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Jisung hums, :D flickering shortly on his screen. Jaemin would squeal, if only Mark weren’t there. “Though I am and forever will be Jaemin’s favorite, I hope you enjoy your time with him anyways. I expect him to come back in one piece.”

“Ji, it’s really not—”

“Don’t worry, little guy.” Mark offers Jisung a thumbs up, even going as far as crouching to his height to look at him in the — well, in the eye. “He’s absolutely safe with me. You can retire from being his guardian for one night.”

“I will not retire,” he says, at last. “But I will be recharging upstairs. Keep in mind I can find your Social Security number if I want to.”

“What—”

“Goodnight, Mark Lee. Goodnight, Jaemin.”

“Goodnight, Ji,” Jaemin greets him one last time before the bot turns on his wheels and disappears into the mess that is this apartment, no matter how much effort he puts into decluttering it. He turns to Mark with a sheepish smile: “He’s just kidding. Jisung is… Essentially, a weird little thing I found in the trash. He won’t do any harm.”

Mark whistles. “I don’t know. He seemed like a force to be reckoned with to me.”

Jaemin lets out a soft laugh. He's so used to hearing Jisung complain about absolutely everything, the thought of him deciding against not embarrassing Jaemin in front of a guest is able to set his mood really high. He collects the iced tea from Mark and heads to the kitchen, motioning for him to sit wherever he likes.

"You have a nice place," Mark says, and Jaemin scoffs from the kitchen. "No, really. I like it. It's cozy."

"It's a shoebox," Jaemin corrects him. "I lived here all my life."

"That's hip. Adds personality to it."

Jaemin would like to point out that there is nothing really hip about the fact that he can't afford to live anywhere else, but opts for the romanticized part of it. He tells Mark about how he used to slip over the floor with his fluffiest socks because he had wanted to be a speed skater at some point, and sets two glasses down on the coffee table. "That is so rad," Mark tells him. "Why didn't you do that?"

Jaemin shrugs as he sits on the couch as well. "Past the age of fourteen, I thought being a teacher was a better idea. Public education radicalized me," he jokes. Mark laughs, and he does too. "So, what would you like to eat? I'm an okay-ish cook, but takeout is always an option."

"What do you want to eat?"

"I— you are my guest! I'm giving you the opportunity to ask for anything, so seize it. Though I must warn you we're on a budget."

"Well, if that's the case..." Mark taps a finger against his cheek in deep thought, and then turns to him with widened eyes. "Can we have chicken?"

Thank God. Jaemin mentally high fives himself for being so lucky — what if Mark wanted to eat something expensive and ridiculous, like caviar? Jaemin is always hungry when Yangyang takes him to chic parties where people eat very tiny food. He will be a growing boy until he's twenty five at least, thank you. He smiles and nods at Mark's choice, and pats his pockets in search of his phone, only to frown at the lack of it.

"Don't worry, I got it," Mark says as he reaches for his own. "So, um, is the ice tea alright? We could always order something else."

"It's fine," he waves it off. "I think I might have some beer if you'd like, though, well—" when Mark raises an eyebrow at him, Jaemin shrugs. "I probably don't buy the kind of beer you usually drink. Sorry."

"Please," Mark clicks his tongue as he types with quick fingers. "You're thinking too highly of me."

Jaemin hums: "Well, it's given. What do famous racers like to drink?"

At that, Mark's typing slows down, and he smiles embarrassedly at the screen. "So, you figured it out, huh?"

"If it wasn't the helmet, it would be the fact that your bot emailed me earlier today. Speaking of which, I'm not sure if I feel alright keeping it."

"What, my bot?" Mark pockets his phone, cocking his head to the side. "Did you kidnap Donghyuck?"

"No, I mean the helmet," Jaemin laughs."It's yours. What if you need it?"

"I won't. It's yours and I mean it, if you try to give it back, I will feel profoundly bugged by it and never forgive you. I hold grudges really badly."

Jaemin scoffs — he supposes he can't argue with this, though he wonders why Mark is so keen on handing his things out for free. He still can't shake off the feeling of watching Blackout from the inside, but Jaemin doesn't feel ready to talk about it yet. Instead, he settles for: "Thank you, then. It makes a really good paperweight for when I am grading papers."

Mark lets out a laugh, his eyes curling into crescent moons. He has such an easy laugh, Jaemin realizes, but he finds himself taken aback by a momentaneous twinkle. Jaemin stares at the teeny tiny diamond glued to Mark's right lateral incisor until the other asks him about his job as a teacher, and he offers to take the conversation to the table as they wait for their food to arrive.

"I must say, I'm terrible with children," Mark confides. "I have a sixteen year old sister, and though I know she's far from being a kid, it's the growing up thing that terrifies me. One blink and they're all grown!"

"Well, that's true, kids grow really fast." Jaemin pouts, leaning his chin on his hand. "I always get sad when my older students graduate and another teacher takes over them. Time passes by so quickly and I can't help but miss them before they're even gone."

"A future nostalgia," Mark suggests. Jaemin nods:

"Yes, you could say that. I suffer from it a lot."

"Do you think it's inherently bad?"

He hums: "Maybe not. I don't think every longing is sad. It's part of the bigger picture. Every longing must result in something."

"Every longing… Are you sure you're not, like, a Literature teacher or something? That's deep."

Jaemin laughs. "Hey, the stars have taught me things!" he protests. "Says Mr. Future Nostalgia, anyway."

"Says Mr. Philosopher over there. I saw the books on your coffee table, they ain't light readings."

"Stop it," Jaemin waves it off, still laughing. "I admit to being a big nerd. It's what my boyfriend always calls me. A big nerd. I am not offended in the slightest."

Mark laughs as well, though it sounds different than before. He shifts in his seat and looks down at his iced tea, fingers drumming on the glass, and he's quiet for the first time ever since he walked through the door. Jaemin wonders if he said something wrong — maybe he is prone to scaring people off by letting his tongue run wild. Who wants to hear about his students, anyway? Jaemin scratches his cheek awkwardly.

Luckily, the doorbell rings once more. He's on his feet in a second.

Jaemin organizes the table as Mark awkwardly waits behind, as if he didn’t quite know how to help when Jaemin is doing the most to not stare into his face. It’s not personal, per se — Mark Lee just has a very pleasing face, and he’s afraid he’ll get distracted into staring if he takes even just one look. Jaemin doesn’t tell him that, as he never would, but is pleasantly surprised when Mark makes to open his beer bottle as they settle in the kitchen table.

“What are you doing?” He giggles, watching Mark struggle with a knife as he taps its sharp end against the bottle’s long neck. “I have an opener—”

“Don’t need one,” Mark murmurs, still concentrated on opening it for Jaemin. “Just give me a second. I got this.”

“Mark, it’s going to break the glass—”

“Aha!” He cheers as he successfully slices the top off, the cap flying across the room and bouncing from the wall. Jaemin grimaces at the thought of doing this every time he wants to have beer, but Mark seems too proud of himself and, for one, he thinks it’s very cute. “See? Told you I could do it. It’s casual.”

Jaemin laughs, reaching for the bottle and angling his head to take a long sip. “Mark Lee, multitalented superstar. Who would’ve thought?”

“Hey! You’re laughing now, but what should you ever do when you have a beer and no opener, huh? What then?”

He rolls his eyes. “Guess I have to keep you around to do it for me, then.”

Mark’s eyes widen, stammering. “I— I mean. Um. Eat? Should we eat?”

“Oh, sure.” Jaemin unties the cardboard box in which his takeout came in, and settles both their orders on the tabletop. When he’s done, he brings a hand to scratch his nape, if only so it doesn’t flop around awkwardly as he says: “Sorry, I know it’s not… Fancy or anything. As I said, the show’s on a budget.”

“Jaemin, you’re thinking too highly of me. This,” Mark motions towards the atmosphere in circular movements. “Is awesome. Thank you for inviting me to your home — it’s stellar.”

He heaves out a relieved breath, as if he needed to know Mark Lee liked him and his little shoebox apartment. Jaemin doesn’t even want to start thinking about what that says about him. “Well, if that’s the case, expect to hear a lot more from me. I love inviting people in.” He realizes what he just said a few seconds after it leaves his mouth, and backtracks: “I mean, if you want to, of course. I’m not — I’m not being weird, right? We’re cool, aren’t we?”

Mark offers him a contained smile. “Of course we are.”

“Okay,” he lets out in a breath. “So consider yourself invited. I have this friend; Hyunjin, sometimes she comes over and we play cards until the sunrise. Well, maybe because she’s my neighbor, but still, you know? You could… Come over to play cards. One day.” Jaemin wants to smack himself on the back of his head as he plays his words in his head all over again. He just invited one of the galaxy’s biggest superstars to play cards with him. Knowing the thrill of Mark’s daily life as a racer, Jaemin can’t imagine he’d ever be interested in anything as frivolous as a round of Uno with cheap wine and early 2000s music.

“I’d love that,” Mark answers, surprising him yet again. “Honestly, I think I’ve been too holed up lately. My best friends — they’re dating, right? And they went on this trip to Mars, and I’ve been all by myself at home for the past six months. It’s mostly me and Donghyuck.”

Jaemin hums. “Oh, you’re a homebody, then. Me too. I mean, I go to parties sometimes, but I’d rather stay inside most of the time.”

“With your boyfriend?”

He resists the urge to flinch, debating on whether it matters or not that Mark knows about Renjun. Objectively, it shouldn’t — but the way his shoulders deflect is a tell that Mark is not any happier about him having a significant other than Jaemin, himself, is. “Um, well,” he starts, tracing imaginary lines against his tablecloth. “No, not really. It’s me and Ji, here. Other than Hyunjin and Yangyang, I think you’re the first person to visit in… Say, four to three months.”

Mark cocks his head to the side in surprise. “Oh, wow. Wow. So that makes it all that special, huh?”

Jaemin smiles sheepishly. “I had to make up for acting like a total weirdo to you the other day. Which, by the way, I’m still so sorry for.”

“I think we’re way past the point of apologizing.” He waves Jaemin’s apologies off with a flick of his hand. “Plus, you got me fried chicken, so it’s even. And you still haven’t rattled me off to the paparazzi, so that must mean something, right?”

“I would never—” Jaemin splutters. “I don’t even know any press nowadays. I rarely watch the news.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Why is that? Got anyone you want to avoid?”

He thinks about it for a second, considering whether to let Mark into his crazy this soon into their friendship, but settles for being honest: “It’s all rigged. The news will say anything these CEOs want them to. I receive daily mail from a small company a few blocks from here, but that’s about it; I like to participate in media as little as I can.”

Jaemin wonders what is Mark’s perspective on this, being the person who is in front of the cameras rather than in the audience, and he finds himself simmering in his seat as he watches Mark consider his words carefully. This is going to be so good for his studies — he’s almost foaming at the mouth by the time Mark opens his lips. “That’s probably the best call,” he hums, dipping a piece of fried chicken into barbecue sauce. “I can’t legally say I condone it, but you’re right. Most of the entertainers aren’t bad, but the problem is the CEOs, for real. They’re above all of us. We don’t really have control of anything.”

“Yeah,” Jaemin answers, trying to pass off as nonchalant even though this is a topic he has been passionately studying about for the past year or so. “I’ve watched every single one of Jennie Kim’s interviews after she dipped from racing. I think we never had someone say the things she said in national television, at least not like that. She started something I don’t even believe she comprehends or wants part of. It’s insane.” He daps a napkin against his lips mindlessly. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. This is probably a weird topic for you.”

“No, it’s interesting,” Mark smiles at him, this time a lot less mild than it was before. “You’re really smart. I — well, I admittedly don’t know a lot of things. I’m not very… Aware.”

He snorts. “Do I get the honor of radicalizing South Korea’s most beloved celebrity?” Jaemin cradles his chin with his hands, offering Mark a smile the size of the Sun. “You are a capitalistic daydream turned nightmare. I can’t wait to get my hands on you.”

Mark laughs nervously. “Yeah, um — yeah. Can’t wait.”

Jaemin, for one, has no brain to mouth filter. Mark doesn’t seem to mind it, but it’s hard to tell; he keeps getting caught into the thought that maybe he’s just good at hiding his true thoughts. Even then, Mark is just so genuine — Jaemin can’t find one bad thing about him, and can’t bring himself to muster anything but pure, tender curiosity towards the person that he is. Maybe that is why he lets himself get so loose, so comfortable; after two bottles of beer, Jaemin would tell him just about anything if Mark looked at him with that same half-smile, amicable and pliant.

At some point, a few more beers in, they get into the topic of relationships. Jaemin can feel himself saying something stupid before he even does it, but he blames it on the alcohol so he doesn’t have to blame it on his personality. “Dude, it’s seriously insane how far we’ve come relationship-wise but there’s still so much to learn and adapt to modern times,” he rambles on, digging a spoon onto soft serve ice cream as Mark pops sliced watermelon into his mouth. Yeah, Jaemin sliced watermelons for him. “Like, lovebots and shit… Modern dating… The way we are just so connected to work, and there really isn’t any ‘down time’ anymore.”

Mark hums. He does it a lot, and Jaemin thinks the only reason they get along so well is because Mark loves listening and he cannot physically get himself to stop talking. “Do you think it’s been affecting us to that point?”

“I know it is, Mark!” He exclaims through a mouthful of ice cream. “It’s like — it’s like we don’t even have time anymore. It’s almost as if we didn’t… Love anymore.”

Jaemin is not even sure who is the ‘we’ he’s talking about anymore, but Mark nods gently at him, egging him on. He continues: “It’s just… It seems so fragile, nowadays. Like the wind could blow in your way and, and, and then suddenly you’d lose everything. And you don’t know if it’s because you’re uninteresting or… Or because it was never meant to be in the first place. You know?”

“I don’t think you’re uninteresting,” Mark tells him, blinking around huge eyes and the entirety of the Milky Way. “Not by any chance; not at all. I could hear you talking for hours.”

And, well — Mark is too lovely, but that is just the person that he is. Jaemin doesn’t know to which extent he should be swept off his feet. “Mark, you don’t know that. And… And I wasn’t talking about me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You totally sounded like you were.”

“Stop that,” Jaemin frowns. “Stop reading me like a book. I don’t like it.”

Mark cocks his head to the side teasingly. “Something tells me you aren’t able to talk to people like you talk to me, though.”

“Shut up, I know.” He huffs, digging further into his ice cream. It’s European or something — Yangyang got it for him, claiming he could at least spice up his life through cherry licorice ice cream. Jaemin doesn’t think it’s helping his drunken mind to sober up, but oh well; Mark Lee’s presence is quite intoxicating on its own. “I just… You’re so weird, Mark. I mean — you see things, and you know them, and I never told you anything in the first place. I can’t help but… Think I’m not the problem. I keep coming back to the thought that maybe it’s not me, it’s him.”

“Your boyfriend?”

Jaemin pouts. “Yeah. Renjun. What a guy, right?”

“You sound like he murdered your family or something.”

“Practically!” He whines. “He doesn’t even take the advice he fucking uses me for. It’s hilarious. Even when we’re just watching a movie or doing anything — he doesn’t seem to care. It always comes back to how much work sucks, how little time he has, and how everything in the world is absolutely terrible. It feels like I only have two utilities for him.”

Mark smacks his lips together in concern. “Which are?”

“A therapist and—" Jaemin gestures vaguely. "You know."

Mark frowns. "I'm not sure if I follow."

Jaemin sighs: "You know. A cum sock."

Mark's eyes widen until they're the size of the Moon, and Jaemin shoves a bunch of ice cream inside his mouth so he'll stop talking. “You’re not— Jaemin, you’re not a cum sock.”

“Wow, thanks.” He sulks. “I’d hate it if you agreed with him.”

“Hey, I would never say that,” Mark defends himself, bringing his hand above in surrender. “And I don’t think he sees you as a cum sock — I hate this term so bad — either.”

Jaemin clicks his spoon against the ice cream glass. “He does, Mark. He thinks of me like he thinks of, I don’t know — his little dumpster, I guess. Not in that sense; it’s just that I’m always the place he pours out all the negativity, and it’s exhausting.”

“What do you mean?”

His shoulders slump. “I am a toy that he enjoys until all of the tricks don’t work anymore, and then he is bored of me.”

Mark looks at him, long and hard. He seems to be studying the way Jaemin’s shoulders tense and untense, like something in his heart is constantly opening and closing, but it’s quite difficult to know, for sure, what is going through his mind. He clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath, and Jaemin can see the engines of his brain working as he seems to decide against speaking at least a few times before he finally says: “Jaemin, you are so lovely. You are so lovely. I mean — you’re stellar. You’re out of this world. I don’t see why you would continue to be with someone who thinks so poorly of you.”

Jaemin’s eyebrows furrow. “You sound just like Jisung.”

“I sound like a reasonable person.” He shakes his head gently. Jaemin thinks he looks impossibly angrier by the second, but he’s not quite sure of what that means for him — Mark Lee, though unbelievably famous, is probably not above the law. He’s basically frothing at the mouth, but Jaemin doesn’t comment on it. “It’s just… Do you hear yourself when you speak? It sounds like this dude is a piece of absolute garbage, and I genuinely don’t know how anyone can even think so little of you when you’re… When you’re...”

“What?” He frowns. “What am I?”

Mark sighs. “When you’re so beautiful, I guess. I just don’t seem to understand.”

“Stop saying that!” Jaemin whines, covering his face to sulk even harder. “I’m going to slash your throat; that’ll shut you up.”

“You’re beautiful.” He repeats it in defiance. “You’re beautiful. You’re very beautiful. You’re terribly beautiful. You were very beautiful then, I think you are very beautiful now. And you’ll tell me to shut up about it, but it’s true. You’re beautiful. You're—”

"Stop."

"—beautiful."

“You barely know me.”

“But I want to.” He smiles gently. “I want to.”

“You’re drunk,” Jaemin deflects, embarrassed. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

And maybe it’s due to the beer, but Mark reaches out a hand to delicately curl his fingers around Jaemin’s wrist, and Jaemin allows him to. “Jaemin, I’m not drunk. I’m serious.”

He exhales. “Why?”

“Because I think you’re splendid.” Mark squeezes his wrist, looking at Jaemin while he looks at the floor. “I think you’re wonderful, and I think you don’t know I think that, but I do. You’re so smart, and you’re so funny, and you don’t realize that.” He maintains his stare, but eventually adds: “And I fucking hate your boyfriend.”

Jaemin laughs, watered down by the weight of his own perception. “I think I do too, after all.”

Mark squeezes his wrist again. “You don’t have to be a part-time, Jaemin. Not to him; not to anyone.”

He laughs again, if only to have something to do with his mouth that isn’t embarrassing himself in front of Mark Lee. “I’m sorry we somehow always end up like this. I promise I’m less of an emotional wreck on weekdays.”

“Somehow I don’t believe that,” he hums with a grin so wide so beautiful Jaemin wonders why he’d ever avert his eyes away. “But I like messes.”

“No, you don’t.”

Mark smiles. “No, I don’t. I’m just partial to you.”

And Jaemin knows he is, but that might be a first.

➳♡゛

"I swear you didn't have to."

"But I wanted to!" Jeno exclaims as he drops yet another box on top of Mark's bed. "You always give me gifts, why can't I do the same? That's what best friends are for. And this one is from Heejin, for your knowledge."

Mark shakes his head negatively, folding a dress shirt neatly on his lap. Jeno thinks it's funny to spend money on him even though Mark is never in need of anything — admittedly, it's payback; Mark knows he does the same. But he doesn't know how to behave when people give him undivided attention. "You're positively insane. Is this… ?"

He reaches out for a small, narrow box, and raises an eyebrow at Jeno. "The best of the best of Martian cosmetics. I thought you'd like the colors."

“You’re crazy,” he glares at Jeno, but holds the palette to his chest protectively. “I love it. Thank you. I'll come up with something new for your party. Now, weren't you supposed to be resting?"

Jeno waves it off, though his eyes do look tired after such a long flight. Though interplanetary travel has evolved through the decades, it's still a whole week — the view must be beautiful, undoubtedly. Mark was too young to remember flying all the way from the Moon, especially because Olivia kept crying the entire time.

"I'd more than gladly take a nap here," Jeno replies, letting himself fall back to the mattress. "But I'm too wide awake. I can't believe I got that DJ to play for us; it'll be the party of the year." Then, he props himself up on his elbows, raising an eyebrow at Mark: "Now, are you taking anyone? That Jaemin dude, perhaps?"

Mark pretends to be too busy putting away all that wrapping paper, though he does feel his cheeks getting hotter. "Don't even mention it," he murmurs. "I was waiting for you to come back. Jeno, you have absolutely no idea—"

"I know."

Mark widens his eyes: "You do? How— you don't even know what I'm going to say. Last time I checked, you don't know how to read minds."

"I know," Jeno repeats, with a mischievous smile on his lips. "You banged on the first da—"

"He has a boyfriend," Mark interrupts. Jeno's expression deflates instantly; he shares the sentiment. Mark has spent an entire week thinking of Jaemin's abhorrent boyfriend, and though Donghyuck is a bot, he's not the best listener in the world. He rejected the idea of searching up the guy's address — "You can't just show up to people's houses, Mark!" — and therefore Mark's only hope could only be his best friend. "And the guy's a dick. I swear to God. He makes Jaemin feel like shit."

Jeno sits up in a hurry, eyes almost bulging out of its sockets. "Is that so? No way. How did you find out? Did you— did you talk to him? To the boyfriend?

Mark scoffs: "Of course not. If I had seen him—" he shakes his head, hands curling into fists on his lap. In essence, he's not a violent person, but he wouldn't hesitate to run a bitch over and… "Well, anyway. I did not. Jeno, he has a boyfriend."

The corners of Jeno's mouth tug downwards. "Mark."

"Yeah."

"Mark, let's just kidnap him and ship him off to Neptune—"

"I'm serious. I went to his house, right, and it was all fun and games, and then he was like: oh, my boyfriend says..." Mark lets out a sigh, unclenching his fists. He fumbles with the presents only so that he'll have something to do. "Jaemin is so beautiful, and so charming, and so smart. He's a real deal, Jeno. And he's stuck in a relationship in decay, and it suddenly hit me that he's just very sad. I bet on the Moon that, when we met, he was crying because of his boyfriend."

He cannot be sure, but Mark does bet on the Moon. If he tries hard enough, he can see Jaemin's teary eyes perfectly — that, combined with what he's told him when they had dinner together, is something Mark doesn't want to see ever again. He swears on the Moon that if he could, Jaemin would be sad no more. People like him aren't made for tears, they're made for things good, bright and real. "Can you believe that?" he adds in a whisper. "It's not fair."

Jeno tilts his head to the side, rubbing at his chin with his thumb. "Do you want advice?"

"Yes," Mark replies exasperatedly.

"Want him to get over his beau? Get him under you."

"Jeno, that's not as helpful as you think it is."

"It is, though!" he protests. "Mark, you are so much better than his boyfriend. I bet you can make Jaemin forget him in no time. Just invite him to the party and, like, get groovy. Just do it."

"Jeno, I am not going to get groovy. I am not going to take advantage of his fragilized state. Do you hear yourself when you speak?"

"I do, and I personally think I am great at giving advice."

Mark rolls his eyes, pushing the presents off himself so he can get up. He was barely awake when Jeno stormed into his house — Donghyuck let him in, of course, as he's a little bit enamored with him ever since Jeno told him that one of his playlists was neat — and into his bed as well, and he was supposed to have lunch with his teammates this morning, unaware that Jeno and Heejin would arrive so early. He types out a quick I'm sorry!!!!! text to Lisa and the others and lets his phone fall to his desk. "Oh, can we order food?" Jeno asks, but his mind is still set on Jaemin.

As it's been ever since he laid eyes on him. Sometimes Mark can't quite believe himself — even his mentor has noticed the state he is in. Jennie is unforgiving, and Mark knows that there shouldn't be space for things other than discipline and hard work in his heart, but perhaps Jeno has been right all along. Mark's heart is too big. He just can't help it.

"Yeah, sure, call for Donghyuck," he mutters. As Jeno rushes out of the room in search of the feisty bot, Mark lets his feet take him to the spiral staircase at the corner of his room. He's always thought that this house is too big, too fancy for him; Mark, for one, wishes that at least Olivia would move in with him, but she's far too happy with living on school grounds with her friends and girlfriend. Now he's left alone somewhere that's too big for him, but he's thankful for this mezzanine in particular. Donghyuck suggested that he'd make it his sleeping place, as it's big enough to fit a mattress, but Mark likes to see it as a hiding spot. He enjoys just sitting on the wooden floor at night and looking up at the glass ceiling — Mark doesn't remember much of the Moon, but it never fails to give him comfort.

He, for one, wishes that the Moon could give him answers now. Mark has talked a lot to Jaemin in the past few days, texting when they're not busy with work, and even tried doing a video call, but Donghyuck's system kept interfering with it because he "wanted to meet Jaemin" — but he keeps remembering the talk they had back at Jaemin's house, and his heart feels just as small as it felt back then. He can't even begin to explain the state he is in; when Jaemin casually slipped that he had a boyfriend, Mark fought the urge to stab himself in the eye with chopsticks — he can't believe he was calling the other man "doll" left and right, and didn't even think of the possibility of him being taken.

Jaemin must've felt so embarrassed if he didn't cut him off in the first place. It makes Mark want to yell; but more than that, it makes him so mad that someone so stellar like Jaemin is being treated so poorly for someone he has trusted his heart to. If Mark were his boyf—

He stops himself short, bringing a hand to his forehead as he sighs. "What am I thinking?" he asks the Moon.

It comes back to the fact that Jaemin is so beautiful. He has a billion other qualities, for sure, but Mark can't stop thinking of the moment he opened that door and looked at him with those eyes, with flowers in his hair. A dream on legs and the most beautiful of them. Mark presses a hand to his face and sighs into his palm.

He doesn't want to think about all the things he'd do were he in Renjun's place, because the list is so wide and so endless Mark would have to spend years trying to get it right. He's got a crush; it's obvious. He can't be in the same room as Jaemin for too long without getting harshly reminded of his own adoration, and it's mostly because, well — when Jaemin is in the room, Mark can't help but give him all of his attention.

Jeno and him end up having breakfast at the mezzanine, staring out at a handful of crazy morning stars Mark is still unable to take in, despite knowing them so well. It's nice because it's home and because the shadows engulf Jeno's features whole, making him pink and blue, to the point Mark heaves a relieved sigh at the thought of having his best friend together with him once more. For the past six months, only his spine and thighs have been holding him up, but Jeno is here and that is enough to ease the tight knots of tension going on under his skin.

Jeno notices his thoughtfulness, and asks: "Man, you're really serious about this Betty, huh?"

Mark nods, leaning his head against the wall. "I didn't even know I had it in me to be so infatuated with someone."

"Oh, Mark," he chuckles, leaning his head on Mark's shoulder as a handful of shooting stars travel across the fabric of time and space, like ballerinas moving to another end of the stage. In some way, dancing and existence are the same — in order for it to make sense, you've got to keep moving. "Why don't you invite him for the party, hm? You could go as friends."

"I guess." He tucks his knees to his chest, eyes trained to the vast infinity of a morning sky yet-to-be. Mark always wanted to fall in love clean and pretty, but he'd be too busy on working days, so maybe it's good that the turbulence wasn't forecasted. He couldn't have changed it, anyways. "I'm just wondering… If it's worth it at all."

Jeno lightly hits him on his side. "Of course it is. Remember what Mama used to say — if something good passes by you, don't be a fool. Grab it with your two hands and only let go of it after it has claw marks."

"I don't think she said that."

"Well, anyways," his best friend ignores him. "Look at you, Mark. Don't you think someone like you is destined for feelings good and bright like these? When it comes to love, isn't a little agony… Worth it?"

"Jeno, he has a boyfriend."

"Not for long!" Jeno insists. Mark keeps falling fool to the trap of his words, seeing he is clearly biased, but oh well — when Jeno walks into a room, Mark can't help but be loved insistently and on purpose, like the violent flow of a river. "Mark, I am asking you. Do not give up on Jaemin. I know you; you like him to death."

His shoulders slump. "I know. Fine. Stop being cheesy."

“I’m not cheesy!” He huffs. “I’m just… Unique.”

Mark smiles. “You are. How’s Heejin?”

“Well, you know,” Jeno starts, motioning around vaguely. Mark knows, but he likes it when Jeno talks about her. “Like she always is. She did crosswords the entire flight and she didn’t let me help even once. Said it’d be cheating.” He purses his lips, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Jeno is a rockstar, but Heejin makes him weak; softened like hard candy put under enough heat. “Mama said she loved her new hair. She was very happy about it, so I’m very happy about it, too. Her hair’s almost shorter than mine now.”

Mark snorts. “That’s hip. One up her and shave your entire head.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “It’s buzzcut season, Mark. Don’t tempt me.”

“How was Mars, anyways?” He asks, if only to get more of Jeno’s voice. It’s soft and endearing, bringing comfort to the parts of him that are only there to be loved. “What did you two do?”

“The same thing we’d do here, except on Mars,” Jeno hums. “We got drunk in every single mansion we could find. We made up a new secret handshake. We sang in almost every karaoke bar in the area. We sandboarded. She accidentally gave me stitches with her heels — I’m going to marry this woman.”

Mark whistles. “Putting a ring on it so soon?”

His best friend shrugs with a smile impossible to wear off. “When you know, you know.”

And he knows this. From the moment Jeno met Heejin, Mark knew there would be no other, because Heejin is, well — she’s Jeno’s destiny. There are not enough words in each and every language to translate what it is that has him so enthralled about her, but if Mark were to guess, it’d have to be something a few steps above love, something quite like ‘I wish I’d known you sooner’ and ‘How are you?’ and all of these other promises that people belt when they’re in love.

Mark, for one, wants something quite like that. He wants it so bad it makes him numb, so bad it echoes through his mind like the clash of his skull against his brain, so bad his heart flares up twice its size when Jeno starts to talk about her. There is beauty in the longing and beauty in the missing, but Mark is still struggling with the in betweens and the empty spaces. He wants to tell Jeno just as much, but he’s too afraid it’ll make him look needy, or foolish — he knows he is both of these things, but no one has to know. Certain thoughts are meant for him and his shadow only to know.

“You look so sappy right now,” Jeno calls for his attention, flicking his ear. “You’re thinking about Jaemin, aren’t you?”

I’m thinking about love, Mark wants to say, but he might as well be. Lover recognizes lover and, well, Jaemin is looking quite familiar; like his mirror, years ago. “Shut up. I’m not. I’m just thinking.”

“I know you, Mark Lee. You’re thinking about him and one day your little hummingbird heart will explode because of it.”

“I don’t—” He frowns. “I don’t have a little hummingbird heart.”

“You do.” Jeno smiles, yet again. He never stops smiling; Mark wonders if his face muscles ever hurt. “As I said: You’re going to find someone you love very much, and you’ll love him to death, and it’ll be alright because that is your way. That is who you are.”

Mark’s ears burn red. It’s true — nothing Jeno says is ever a lie, though sometimes he wishes it was, if only to spare him from the experience of acknowledging his own emotions galore. Oh, well.

➳♡゛

“You like him.”

“Jisung, that is none of your business.” Jaemin scrubs the dish harshly, ignoring Jisung’s little body standing near the door. “And even if it was, I do not. I don’t like him. I know him for, what? Three weeks. That’s not enough time to like someone.”

Jisung flashes him >:@ before continuing. “I’ve heard you two that day. He called you beautiful multiple times, did not say I looked weird and listened to everything you had to say. That is all it takes for you to like someone.”

“Jisung, that is not true!” He huffs, rinsing off the foam from this dish and moving onto another. “I have standards.”

“Which are?”

Jaemin frowns. “Standards.”

“Which are?”

“Standards, Jisung, Jesus. I have standards. I don’t like people I met only three weeks ago.”

Jisung climbs over the sink through one of the loosest ramps in the entire apartment, the sound of his wheels clacking against secondhand cardboard echoing through the kitchen as Jaemin’s faucet barely makes any noise. “If you had such high standards you would not let Renjun treat you the way that he does. What’s a cum sock?”

He gasps. “Don’t search that.”

“What’s a cum sock?” The bot asks again, repeatedly bumping against Jaemin’s arm. “What’s a cum sock? What’s a cum sock? What’s a—”

“Jisung, I’m not telling you that. Some things are better left unknown.”

Jisung flashes him :[ before saying: “Not to me. I will search it now.”

“Wait, fuck, don’t do th—”

“Jaemin,” the bot interrupts him. Jaemin wants to scream. “I think that is not a good term to describe yourself.”

“Well, no shit.” Jaemin pouts, pushing Jisung away from the wet sink as he picks up another plate. “That’s why it is a bad thing you shouldn’t have searched for in the first place. It’s gross.”

Jisung offers him a little noise of concordance. “I don’t want you to say such things about yourself.”

His shoulders slump considerably. “I know, Ji. I won’t.”

The bot nods before continuing: “Mark seemed to be very upset about it, too. His heart rate picked up with anger.”

“I thought I told you to not eavesdrop,” he frowns, offering Jisung a stern glare that goes very much ignored by the bot. “It’s rude. Mark didn’t know he was being watched.”

“Mark is always being watched,” Jisung settles for answering. “And it seemed to bother him terrifically every time you said something unpleasant about yourself. I like him.”

“You like him,” Jaemin repeats, mortified.

“I do,” he confirms. “I like him better than Renjun. I think he likes you better than Renjun does.”

“Okay, thank you for your input, now can you please stop—”

“I’m not finished,” Jisung interrupts him once more, cutting his sentence short. “I have studied your behavioral patterns for the last five years, and your happiness levels raise considerably when Yangyang, Hyunjin or your mother are around. They do not raise for Renjun anymore, but they did raise for Mark.”

Jaemin sighs a long, dragged breath, pulling it from between his front teeth. He’s so upset he can barely keep on doing the dishes, and he knows, for one, Jisung notices it. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I am telling you this because it is in my best interest to see you happy,” the bot answers nonchalantly. “And because you are acting irrationally. Every study points to Mark, but you keep on insisting in Renjun. Why?”

“Because,” he starts, but the words fall short from what he truly wants to say. Truth is that Jaemin doesn’t know it, himself, but he does believe he has feelings for Renjun — they might have dimmed, they might have softened, they might have withered, but they exist. He supposes his insistence on him comes from it just as much as it comes from a deep, unsettling fear of change. Jaemin settles for saying: “Because I don’t know how to break up with him.”

“I see.” Jisung wheels down his ramp once more, in direction to the ground and out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Jaemin asks, twisting his neck around to watch as Jisung freezes on the doorframe.

The bot doesn’t stare back at him as he says: “I will do research on the best way to break up with someone. I will let you know if Mark reports anything to you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Mark and the other people I’m friends and family with, right?”

“Those, too.”

Mark does report anything to Jaemin because — well, because of course he does. Though Jaemin is a chatterbox by nature, Mark, he came to realize, is good at redirecting the conversation to where he wants it to be, seamlessly disappearing in and out of subjects as Jaemin is sure he was taught by the years and years of talking to the press. That, too, is pleasant; Jaemin is far too used to being the only one talking, and he could find himself enjoying this pleasant shift in dominance sometimes, for sure. At least it gave him more time to organize his thoughts, and it took away half of the burden of being entertaining from Jaemin, which is a blessing.

“And he’s trying to get me to buy a bright red velvet suit!” Mark complains from the other line, his voice tapping against every corner of Jaemin’s shoebox apartment. Jisung shadows his every move, following him around the house to listen, and Jaemin doesn’t have the heart to bat him away, though he should. “Donghyuck is seriously too much. I’m afraid I’ll have to delete my bank info from his system — what if he buys it without my permission?”

Jaemin chuckles lightly as he heats up some leftovers for lunch. He’d have to cook dinner tonight, given Yangyang had requested his living room for try-ons of his new haul of clothing for Jeno Lee’s party, so he figured he’d be scarce with his energy at least for now. “Well, he can’t do that. Legally. He’d have to be put down.”

“He knows I would never, that’s why he’d do it,” he can hear Mark scoff, muffled by the sound of what Jaemin imagines is a pillow. Out of curiosity, he looks at the clock — it’s a few minutes past two in the afternoon. Mark Lee had probably just woken up. Oh, to be young and filthy rich. “Donghyuck has no regards for the law, either. I don’t know if he’s just programmed that way or if he caught up on the, well — the everything about me. I feel like this is going to be a problem in the future.”

“They can’t arrest you for being anti-police,” Jaemin hums, his voice soft from the misuse. It’s been quite a while since he’s been on a call with someone for this long. “Your fans would protest in front of the Blue House. It’d go all over the news. You’d be out before you even knew.”

“True, true,” Mark agreed absentmindedly, as if he didn’t quite care. That’s one more to the list of things Mark is nonchalant about, then — it sits right under his massive fame and the copious amounts of silver spoons he has under his tongue. “Well, I can’t be arrested before Jeno’s party, anyways. He’d be upset.”

Oh, right. “Um, Mark,” he calls, considering his words carefully. “I think… My friend, I don’t know if your friend told you, is a DJ. Yangyang. He’s going to be DJing for Jeno’s party and, well…” Jaemin clears his throat. “He asked me to come, too. Is that okay with you?”

A moment of silence on the line, and then the sound of Mark shuffling in bed. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Jaemin scratches the back of his head awkwardly, wiping his other hand on his apron. “I don’t know. He’s your best friend; I guess I don’t want to crowd your life too much. Can’t have you getting bored of me this early on.”

Early on what? Jaemin caught himself wondering, but the rest of his sentence got sucked into a vacuum. Mark hums in understanding, “Of course it’s okay with me. I’m not bored by you in the slightest. Are you… Taking someone?”

“No,” Jaemin’s answer comes before he is even sure of it himself, tentative and newborn on this tongue. “Are you?” He asks, dodging the attention from himself.

“No,” Mark answered, somewhat cheerful. “I mean — I’m taking Jeno, if that’s what you mean. And his girlfriend. My dates.”

He laughs, turning off the stove absentmindedly and stirring his leftover soup. “Well, at least you’re not going alone. My friend Hyunjin is coming, but she’s not a big fan of parties. She’ll probably get wrecked and fuck off to God knows where to do God knows what. I’ll be sitting alone like a loser. It’s high school all over again.”

Mark laughs, too, the sound of it gentle and easy on the ear. “You won’t be alone. I’ll be there, okay? And I doubt that you won’t get any attention at all. There’ll be a lot of famous people there, and I, for one, know they love a pretty face when they see one.”

Jaemin ignores the last comment. “God, that sounds awful. I’ll stick to you all night like a lost puppy.”

“Yes, that’s apparently what you do,” he teases from the other side of the line, no bite to his voice. “It’ll be casual, though. Don’t worry, Betty — I’ll stick to you, too. You can meet some of my friends. Do you know Lucas?”

Again, Jaemin ignores the soft stirr of interest in his heart at the words don’t worry, Betty. “No,” he simply answers, in retaliation for Mark’s heart-fluttering remarks.

Mark chuckles. “I forgot about your one man war on racing. Well, Lucas is a Chinese racer I’m friends with, and he does a mean cocktail. He was also a preschool teacher before he was a racer.”

“Do you think all preschool teachers huddle together like maniacs, Mark Lee?” he pokes the beast, pouring himself a bowl of soup. Admittedly, Jaemin knows a young adult rarely ever is this excited about having soup for lunch, but, well — he’s inherited his father’s eyes and his mother’s elderly lady habits. “Do all racers in the country know each other?”

“Yes, kinda. We have to. We compete together.”

Jaemin huffs. “I don’t go neck to neck with other preschool teachers, though.”

Mark laughs louder this time, a big and bright sound. “You shouldn’t. You look like you wouldn’t win and I wouldn’t be able to protect you, as I can’t fight either.”

“I don’t need you to, I’ll have you know,” he bites back, settling into his dinner table. “I don’t recall ever asking for your protection, either.”

“You don’t have to ask,” Mark simply answers. “It’s a gift.”

“Keep it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Stop being difficult for the sake of being difficult,” he reprimands in a playful tone.

Jaemin bites his tongue. “I’m not being difficult.”

“You’re being difficult about accepting that you’re difficult.”

“I don’t like this conversation,” Jaemin complained, making the topic come to a halt. “You’re disturbing me in my off hours. I don’t need to deal with you acting like a toddler; I already have real children to take care of.”

Mark giggles. “You don’t have to put up with me. You do it because you want to.”

“I don’t want to—” he starts, but keeps himself from finishing. Jaemin is not fond of lying. “Fine. Turn off your phone; I’m going to eat.”

“Why do I have to—”

“Because I like talking to you and you’re distracting, Mark. Okay? Goodbye.” Jaemin makes an annoyed sound, reaching to his phone by the cabinets and smashing the end call button. The last thing he hears is a soft chuckle.

Mark Lee means nothing to him, he decides — he is annoying and Jaemin hates him. Truly, madly, deeply. Beyond the telling, even.

But maybe not. Maybe, maybe — maybe Mark is just pleasant enough to slide right into Jaemin’s mind, squished between his thoughts and dreams, and it’s a perfect fit. He doesn’t ask for more than Jaemin can give and is happy enough to just hear his voice every once in a while, which… Very few people can relate to, given Jaemin is so easily prone to give everything he can to people who take it ruthlessly. Maybe, maybe. Mark lives in the maybes and the what if’s.

By the time Yangyang is knocking at his door, Jaemin realizes he’ll eventually have to break the news that he is friends with Mark Lee to him, if only to keep himself from further suffering as Yangyang will surely make a scene if he were to find out at the party. Smacking his forehead in frustration, Jaemin takes a few breaths before opening the door, Yangyang’s megawatt grin not dampening in the slightest by Jaemin’s glumness.

“Hello, hello!” he whistles, rushing into the apartment with a handful of shopping bags hanging from his shoulders and forearms. “Ah, Jaemin, I got you just the perfect outfit — you’ll look so, so beautiful. Oh, aren’t you lovely? Lovelier than a lilly. It’ll match Hyunjin’s dress, of course.”

Ignoring the excessive courtesy, Jaemin’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Hyunjin agreed to wearing a dress?”

“When I showed her the dress, yes,” Yangyang grins even wider, if possible. He is blinding in all the best ways — Jaemin can’t help but stare from the doorway. “It’s beautiful, Jaemin, you had to see it. You both look good in warm tones, thankfully — though I doubt you’d look bad in cold tones, either. How lucky am I, right? With such pretty models, any outfit is a blessing.”

“You’re in a good mood, Yang,” Jaemin comments under his breath, locking the door behind him. “What gives?”

Yangyang takes a dreamy sigh, dropping his bags to the floor and falling into Jaemin’s couch as if he’d never been as comfortable as now. “I don’t know. Life. I’ve been happy lately. You seem happy, too.” He angles his head towards Jaemin’s direction, meeting his eyes. Yangyang is very, very beautiful; Jaemin would never be able to pin it all down. “I like it when you’re happy. You’re very gloomy, sometimes; it worries me.”

“I like it when you’re happy too,” he hums, approaching the couch to mess with Yangyang’s hair. “What did you get for me? I can pay you back after I get paid.”

Yangyang bats his hands away dismissively. “None of that. It’s a gift. I don’t give those on currency.”

“But this looks expensive—”

“And I got it because I wanted to,” Yangyang insists. “If you want to repay me, do it by looking pretty and lovely in the clothes I got you. It would make me happier than money.” He rummages through the bags absentmindedly, taking out folded pieces of colorful clothing and placing them over the couch ever so neatly, careful like he is. When he notices Jaemin’s tentative staring, he changes the subject, “Now, what are our thoughts on skirts?”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“It means I got you pants and a skirt. Choose.”

Thing is: Yangyang did not give out any regard towards gender roles, and would not have given him two options if his standards were based on clothing only. However, because Yangyang knows and because Yangyang cares, he’s bought two choices in case Jaemin feels uncomfortable in traditionally feminine clothing, given his history of nitty gritty gender dysphoria. Such a gesture would go unnoticed by untrained eyes — Yangyang himself surely wouldn’t say it out loud — but Jaemin knows, and he hears it in the silence when Yangyang quietly places the bag next to the coffee table, leaving him to choose.

So that’s why he considers it. Because Yangyang knew him enough to give him a choice, knowingly accepting that despite his own lack of worry regarding gender expression, Jaemin most likely did not share the feeling. It’s a nice, expensive looking skirt — silk and pink, like a peach, and long enough to reach just above his knees, leaving out a big stretch of skin. It’s 2999, and though the world has moved on from such frivolous debates, it’s still an issue. Not as much as it used to be before, but still; those things linger.

The pants are same-colored and likewise shiny, well fitting around the waist and baggy around his legs, and it’s the kind of thing Jaemin would usually wear without a fuss. It’s pretty, and the skirt’s pretty too — he tries to focus on that, and on Yangyang’s kind gesture, rather than the tattle tale of discomfort tearing at his stomach. “I’ll think about it,” he promises eventually, in a murmur.

Yangyang claps his hands in delight. “Thank you. You’ll look lovely either way, you know that, right?”

Jaemin motions dismissively, gently pushing Yangyang’s face towards the rest of the clothes. “These are nice,” he points towards them, changing subjects, “What are you wearing?”

“Nothing too flashy, unfortunately,” he whines, shoulders slumping in disappointment. “I should at least be decent, but I don’t want to, you know — overdo it, and take the focus off of my work. A lot of famous people are going to be there. This is, like, my big moment.”

“It is,” Jaemin agrees, nodding. He’s not as fashion driven as Yangyang is, but this is something they can bond over easily — Jaemin loves giving out opinions, and Yangyang is the type of person that loves asking for them. “But still. You’ll gain nothing from censuring yourself. Dress like you usually do but, you know, a little more comfortably. It’ll be a long party, I imagine.”

Yangyang hums in agreement, returning to his task of rummaging through his island of shopping bags, and Jaemin leaves him to it. Dinner is easy to make because tonight it’s just family, and Yangyang doesn’t usually mind if he’s too lazy to measure out spices, which is always a blessing. They eat over the soft hum of the TV and spend the rest of the night giving out opinions on clothing Yangyang puts on and takes off repeatedly, indecisive.

This easy-come intimacy is — still — new to Jaemin, but he’s learning to settle into it comfortably. Yangyang doesn’t care if Jaemin sees him in underwear, and honestly — why should he? Different people find similar comforts in different things, and though Jaemin is more likely to cover up, he’s no one to berate Yangyang about feeling better at stepping down. Plus; there is nothing there Jaemin hasn’t seen before. If anything, he’s seen Yangyang in underwear more than he’s seen himself naked in the mirror.

“I don’t like this color on you,” Jaemin hums as Yangyang strips out of yet another blue shirt, this time a spaghetti strap tank top that made his shoulders look broad but didn’t compliment his nail polish. “Well, I do, but I don’t think it matches your… Vibe.”

Yangyang nods, inspecting his image in the mirror. “You’re right. But I didn’t get anything green, you see. I don’t want to look like a highlighter. What if I bump into Mark Lee?”

He’d be a highlighter himself, Jaemin thinks, but doesn’t voice out the thought. “What if you bump into Mark Lee?” he asks, unable to contain his curiosity, “what would you do?”

He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin. “I’d ask him for his stylist’s number. I love what they do with his hair most of the time. Oh, and his makeup artist — I love that person, whoever they are.”

Jaemin knows, for one, that Mark does his own makeup. He didn’t plan on commenting on it, but he’s never been the best at moderation. “He does his own makeup, though.”

Yangyang raises an eyebrow in his direction. “How can you possibly know that? You didn't even know who he was until, like, yesterday.”

He presses his lips together into a tight line, grim all at sudden. Jaemin should rip away the bandage all at once, instead of working around it — Yangyang would freak out, for sure, but Jaemin already knew that. “Well,” he starts, grimacing at the sound of his own voice. “Well, so — there’s… A thing. Something I haven’t told you about. You have to promise you won’t freak out.”

“I promise,” Yangyang tentatively answers, reaching for another shirt and inspecting it absentmindedly. He hums to let Jaemin know he’s listening.

“Okay, um, since there is no way to make this easier, I’ll just tell you straight away — I’ve been seeing Mark Lee for the past three weeks. Constantly. Well, not seeing. We’re… Friends. We’ve been hanging out.” But friends didn’t feel right either. “Ugh, okay, you can’t tell anyone — don’t answer yet — but I think I’ve been flirting with him. And he’s been flirting back.”

Yangyang freezes, blinking at him blearily like a cat. He slowly puts down the shirt he was inspecting, uncharacteristically quiet, and turns to Jaemin in a breathy tone, “You couldn’t have waited until I was clothed to drop that bomb? That's not something you tell naked people, Jaemin!”

Jaemin smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I’m sure your nipples don’t mind.”

“I mind!” He all but screeches, looking as if he was debating between launching himself at Jaemin or covering up. “Jaemin, you’re going to tell me everything. You’re going to start from the start — no, scratch that, you’re going to start from the day you were born and you’re going to tell me exactly who, when, how, where and why.”

Jaemin scratches his nape, fighting the urge to answer something mouthy, and slowly nods. When Yangyang only stands there in shock, Jaemin asks: “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

His question is answered when Yangyang throws a shirt at him in retaliation. By the time Jaemin gets himself out of the maze of buckles and strips, Yangyang is already fully dressed, lingering by his side on the couch with crossed arms. “Spill.”

And, well — Jaemin does. He tells him everything, as per asked; from the way he was distressed enough to barge into a stranger’s car to Mark’s quiet concern, though neatly avoiding to mention Renjun and the reason why Jaemin was having such a hard time in the first place. Then, as the story of how they met sunk in, he relived the last days’ events quickly — the dinner, the call, Jisung’s approval on Mark, the way Mark pointed to the flower tucked behind his ear as if he had never seen anything like it before. By the time he was done, Jaemin’s cheeks were a bit warmer and Yangyang’s grin had gone from manic to soft and pliant.

“Jaemin, this man is into you,” he says. "Not only that — Jaemin, the man is into you. Holy meatballs."

Jaemin doesn’t bother denying. “He’s very nice in real life. Very pretty.”

“He better be!” Yangyang cheered, the excitement behind his eyes alive and tangible like ever-fluttering butterfly wings. “God, I can’t believe you. I let you out of my sight for a day and you suddenly have South Korea’s number one heartthrob wrapped around your finger. You’re too much, Jaemin. I can’t believe you’re going to dump Renjun for a superstar.”

“I didn’t say that.” He worries his bottom lip into a bite.

“Oh, lovely, you didn’t have to. Look at you. You’re glowing. I’ve never seen you this smitten before.” Yangyang reaches for his hands, gently squeezing, then corrects himself: “Well, I have, but only once, and I don’t think Jisung counts.”

Jaemin decides to ignore that for the sake of his mental wellbeing. Instead, he asks the second hardest question, “What do I do?”

He cocks his head to the side. “I don’t follow, lovely?”

“What do I do?” Jaemin sighs, sinking back into the cushion. “I don’t know what to do. I have a boyfriend, Yangyang.”

Yangyang nods in understanding, an unusual flicker of sobriety washing over his face. He sets his lips into a straight line, considering all the new information Jaemin had given him, and reaches for his face with his thumb resting just under Jaemin’s chin. “The way I see it,” he starts, careful. “You’ve met a very beautiful stranger with many beautiful things to say. You liked him, he liked you, and you’re scared that you’re throwing away something stable for a childish fling. Is that it?”

Slowly, Jaemin nods. It’s tentative and newborn in the silence between them. Yangyang nods back, to show support — understanding. “Well, I don't think infatuation can be measured through time, and even if it did, love is not about betting on whoever's most promising. It's about how you feel; what you want. As your friend, I think Mark is a nice guy who is very clearly trying to get your attention, and as a person with eyes, I think you indulge in it because you want to give your attention to him. Does that make sense to you?”

Pouting, Jaemin nods again. “Okay,” Yangyang answers, taking his hand away from Jaemin’s chin and using it to squish his face instead. “Don’t be stupid. You’re a man, a good looking one at that, and you attract everyone — the ones that linger are the ones you choose to indulge. If you didn’t think Mark was worth your time, you would have deleted that man’s contact and never seen him again. I know you. Don’t be so dense. Dump Renjun and go get your man.”

Under the soft press of Yangyang’s palm, Jaemin realizes he made his decision long ago — when he sent Mark that text, when he allowed him into his house, when he replied and accepted the calls and asked ‘Are you?’. He had chosen Mark before he could even register it. It’s not like Jaemin to hit it off so soon with someone; that was a conscious effort to reach out and understand. There was no such thing as a choice to be made.

“Now,” Yangyang starts after leaving Jaemin to his introspection for a few seconds, leaning away from him to shrug off his shirt again. “Can you pass me that top?”

Jaemin rolls his eyes. Then passes Yangyang the top.

➳♡゛

Jeno taps a finger against his cheek as he lets out a long, long hum. "You don't think this is too much, do you?"

"I thought it was too much when the fire-eating flying dancers arrived," Mark replies. "And you're worried about the Martian flavored lipstick?"

"Not everyone on Mars likes them."

"If people don't like them, they can just choose not to use them. It's like the zero gravity boots, or the stardust pills. You shouldn't worry about it."

That does nothing to make the crease between Jeno's eyebrows disappear. When he asked Mark to come over before the party began, he kind of expected them to do some pre-game shots and buffet taste trials, but Jeno is awfully sober and worrying about the party's attractions more than he should — everybody knows that his parties are the best, and everybody looks forward to them, so Mark doesn't get just why he's stressing over it. He, for one, has been dreaming of buffet taste trials ever since he woke up; the flavored lipsticks are fun and all, eat more than you can take!, but he wouldn't trade real food for anything.

"But it needs to be perfect," Jeno insists after a while, rubbing the sole of his shoe against the perfectly polished floor. "I want everyone to have the time of their lives. Tonight needs to be special."

"I'm sure the—" Mark counts on his fingers. "—approximately five hundred people that you invited are going to be very happy with the eight kinds of entertainment that they'll find today. I think the fire fountain is lovely. I like the private booths upstairs for stargazing also. And the zero gravity dance floor, of course. But I'm terrified of that one."

"You're the only loser in 2999 who's afraid of heights," Jeno points out, though there is no bite to his tone. He looks up at the flying dancers preparing themselves for the night right above them and then turns to his best friend: "So, is your Betty coming? You could introduce him to my Betty."

"He's not— he's not my Betty. You know that."

If Jeno does know that, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he just keeps looking at Mark with one eyebrow raised — his makeup is dark and neatly done, in contrast to his pale blonde hair, and it makes him look like an old Hollywood movie star —, as if he can see right through him.

And he can, of course, there is no use in denying it. If Mark's heart chants not yet, not yet, not yet, then Jeno is the only one that hears it. Here's to the invisible string tying them together, after all. Mark clears his throat: "But Jaemin is coming, yes. He's friends with your DJ. I—" he inhales a sharp breath. "I'm very nervous. I don't know what I'm going to do when I see him."

Instead of replying, Jeno sends flying kisses his way. Mark pushes him off with a hand, but pretends to catch the metaphorical kisses and pockets them anyways. "I mean it, asshole. You don't know the state that I'm in, he makes my knees shake like jelly."

"Oh, I got you," Jeno replies. "I feel like that when I see my girlfriend of six years. It's called, let's see, endearment. It's what people feel when they're in love—"

"When they're interested in someone."

Jeno rolls his eyes. One of his bots gently taps him on the shoulder to whisper something in his ears, and his expression immediately softens, eyes curling into half-moons. Mark doesn't need to ask to know that Heejin just got here. He lets Jeno yeet himself across the ballroom and follows in a much slower pace, accepting a flute of champagne that a bot offers him on the way.

Not only Heejin had arrived early — when Mark gets to the foyer, he has to quickly hand his drink to the nearest bot before Chenle throws his arms around him at full speed, Mark stumbling backwards as he tries not to send them both flying to the floor. He wouldn't say that he's close to Jeno's band, but the drummer has always been quite fond of him. Mark can't help but smile as he pats Chenle's back.

"It's been ages!" the younger exclaims as he squeezes Mark really tight. "I watched all of your races."

"And I streamed your mixtape until Donghyuck got tired of it," he replies.

Chenle beams with happiness as he leans back. He's an angel, Mark believes, one whose hair is so black it's almost blue and who has many piercings. Although, the winged one would be the bassist, Dejun, with his twinkling silver dress and delicate silvery wings hanging from his shoulders. It’s his trademark, as per usual, but today’s a special occasion, meaning it calls for a special costume. Jeno’s other and final bandmate, a scrawny man named Hendery, was dressed from head to toe in true Romeo fashion, clad in a fine black suit with a pompous white shirt underneath, the collar and the sleeves peeking out. Distantly, Mark realizes they came as a pair — Romeo and Juliet, a tale as old as time. Good for them. Mark isn't jealous in the slightest.

In fact; he thinks Hendery’s makeup looks lovely. It’s a pretty shade of golden.

“Jeno told me you’re trying to impress a Betty today,” Chenle lowers his voice to Mark’s ears only, going as far as leaning a bit closer to whisper. “You got it, dude. Call me over anytime and I’ll tell him you saved my grandma from a burning building, or something. I mean it. I’ll pretend to thank you for lending me a million bucks for my mother’s surgery.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “You’re filthy rich. You wouldn’t need it.”

“He doesn’t need to know, Mark. A Betty is an off-limits ordeal. All’s fair in love and war. Ask Romeo and Juliet over there."

Mark is not surprised that Jeno has told them all — Mark wouldn't be surprised if Jeno told everyone. He might as well have emailed all of his guests a picture of Jaemin with the words This Betty Is Off Limits! If You See This Man, Stay Away!, because that's just Jeno's way of doing things. He would love to stay and tell Chenle he doesn't need help wooing a taken man, but Heejin is the next to flung herself into his personal space, a firm hand to his nape and the privilege of a few inches between them due to ridiculously high heels.

“Mark Lee,” she all but thunders, squeezing his nape and towering over him. “He has a boyfriend. What are you doing with your life?”

Mark bites down on a mouthy answer. “Well, right now I’m just trying to get drunk. What about you?”

Heejin rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to talk some sense into you before you go and become a homewrecker. Jeno refuses to, so I figured it’d be my task.”

“Nonsense,” he huffs, motioning dismissively towards her despite his best knowledge. Mark is one of the two people that can talk back to Heejin without getting their arms broken in the process; needless to say, Jeno is the other. “The guy’s an asshole. You’re missing part of the story already, you see.”

“Oh, do convince me to believe this is a good idea,” she bites, though this time with no bark. Mark distantly wonders what her thoughts on Jaemin will be; Heejin is always partial to bubblegum-looking men. “Right now, it feels stupid and self-destructive. Didn’t take you to be a side chick.”

This time, Mark rolls his eyes. “I could be one if I wanted to, but I’m not. Let me be, alright? I know what I’m doing. You can’t beat the affection out of me, as you well know.”

“I can try.”

She can. She wouldn’t; but she can. “Heejin, stop worrying. Your hair is going to fall off and you’ll get old and boring.” Heejin scowls at him, but lets him go. Out of the need to push his point even further, Mark stands on his tallest tiptoes to press a kiss to her cheek. “Hello. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Heejin’s face softens considerably, back to its usual unalarmed state. Mark knows she means well, and that this is her way of saying I worry about you, but it’s most likely he’ll do more damage to Jaemin than Jaemin to him. Heejin has nothing to worry about. “You look like you haven’t slept in ages and you lost weight, which I hate. I’m taking you to dinner tomorrow.”

He beams, tapping two fingers against his own temple in salute. “Count me in.”

A few more people walk in past Jeno’s bandmates, masses of colorful and extravagant clothing, and Mark nods his welcome to a handful of acquaintances. Jeno and Heejin take place on both of his sides, polite smiles plastered on their faces. Mark is looking for Jaemin in the crowd because — well, when isn’t he? The fact that he could be out there does nothing to ease Mark’s nerves, and at some point he hides behind Heejin’s shoulder to simply look without being looked at, hooking his chin over the firm muscle carefully. She doesn’t acknowledge it other than a quiet look his way, and Jeno leans a little closer out of habit.

“Where’s your Betty?” Heejin murmurs at some point. Jeno must have rubbed off on her — Mark would have to remind her Jaemin is not his Betty yet later.

For now, though, he doesn’t deny it. To even acknowledge it at all feels like a dream. “He’s not here yet. You’ve seen the picture, right? Tell me if you find him. Orange hair, tall, pretty eyes, huge mouth.”

Heejin snorts. “That’s about every person that walks through that door, Mark.”

Mark scrunches his nose. “You’ll know when you see him. Jaemin is gorgeous. He's the most gorgeous man around, and don't say that's Jeno, I'll literally lose it."

To which Heejin replies: "I wasn't gonna," and Jeno makes a sound like a kicked puppy. A bunch of fellow racers walk in and Mark has to acknowledge them otherwise it'd be rude, and soon enough he loses count of how many people are attending, and Jaemin is nowhere to be found. The heavy bass playing from underground speakers aren't enough to swallow his heartbeat.

But the cat always drags someone in, and eventually, as all things, Jaemin walks through the door with his arms intertwined to a girl’s, the man Mark supposes is Jeno’s DJ on their heels. Mark says nothing, does nothing, is nothing; he is reduced yet again to a thing that wants Jaemin. The usual untamed mess of bright orange he has for a hair is replaced by a clean hairdo, tousled to the side in gentle curls and a few tiny braids Mark’s heart clenches at achingly. He looks beautiful and colorful in a polished way Mark has never seen him in before, clad in oranges and pinks from his dress shirt to the hemmed end of a skirt, prim and pretty like Mark always thinks he is, be it in full party attire or ratty sweatshirts. Mark lets his eyes linger for a second, but eventually takes them back to Jaemin’s face, blurry spots of yellow and orange dotting the planes and dips of his features.

He doesn’t need to point him out to Jeno and Heejin — they see Mark’s stare and follow it easily. Jeno is the first to break the silence, in a quiet huff, “Fine. I get it. That’s a motherfucking catch, if I’ve ever seen one.” Then, a bit more quieter: “I like his skirt better than I like mine.”

Heejin chuckles. “I like yours better. But, yeah — I get it, Mark. Congrats on your Betty.”

Mark scoffs if only to keep himself from swooning. “Thanks, guys. I’m sure his boyfriend thinks so, too.”

“Stop it.” Jeno reaches behind Heejin to pop him on the back of his head. “I’m banning you from saying the word ‘boyfriend’ tonight unless it’s after ‘do you want to be my’ directed at Jaemin. Understood?”

“Jeno, that’s stupid—”

“Answer him, Mark,” Heejin chirped in, dragging her glare back to Mark. She shakes her shoulder slightly, making his chin almost fall off of it. “Understood?”

“Fine,” he eventually comes around. “You’re not my parents. Out with it.”

Jeno chuckles. “Go talk to him or no video game tomorrow.”

“I’m a grown man—”

Heejin shakes her shoulder harshly. “Go."

Mark leans back before Heejin accidentally makes him bite his tongue off. Jaemin was beautiful then and he is beautiful now, but Mark was never eloquent enough to put it into words, so he supposes a bright smile will have to do as he makes his way through the crowd, wrestling a few masses. Jaemin doesn’t notice him at first, seemingly too invested in an argument with the girl he’d been latching to, but turns to face him once the DJ leans closer to whisper in his ear.

If the everything about Jaemin hadn’t knocked his breath off before, the grin he sends Mark’s way probably would have. “Hey, you,” Jaemin greets, stepping towards Mark tentatively.

“Hey yourself,” he smiles back, dunking under a minibot easily as he finally gets close enough to count every spec of glitter on Jaemin’s eyelids, as Mark is sure he looks as colorful and bright himself. They were young people up to date with fashion and style, and Mark couldn’t be more infatuated if he tried. “You’re the prettiest person in this entire room.”

“Well,” the girl he came with starts, but the DJ — Yangyang? — pokes her on the ribs before she can finish her sentence.

Jaemin offers him a tiny, softer grin; one that looks a lot more like him. “You don’t fall short, I think,” he hums, bashful.

“You think,” Mark echoes with a smile. “Oh, it’d be a tragedy if the best looking man in this place didn’t think so, that’s for sure. I’d go home crying.”

He rolls his eyes, bashfulness long abandoned. Good, Mark thought to himself — he liked Jaemin for his quick wit. “Be my guest, then,” Jaemin motions to the exit. “I love a teary performance.”

“You’re very partial to my performances, I’ve heard.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.”

Mark laughs. “Silly me. Maybe you could teach me how to be less naive one of these days.”

“Shut up.” Jaemin pokes him over his shirt, the beige mesh fabric barely a barrier to bare skin. Mark fights the urge to wrap his hand around Jaemin’s finger, if only to keep the touch there, right between his ribs. Maybe then it’d linger for longer. “Lose the cheek, you. You’ve grown petulant; what a scandal.”

“The way I see it, you’ve rubbed off on me.”

He makes a face. “The way I see it, you’re annoying and I hate you. How’s that?”

“Lovely,” Mark beams. “Very lovely.”

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this exchange already,” the girl announces from somewhere behind Jaemin, sounding suspiciously adjacent to Heejin. Mark peeks over his own shoulder, looking for Jeno and Heejin in the crowd, and they both wave back as they notice his staring. Mark bites down a smile, turning his attention back to Jaemin.

“Mark, this is Hyunjin,” he introduces, albeit reluctantly. “My neighbor, occasional date and friend. Hyunjin, this is Mark.”

Hyunjin steps aside to inspect him quiet and slowly, taking spaced out blinks that reminded Mark too much of a cat. She doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t seem to recognize him either, nodding a curt hello in his direction before heading off to the crowd. Jaemin suppresses a chuckle. “Sorry. Hyunjin is not very fond of… You know.”

“Celebrities?”

"Rich people.”

Mark nods in understanding. “I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And you?” He nods his chin in Yangyang’s direction.

He raises an eyebrow. “And I’m here to DJ and keep an eye out for my best friend. Yangyang’s the name. I know who you are.”

Alright. “I’m Mark. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Yangyang stares at him for a second before breaking into a toothy grin, two golden fangs staring back at Mark, smug. “Likewise. Jaemin told me not to ask you to sign my shirt but I will ask you to sign my shirt nonetheless. He also told me a lot about you."

Jaemin sighs audibly, and Yangyang nudges him with an elbow: "Hey, at least it's not my bare chest."

Mark ignores their bickering to focus on that last sentence — he also told me a lot about you. He clears his throat, “All bad things, I hope.”

Yangyang’s grin widens. “Sort of. Jaemin isn't quite known for his elegance, let’s just say.”

“You make it sound like I’ve called the dude slurs—”

“Isn’t he lovely,” Mark interrupts Jaemin before he can start another argument, bouncing back and forth on his feet. “I can sign your shirt later, but first — can I steal him for a second?” He motions towards Jaemin.

“A second,” Yangyang advises, pointed. “And only that. I expect him back in one piece, Mark Lee. Your pretty face won’t get you out of this if you fuck up.”

He grins, all teeth. “Of course. Shall we?” He offers his arm in Jaemin’s direction.

“How chivalrous,” Jaemin comments as he allows Mark to drag him away and in Heejin’s direction, their arms intertwined. “I wonder how people say chivalry is dead nowadays. They haven’t met Mark Lee yet, that’s for sure.”

“Only for you,” Mark hums easily, not turning back to look as Jaemin seems to be shut up for good after his answer. When they reach Heejin and, by proxy, Jeno, he pulls Jaemin upfront delicately. “Jaemin, here are Ketchup and Mustard. They come in two.”

Heejin rolls her eyes, offering Jaemin a hand. “I’m Heejin, and this is my boyfriend, Jeno. And you’re Jaemin, yes; we’ve heard all about it.”

Jaemin glares at him for a second before accepting her extended hand. “All bad things, I hope.”

Jeno snorts. “As if. This dude couldn’t be mean about you if he tried.”

“Oh, that’s a first,” Jaemin comments offhandedly, no real intent to it. He shakes Jeno’s hand then straightens his posture, towering over them all due to his naturally broader frame and impeccable posture. Mark is torn between wanting this man and wanting this man to drop dead. “It’s a very lovely party, by the way. Um, welcome back to Earth — it’s still here. Surprisingly.”

“Thank you very much,” Jeno smiles, the sharp ends of his mouth pulled like a Cheshire cat. “Please feel right at home. I’d hate to have Mark whining my ears off later on.”

He shakes his head fondly. “It’s either you or me, brother. Every man for himself.”

Mark’s eyes shift from them to meet Heejin’s gaze, her dark eyes curled around their edges and uncharacteristically pleased. She holds his stare for a minute, quiet, then slowly unfolds into a smile, cold and beautiful. He hadn’t known how much he leaned on Heejin until she wasn’t there to hold him up — Mark had missed her too much and loved her too dearly. “So, Jaemin,” Heejin starts, turning her attention back to him. “Pray tell, you’re a preschool teacher, right?”

“Very much so,” Jaemin nods proudly, brightening up. “I can also teach primary students, but I’m currently working with preschoolers only. I plan on getting my masters degree when college becomes more affordable, though. Well,” he cocks his head to the side for a second, crossing his fingers where they could see them. “Fingers crossed that it will, eventually, become more affordable.”

That sparks her interest. “Oh, that’s nice. You want to be a scholar?”

A bot passes them by with a tray full of Champagne flutes, and Mark grabs a hold of two. He keeps one to himself and offers the other to Jaemin, who hesitantly takes it. “Not sure yet,” Jaemin answers at last. “I like children too much to ever imagine myself doing anything else. Of course, college-level teaching would be an amazing opportunity, but I’m not sure if I’d enjoy that, myself. It’s definitely a maybe.”

Cuddling to Heejin’s side, Jeno lingers by her shoulders, nuzzling the pale skin underneath her dress shirt and leaving small, feathery kisses. They’re adorable, of course; Mark is simultaneously endeared and repulsed. “My dad’s a scholar,” Heejin explains, bringing a hand to mess with Jeno’s hair on default. “I was asking because you have the posture for it, for sure. But yeah — it’s not preschool teaching. You must have a lot of fun with your kids, right?”

“I do,” Jaemin nods eagerly. He hides his earnest agreement behind his glass of champagne, sipping away a smile Mark wanted so badly to keep to himself. “My kids are angels. They’re my pride and joy. They’re not first ranked in the entire school, but they’re working towards it — the effort they put in is… Amazing. They’re amazing.”

“You sound like you really like children,” Jeno comments quietly, voice muffled by Heejin’s shirt. “Did you know Mark has a little sister?”

“He knows about Olivia,” Mark hums back, admittedly too smitten to trust himself with going any further.

“I haven’t met her,” Jaemin tells Jeno, blinking around long eyelashes. It’s like watching Jaemin talk to a mirror, somehow — Mark hadn’t realized how alike they are until they were in the same room. “I’ve heard many good things about her, though. Personally, I find teenagers a different brand of lovely, but I work with a few. Voluntary work and whatnot; there’s always a sixteen year old that would prefer helping out a preschool teacher than serving a week at a juvenile facility.”

Jeno hums in interest. “Oh, how’s that like?”

Jaemin considers it for a second, then shrugs. “It’s good because they understand kids more easily, but most are too wary of adults — teachers, especially — for it to be productive. I like taking kids in, but there’s only so much I can do to gain their trust and respect, right? So yes, there’s that. I’ve made good friends with some; there are others that would probably never like to see me again. I give them a green sign to go regardless.”

“You’re very nice, Jaemin,” Heejin points out flatly. “I can’t imagine how much of a saint’s patience you need to keep that up.”

He motions dismissively, taking a sip from his glass. “Not much, honestly. These kids’ lives are already complicated as they are, there’s no need for me to make it worse. It’s basic decency.”

“Basic decency can be a too-high standard nowadays,” Jeno chides, straightening his posture but keeping close to Heejin still. “Weird world we live in.”

Jaemin hums. “I suppose. Maybe you’re just not talking to the right people?” he suggests, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” Jeno nods, suddenly pensative. “Maybe I’m not.”

Mark listens as Jaemin, Jeno and Heejin talk for a few more minutes, neatly swaying in easy-going conversation that feels more like dancing than talking in itself, though he wouldn’t know. He studied Jaemin’s profile instead of paying attention, counting every dent and curve as if he had never seen a human face before. Who knows — maybe he hasn’t. Mark could’ve been born right in this doorway and he wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care. It’s been months since he’s been this close to Jeno and Heejin, and Jaemin is here, staying by his side like he said he would. Mark couldn’t find a flaw if he tried.

They end up straying apart as an old colleague of Jeno’s spikes up conversation with him, leaving the remaining three to find their designed table at the other end of the ballroom. It wasn’t hard to find — though Jaemin’s name wasn’t on it, the host’s table was the one of easiest access, neatly folded napkins resting atop fine white cutlery. Heejin settles beside Mark, grabbing another glass from a passing bot, and Jaemin stares around for a few seconds before gently putting down his own glass, offering Mark a hand. “A dance?”

Mark accompanies his gaze towards the zero gravity dance floor, where rich people of all sorts hover above ground with smug smiles and easy laughter. He presses his lips together. “Can’t. Afraid of heights.”

“Heights,” Jaemin repeats in disbelief, “but not racing?”

“Though it feels like flying, racing is on the ground.”

“It’s also a deadly sport. In the dark. And you have to ride actual death machines to compete.”

“A car is not a death machine, Jaemin,” he reprimands, though not unkindly. “Safety depends much more on who’s behind the wheel.”

“Same deal with guns,” Jaemin argues back, “that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.”

He has a point. Mark wishes he hadn’t. Before he can retort back something witty of his own, Jaemin’s features soften, “Of course, we don’t have to.”

Mark sighs inside his head, but can feel the words forming on his tongue long before they’re said out loud. “Maybe later?”

“Okay,” Jaemin grins. “Later, then.” He nudges Mark’s shin with his dress shoes. “Are you hungry?”

“A little bit.”

“Come with me to the snacks table, then,” he all but demands, “I don’t know any rich people food and I’m allergic to at least four different ingredients. Can’t risk it.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “I somehow doubt that.”

“You mistake me as someone who cares. Up, up. You said you’d stick with me the entire night.”

Little does he know that Mark would follow him anywhere, any time. He lets Jaemin pull him in the direction of the snack bar, and can't help the laugh that erupts from his chest when Jaemin's eyes double in size. He leans into Mark's side, hand clutching at his arm, and whispers: "I have never eaten, seen or heard of any of these things. Do you rich people eat… Candy for dinner?"

"Gum delights, yes," Mark muses, eyeing the small, colorful spheres displayed in a section of the table. "Of course, there's nothing like real food, but it's all about the fun. Do you enjoy Southern Italian cuisine?" he picks one up and brings it to Jaemin's lips. The latter eyes him suspiciously but eventually opens his mouth to accept the treat, his bottom lip brushing against Mark's thumb just slightly.

He chews for a while, eyebrows furrowed, but his expression softens gradually. "This should be nasty, but it isn't," Jaemin says at last. "I mean. Wow. Okay. I have no idea what I just ate but I liked it very much."

"Fiori di zucca fritti, a classic. You should try the seafood, though. The ceviche is spectacular. It's a South American dish."

“Ceviche,” Jaemin echoes in thought. He seemed somewhat lost for a second, eyes dragging through the snack bar as if it had personally offended him. “What about… Hamburgers? Whatever happened to soup?”

Mark laughs. “Jeno has a thing for complicating everybody’s life, see. I suppose you can ask for a hamburger and someone will make it for you.”

“But it’s not on the menu,” he argues back, mortified. When Mark’s point stands, his eyebrows shoot up to the sky and beyond. “Oh, Jesus, no. I won’t inconvenience these people. I’m just going to eat whatever seems good and pray the nearest hospital is only five minutes away.”

“Anything is five minutes away when I’m driving,” Mark grins, following Jaemin as he grabs a small plate and starts filling it with random bite-sized snacks he probably did not know a thing about. “I could take you to Italy in a blink, so you could eat real fiori di zucca fritti.”

“I wish you would not,” Jaemin answers offhandedly, stacking bright orange macaroons with surprising precision. “I have no regards for cars and their speed, if you’re trying to impress me. I don’t know any brands and I can’t drive either.”

He fakes a dreamy sigh dramatically. “I know.”

Mark doesn’t have to look at Jaemin to know he’s rolling his eyes. They return to their table after Jaemin is done stacking up enough food to last him the entire night, though it disappears in scarily quick speed as he continues his conversation from before with Heejin, who looks attentive if a little bored. She’s paying attention, though, asking questions once and again, and Jaemin is more than happy to answer them — it’s almost comic, how unaware of his chatty nature he is. Or maybe he knows, and doesn’t care; which sounds a lot more like Jaemin.

Eventually Mark tunes out, sipping on ridiculously overpriced wine as Jaemin recalls stories of his students and their funny anecdotes related to the school’s minibots, an endeared smile tugging at his lips. His thumb tingles where its tip had met Jaemin’s bottom lip, minutes ago, and Mark doesn’t want to think about it in case he spirals into a place in his brain he cannot get out of. He wants to wash out the feeling of Jaemin’s hands curled into his arm, if only to remember himself that Jaemin is not his to keep or to lose, but Mark is too afraid he’d forget it in the process.

“What do you think, Mark?” Heejin nudges at him, crashing right into Mark’s daydreams.

He stares for a second, blinking quietly. The buzzed sides of Heejin’s new haircut look soft to the touch, and Mark reaches out a hand to gently cascade his fingers over it, a gentle frown to his features. It’s foreign and beautiful — as most things are before they become history. “What do I think about what?”

She patiently waits for him to pull his hand back to answer. “What do you think about the pink cocktails?”

“Oh,” he answers, “I haven’t had any. Last party Jeno throwed they gave me the heebie jeebies.”

“That’s a funny way to say that you’re a lightweight,” Heejin points out, although without malice, “Jaemin said they look and sound stupid, though. A match made in Heaven.”

Jaemin makes a sound of protest, “I didn’t say they looked stupid. I love pink drinks. I just said they looked like they didn’t taste good.”

“Because they don’t,” Mark shrugs. “Jeno keeps getting them for every party because he loves the aesthetic, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like them either. Go figure.”

“He does like it,” Heejin insists. Mark doesn’t know why she’d protect Jeno’s honor if he’s not even here to defend himself, but, well — he supposes that’s just what lovers do. “He takes them home and freezes them into popsicles.”

Mark makes a face. “That’s disgusting, Heejin. He kisses you with that mouth?”

“I’ll let you know that he does, yes.”

“Disgusting. Don’t do it again.”

Jaemin snorts. Heejin rolls her eyes, “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be so grumpy about it if you kissed someone from time to time.”

“I’m a hopeless romantic, you know that,” he rolls his eyes back at her, settling into his chair more comfortably. His knee nudges Jaemin’s bare leg on accident, but eventually leans against it, for which Jaemin doesn’t berate him. Small victories. “I’m still waiting for my prince charming, you see. A guy shouldn’t give his heart out to just about anyone, right?”

“A prince charming is an adolescent fantasy,” she tells him, leaning closer to point a finger to his chest. “And I could give you a list of men who would love to fulfill it for you.”

Mark offers her a sheepish beam. “There’s only one man that’s on my list.”

“I believe it,” Heejin whistles, making a point out of avoiding Jaemin’s figure by his side, who had suddenly gone still. “Well, I’ll leave you to him. I, too, have one man on my list I miss, so goodbye for now.”

And then she’s gone. Mark and Jaemin settle in comfortable silence, but not for long — Jaemin is the first to speak up, “Only one, huh?”

Mark shrugs. “In my defense, I have none. I’m not taking it back.”

Jaemin stares at him for a long second, quiet and hard as if Mark was a problem he still didn’t quite know how to solve. He nods — once in understanding, twice in confirmation; reassurance. Mark is not sure of what yet. Jaemin is most unnerving when he's silent.

Mark considers the things he likes in Jaemin again, if only to be sure — so often he finds himself falling in love as if falling into a trap, nowadays it feels good to just quietly prod at this wanting from an objective standpoint. He likes Jaemin because he's smart and sharp, but not to a point of cynicism; because he's open-hearted and trustable; because when he breaks, it's in a million pieces, but he always bounces back brighter than a mirrorball. Mark likes Jaemin for the things he says and for how long his legs are, for the deep tone of his voice and the cracking of his smile, for his long fingers and his rough grip. Mark likes Jaemin because — because he's a heart shaped barrel pointed at his temple, and right now Mark doesn't want to dodge the bullet. Right now he wants to stay by Jaemin's side for the entire night.

And so he does. They eat together, dance together, and — though God may have to forgive them for it — they were happy despite the state of the world and its billions of complications. Jaemin pulls him over to the roof soon enough, jittery with the thundering sound of bass, a white claw on his left hand and Mark's shoulder under his right.

The stargazing booths were graveyard-empty and the egg tarts were lovely, if a little too sweet. It is the age of no regret; Mark has lived a thousand lives to get here and they all accumulated dust under his shoes. The only things that exist are extensions of Jaemin's arms and wrists and palms and fingers, gently prodding Mark's chin towards the stars as he names their constellations by heart, heavenly bodies back together at last.

"That's Leo," Jaemin murmurs, "see? It's us."

Mark hums. He'd never quite cared for the stars as much he cared for Jaemin's hand to stay where it was, cradling his chin with such gentleness it could be mistaken as the breeze, or maybe a full-bodied shiver. "Leo," he repeats.

"Yes. Latin for lion," Jaemin easily rewards him with an answer, eyes trained to the sky as if it had never been this close to the touch. "And that's Jupiter, see? Just under it. Bright and tiny; but only because it's so far."

He knew a thing or two about far away things that were small and mighty, but would not say it out loud at the expense of losing this sorely earned closeness. "Jupiter," he eventually hummed; an invite to keep talking that Jaemin always accepts wholeheartedly.

"Yes, Jupiter — a planet whose best characteristic is that we are not allowed in it," Jaemin tells him reverently, "the Leo constellation is home to The Leo Triplet, did you know? A group of small galaxies so far away from us we'll never know what's groovin' for them. Truly a shame. Everytime we think we're done with astronomical mysteries we walk right into another one."

"Pray, but that's the fun of it, right?" Mark asks, putty in Jaemin's palm. He leans closer, allowing his entire head to be held up by careful fingers, and Jaemin's hand barely bends under the pressure. He's strong — strong enough to hold all of Mark's world in the apathetic skin of his palms, unbulging. "It never gets boring. Every day a new adventure; it's a never ending Opera."

Jaemin chuckles quietly. "Some of us have too much going on down here," he eventually confesses, broken and shiny like shattered glass, "sometimes it can get overwhelming. I like the stars better when they're quiet and easy."

"That's a first for you," Mark teases with very little bite, "you're neither quiet nor easy."

And I don't want you to be, he doesn't say. Jaemin was never meant to be beautiful, never meant to be graceful, never meant to crouch and beg; from the moment he was born, he was meant to be free. Mark could never ask of him to give that up. He wouldn't be able to stomach it.

"Maybe. But you like it."

Mark wants his smile to not come off as drowsily infatuated as he feels, but that's too tall of an order to make. "I like that you know that I like it," he says at last, "it saves me from the great ordeal of trying to convince you that I do."

Jaemin laughs, then — a gorgeous little sound, keen and trustful that Mark would take good care of it. "How Christian of you. Remind me again where romance implies that I need you to remind me of my self worth."

"You don't," Mark all but singsongs, closing his eyes when the smile and the laughter and the twilight become too much. "I'll do it anyway. You don't need me to fuss, I'll do it anyway. I don't need your permission."

"You don't," Jaemin echoes, in agreement.

"Mhmm," he says, unintelligible because he doesn't know how to say anything else. Language is always a form of self-harm — it can never say what you mean without robbing it of its veracity. Tonight, under the stars and the influence, language is an ill-fitting shoe Mark can't use to run and can't use to stay.

"Don't be like that."

Mark blinks his eyes open lazily. "Hm?"

Jaemin refuses to stare; Mark does it anyway. "Don't be so… Vulnerable."

"Why does it bother you?" he evades. This is a stalemate as old as time. This is the only version of this story. This is the century-old question; why does vulnerability hurt like a punch?

A shudder cuts through Jaemin's frame, small but powerful. "It's… Frightening. And enchanting. I've never met someone as vulnerable as you are. I mean — even now, you have nothing to hide. You have no guard up. Isn't it terrifying?"

Mark wants to tell him that nothing is terrifying; that fear is a survival instinct he threw out of the window long ago; that all Mark knows is how to step down onto the pedal harder if he sees a cul-de-sac ahead. He wants to tell Jaemin that his silence won't protect him; that this is a dying world; that because none of this matters, all of this does. He wants to tell Jaemin many things — but tonight, language is simply not working. Tonight all he can muster is, "There is nothing in me I want to hide from you. And I hope that there is nothing in you you want to hide from me."

Jaemin chews long and hard on that answer. Something in his face shifts, tilting the world off its axis for a second too long, and then it's gone, replaced by guilt so strong so heavy Mark sucks in a breath, a phantom ache spreading through his chest. "This," Jaemin starts, "is not enough. I'm — not enough. I can't give you what you want right now because– Renjun, and,–"

"Do you like me?"

Jaemin's sentence comes to a halt. "Huh?"

"Do you like me?" Mark repeats.

"Yes," Jaemin answers, quick as lightning.

He nods. "Do you… Want me?"

A heartbeat. Two. Three. Four. Time is an illusion that helps things make sense; so is love. So is everything.

"Yes," Jaemin echoes, "I want you."

"You want me."

"I want you."

Mark nods again, closing his eyes once more. "Then I'm satisfied."

He doesn't open his eyes to see them, but Jaemin's words come out delicate, shaken up — fragile. It's as such they concretized for the first time as soon as they sneaked from his lips, tense like an elastic about to break. "Why?"

"Because it's you," Mark tells him, unnerved, "and wanting is enough."

"It's not enough."

"For me, it's enough."

"Mark," Jaemin calls. Mark doesn't open his eyes at first, but he doesn't have to — Jaemin's face molds against his like he was sure they'd slide together perfectly, the bridge of his nose touching the bridge of Mark's and nothing to be burnt but the walls keeping them apart. "Look at me. I need you to look at me."

Mark does, holding Jaemin's gaze unflinchingly. The bravado is real and everlasting; it is his home and it is what he built himself from nothing for. This sadness between them, this silence and this tension — they will not do. He wants to put well-meaning hands on Jaemin and he wants to deserve it; he wants to meet him in glory or nothing else. Mark wants no part of this shame. "I look at you all the time," he says, "and I think you're stellar. I won't let you make me feel ashamed of it. I won't sit here and pretend I don't think you're the best thing from this world to the next. I want," Mark sighs. "I want no part of whatever lie you've been buying. I won't play my role in it."

Jaemin blinks. His eyes are the size of the Moon, but Mark's life is too small to accommodate them. That's no problem — breaking down walls to build newer, sturdier ones is the point of living. "And I know about your boyfriend, and to it I say nothing. Break up with him tomorrow or never at all. Ask for my hand in marriage this instant or never talk to me again. Kiss me or punch me in the face. Whatever. I like you. I want you. Take it for the irrevocable truth that it is."

You’re going to find someone you love very much, Jeno had told him, infuriatingly accurate. And you’ll love him to death, and it’ll be alright because that is your way. That is who you are.

That is who Mark is. He couldn't change even if he tried.

Jaemin inches closer, the ghost of his lips brushing against Mark's like a fox chasing its own tail. He doesn't seem to realize that wanting is a mirror, and he doesn't seem to know that if he pushes through Mark he'll fall right into his own open arms. In Jaemin, Mark sees all the things he'd inherited whether by nature or by will, and it's in that familiarity that this longing lives. It's in the paralleling tightness of their lips and in the way Jaemin's shoulders tense up and ease out under his palms, something in his chest opening and closing in doubt.

This isn't a yes, a green light, a go. This is a–

"Not yet," Jaemin murmurs, "but soon. I just need to–"

"You don't have to comfort me," Mark interrupts, the movement of his mouth making it brush against Jaemin's even more. "I knew what I was in for. Take your time."

Another shudder. This time Jaemin barely hides it. "You're frightening."

"I care about you." He motions dismissively, though Jaemin wouldn't have been able to see it. "I'm alright with just this, whatever it is. Remember — if I have you tomorrow or never at all, I don't care. Wanting is enough."

"Be quiet," Jaemin demands. Mark complies. When Jaemin presses careful kisses to his forehead and temples, he keeps so very silent even the ghosts of a billion dead stars would be surprised to know there's a living, breathing thing under this carcass.

➳♡゛

"I'll give it to you, Jaemin," Hyunjin suddenly states through a mouthful, "he does sound like a ride."

"Massive ride!" Yangyang exclaims, biting down onto a now-soggy french fry. "He's so romantic."

Jaemin pouts, hiding behind his vanilla milkshake. "It wasn't that romantic."

It very much was. It also shook Jaemin down to his core, but there's not a way he'll process Mark's words in a 24/7 McDonalds.

"It was very romantic," Yangyang insists, "you're blushing. I didn't know you could do that."

"You saw me blush before."

"Never because of a man!"

"Men are often disappointing," Jaemin reminds him.

"Mark isn't! Hyunjin, tell him Mark isn't." He brings his hands to the air in exasperation.

Hyunjin considers it for a second, then nods, saying, "I've told you. He sounds like a ride, and he seems to make you happy, so I don't mind him."

"See?!" Yangyang cheers. "Hyunjin doesn't mind him! It took her three months to even sit at the same table than Renjun!"

"Guys, come on," Jaemin sighs. "Not even Mark hates Renjun. I'm tired of explaining that it's not his fault that he's–"

"Forcing you to be his therapist?"

"A bad boyfriend?"

He rolls his eyes. "He's not the asshole you guys make him out to be."

Hyunjin shakes her head. "He's not. That doesn't mean he's good for you, and as long as you two keep trying to pretend he is, he'll continue to hurt you, which makes him the asshole."

Jaemin grabs at the straw of his milkshake. It's quiet for a second, but then he says, "I'm going to break up with him."

"–Jaemin, you don't even lik– Oh. Wait. Wait. For real?"

He nods. Tonight, no words seem enough to explain the state that he's in.

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow in his direction. "That's new."

Jaemin shrugs. She continues, "What did Mark do?"

"Mark did nothing."

"Liar. What did he do?"

"Hyunjin–"

"You didn't…" Yangyang starts carefully, "do that, right? Nothing happened?"

It takes him a moment to understand, but then he shakes his head furiously. "God, no. Jesus. Of course not. I wouldn't cheat, you know me."

"Then what did Mark do to change your mind?" Hyunjin asks again. Her burger is too greasy to be eaten in such a beautiful gown, but what's done is done. Yangyang doesn't seem to mind, and he was the one who paid for it, so Jaemin doesn't linger.

He pouts once more. "He did… Nothing," Jaemin brings his gaze down to his slowly melting milkshake, stirring the sad mess with a soft frown of his own. "He didn't ask me to break up with Renjun. He just asked if I liked him, and when I said yes he said that was enough. He told me to take my time with Renjun and not to worry. Said he knew what he was getting into and wanted to put up with it anyways."

Yangyang gently interlaces their fingers together over the tabletop. "He's a nice guy, then. What a relief."

"That's…" even Hyunjin seems taken aback. "That's surprisingly nice."

"It was mortifying," Jaemin sighs. "It was truly frightening. He had this look in his eyes — he meant every word. It's terrifying when people are honest like that."

"Maybe he just likes you a lot," Yangyang suggests, "I wouldn't blame him for it. You're adorable."

Hyunjin grunts in agreement.

The ghost of I like you. I want you. Take it for the irrevocable truth that it is rings his mind loud and clear, creeping up the soft shell of his ear with small paws and making a nest somewhere between his guts. These are words, of course — Jaemin knows words. He knows what they mean. He knows what an irrevocable truth is; he just never thought love could ever be one.

"Time will tell," he tells them, and that's that.

Jaemin falls into the bed face first that night, and Jisung turns off the lights before he even has the chance to. Hyunjin would berate him for falling asleep with makeup on, but she didn't necessarily have to know; it's a Saturday dawn and the world is far from ending. Mark ended history as Jaemin knows for good, buried it in the backyard and called it a day — now it was his turn to deal with the ghosts.

He schedules a date with Renjun the morning after. It's nothing special because — because, well, Jaemin is going to break up with him, and despite popular fallacies, he's not cruel. They agree on meeting up at a park for lunch, not exactly a picnic but the closest Jaemin could get to it without making it romantic, and off he goes as soon as the clock hits two in the afternoon.

Normally he'd take a cab to the nearest park — a large stretch of bright green grass that has been getting smaller and smaller as time goes — but Jaemin imagined a walk would at least help with his hangover, though it never had and it did not. By the time he spots Renjun's scrawny frame by a large tree, Jaemin is panting and sweating from the heat, his coat tied around his waist and the chocolate bar he'd bought Renjun for good measure already half melted.

"I'm sorry, I'm a little late, I came walking, it was really hot, God, I thought we were past this as a society?" he pants as he approaches Renjun, leaning his palms against his knees to regain his breath.

"Don't worry," Renjun frowns, "it's going to be colder soon."

Jaemin doesn't like the cold either; never have. So that's another thing he never told Renjun — either because he hasn't asked or because the topic was never brought up. Mark knows your favorite season is Autumn, an unhelpful voice whispers. Jaemin chases it away.

He settles by Renjun's side with a tin foiled bowl of ramen and stares off into the park as he eats, considering his words carefully. It's not that Jaemin never broke up with someone before, but — it's never been like this. Renjun is an outlier in his otherwise disastrous romantic encounters, and that makes him a little bit harder to let go of; Jaemin can't help but think he deserves better courtesy.

At last, he decides to take the bandage off all at once. "Okay, I'll just cut straight to the point," he says, "I want to break up with you. I'm sorry. I mean — this isn't working. It hasn't been for a long time."

Renjun freezes from where he was skimming over the pages of his book, but doesn't look all that surprised. Jaemin lets him digest it for a second, and Renjun eventually settles back with a sigh. "I know."

A small voice in his head is baffled. That's all you have to say? Jaemin wants to ask, but he's not that particular brand of cruel.

"You know," he repeats.

"I do," Renjun answers easily, nonplussed, "you're not very good at hiding it when you're unhappy, Jaemin."

Oh. "Then why didn't you break up with me first?"

"Why didn't you break up with me first?"

"I didn't–" Jaemin starts, suddenly frustrated, "I don't know, okay? I don't know."

"Do you want to know what I think?" Renjun asks, his voice softer now — or at least an attempt at it. Jaemin doesn't want to, really, but he's already here.

"What?"

He turns to Jaemin calmly, features schooled into a guarded expression. Renjun has always been methodical; this is not him trying to cause harm. This is him giving his final verdict. "I think it wouldn't have mattered to you if I was sweet or cruel, smart or dumb, hot or ugly. You didn't want to be alone."

"That's not… That's not true," he protests weakly.

"It is true. And I don't blame you for it, but," Renjun exhales gently. Once, twice. Again. "But I blame you — and I blame me — for letting that happen for so long. I guess I knew that it was going to fall apart and I wanted to go with it anyway. I didn’t… I thought we still had hope."

It's almost ironic. Jaemin's bottom lip itches to say something, anything — you didn't even try, I missed you, you didn't care, you were awful, you were beautiful, I hate you, I loved you, I wouldn't have done it again, I’m sorry. All he is left with, though, is emptiness; all he could muster for Renjun's burden was apathy.

Jaemin puts his ramen aside, folding his knees to his chest and resting his chin atop of them, grim all at sudden. For a second he just stares at the redundant green, blinking blearily, and nothing is said. There are many things that could’ve been done in this situation, but there are none that can be done now — the decay of love is most unnerving after its final stage. There is no point of return and what once was is clearly not anymore, sucked into a black hole somewhere, left dark and hollow. Jaemin opens his mouth once, twice, trying to muster something to say, but it’s a lot harder than it looks. Renjun’s gaze burns at the side of his face like death by a thousand cuts.

Jaemin wants to be angry, but he’s so very tired — he’s tried and tried and tried, he’s changed and tweaked every part of himself to fit in this relationship, and in the end it wasn’t enough. In the end, he can at least be relieved that this turbulence wasn’t forecasted; Jaemin couldn’t have changed it anyways.

“Were you unhappy?” Renjun asks, tentative. It’s so soft Jaemin almost misses it.

Yes. No. Not always. Occasionally. I liked to think your happiness mattered more. I liked to think we were both unhappy and deserving of it.

“No,” he answers, but that doesn’t feel right either. Renjun got something straight — Jaemin would’ve fallen in love with him regardless of his traits, but not because he didn’t want to be alone; rather, it was because at some point he had felt as if there was no use for him if not for giving, and he wanted to get it right so bad he got it wrong every time. He’d have run himself to the ground for about anyone if they asked it in the right tone. “Not always.”

Renjun hums. “Where are you going after this, hm?”

Jaemin exhales shakily. The sting of tears is real and everlasting, grief liquefied, and he can only manage out a watery laughter before saying, “Therapy, probably.”

“Let it go, Jaemin,” his no-longer-boyfriend kindly reprimands, “it wasn’t your fault. We were awful for each other.”

“We were,” he echoes, not trusting himself with any more words. There are so many things he wishes he could say, but Jaemin has never been a natural — all he does is try. “I’m sorry, anyways.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because,” Jaemin stifles a sniffle, blinking away unacceptably heavy tears. “I don’t know. I’m sorry things turned out this way. You — we didn’t deserve this.”

Renjun nods carefully. “We didn’t, but it’s okay. It happened anyways. We couldn’t have changed it. It’s okay, Jaemin. Let it go.”

“Okay.”

“Stop. Seriously. Let it go.”

He sniffles. “Okay.”

And that’s that. Renjun avoids his eyes to the grass, expression miles and miles away from all of this, and Jaemin tries to control his sore attempt at tears, pushing back stress-raking shudders that Renjun doesn’t comment on. In the end, everything is about this — about who tends to the crying and who doesn’t.

He leaves a few minutes after, drying out tears with the heels of his hands as he moves through the masses of people walking up his street for a convention, not one of them seeing more of his face than a mop of orange hair being hidden almost completely by his hood. Jaemin greets the bot at the entry with a grieved voice and doesn’t spare anyone else a second glance, slamming the door to his apartment closed as soon as he’s able to.

“Jisung,” he calls, kicking away his shoes and coat as if they had personally wronged him. “Cancel everything. If anyone reaches out tell them I’m dead. Delete any emails. Erase any trace of Renjun you can find.”

He hears Jisung’s wheels come alive and march towards him, but doesn’t open his eyes to look at it, too busy pressing his forehead to the cold wall in hopes of cooling down. “Jaemin?” he calls, small and careful, “Can you eat?”

Jaemin gives it a thought, and eventually settles for an unintentional snark, “Not now.”

“Okay. Do you want to rest?”

Another moment of consideration, “Yes.”

“Do you need me?”

Jaemin knows he doesn’t mean it like that — Jisung is simply trying to ask if Jaemin could find comfort in his presence, but that doesn’t stop the full-body flinch that goes through him at the memory of Do you want me? slipping from Mark’s lips. He coughs out: “No.”

“Do you need Yangyang or Hyunjin or your mom?”

“No.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

He sucks in a breath. “I’ll be fine.”

Jaemin can’t see him, but he knows Jisung is cocking his small mechanic head to the side petulantly regardless. “That’s not what I asked.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“I doubt so.”

“Just leave it,” he evades, shoulders slumping. “Leave it, Jisung. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

“Can I warn your friends?” Jisung insists.

Jaemin sighs. He knows Jisung wouldn’t do it without his consent, but the exhaustion that stings up his back is too much to bear. At last, he motions dismissively, which Jisung knows usually means ‘yes’. He crashes onto his bed face-first once more, allowing the mess of sheets and blankets to swallow him whole, and at some point is able to pass out, the exhaustion sinking in definitively on the space Renjun used to take up in his heart, now ten times smaller.

When he wakes up, groggy and unknowing of his surroundings, a kind hand is the first thing Jaemin can make out in the darkness of his room, its palm pressing against his forehead as if it had never touched anything this fragile before. “Hi,” Mark softly greets him, his voice so small it felt muffled by the overwhelming darkness, “you’re up. I thought you had come up with a fever, but you didn’t.”

Jaemin blinks blearily, dead silent. It takes him a few tries before his voice comes out, grossly hoarse due to the misuse, “You.”

“Yes,” Mark’s silhouette nods, too engulfed by the shadows for Jaemin to make out anything more than his eyes and his hand, a tether to reality Jaemin was hanging onto fiercely. “I’m here. Are you thirsty?”

He shakes his head. “I’m tired.”

“I know,” Mark agrees without a fight, “but you have to get up. You need food and water and you haven’t taken your pills today, either.”

Right. The hormone pills on his kitchen table Jaemin promised himself he’d take after getting home, which he clearly didn’t. “I don’t…” he fishes for words, suddenly blank.

“I know,” Mark draws out, as if he could read Jaemin’s mind, “and I know it’s hard. It doesn’t have to be now, but… At least soon. You’re gaining nothing from skipping meals. It can only do further harm, Betty.”

“Not now, but soon,” Jaemin repeats, as if in a promise.

Mark nods, still pressing his palm to Jaemin’s forehead and cheeks as though he was trying to soak up the heat for himself. It felt so pleasant to just stand there and be touched — like he’d been made real through Mark’s hands, and thus lovable, worthy, deserving. Without real demand to it, he asks quietly, “Stay?”

“I will,” Mark promises.

“No. Stay here. Fall asleep with me.”

“Jaemin.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, “we can just sleep. Nothing else.”

He doesn’t tell Mark that he needs this to feel human again, that touching and being touched is the only comfort Jaemin has nowadays, that for once he wants to fall into waiting arms and let himself be held up instead of leaned on. “Okay,” Mark eventually agrees, as if he could hear it in the silence anyways. Something in Jaemin’s chest shatters with relief.

Mark disappears for a second, presumably to kick off his coat, but carefully slips into Jaemin’s bed soon enough, the fabric of his sweatshirt brushing against Jaemin’s cold arms and raising up a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t realized he’d been this cold — his blanket had been kicked up to the corner and his sheets are not that thick to begin with, but Mark reaches for them anyways, allowing Jaemin to turn to face him as he engulfs him with the sheets. It’s pleasant and quiet in the dark, Mark’s hand sneaking to fix the collar of his oversized shirt, and Jaemin can fall asleep just to this.

“Is this okay?” Mark asks, not offering any context. Jaemin knows what he means — he’s asking if this intimacy is given on purpose rather than out of sadness, and is pleased with himself enough when he realizes that it is. He’d have done it regardless of today’s outcome.

Jaemin nods in the dark, reaching out to grab the front of Mark’s shirt in a quiet demand to stay. “Yes. Now sleep.”

He closes his eyes, allowing the stickiness of tenderness to swallow him whole, and falls asleep with much more ease this time, lulled by the sound of Mark’s breathing. It feels like his nap had lasted a blink when he woke up once again, this time without Mark by his side and with the bedroom window wide open, the bright stars Jaemin has known so intimately watching him back in curiosity. They’re beautiful, yes — but that’s not why Jaemin loves them.

He, himself, is not looking for beauty. Jaemin doesn’t want to be beautiful because being beautiful means — at some extent — being controlled, and it never comes for free. A man will love a beautiful painting but will never allow it to leave the commodity of his living room; a missionary will find the land beautiful but will slaughter its people anyways. To be found beautiful is to be owned, to be shown off, to be at the mercy of someone else’s devotion. Jaemin doesn’t know why anyone would want that.

But then Mark walks into the room, stretching out his arms in a long, drawn out yawn, and Jaemin loses that train of thought. He wants to call Mark beautiful and mean it — he wants Mark to call him beautiful and mean it.

“I’ve made dinner,” he confides to Jaemin with a beam, his hair matted flat on the side he slept on. Mindlessly, Jaemin twists the sheets in his hand, chasing away the thought of raking his fingers through Mark’s hair. “You can’t bribe me with a nap this time. Up, up we go. You have to eat.”

“What time is it?” Jaemin asks, ignoring Mark’s quiet orders.

“A little past eight,” he informs, rubbing sleepiness off of his eyes. Mark sits by the very end of the bed, his socked toes wiggling in Jaemin’s direction as he stretches his legs all the way. “I woke up, like, an hour ago. I think you fucked up my perfectly crafted sleep schedule.”

Jaemin fakes his annoyance, prodding at Mark’s shins with his foot. “The lady doth protest too much, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t,” Mark grins. He looks young and sweet now, face bare and round like the Moon. His cheeks look soft; his clothes look comfortable. Jaemin wants to fall into him and never return. “Do you feel better?”

He shrugs. “It’s so-so.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

Jaemin huffs, falling back into the bed. “I feel better.”

“Oh,” he hums, pleased, “good. Now, how do we feel about dinner?”

Jaemin groans, throwing a pillow in Mark’s direction. He laughs, “Okay, Jeez. Later, then. Your mom called.”

That gets his attention. He springs forward, leaning on his elbows to look at Mark, who’s still at the end of the bed like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing,” Mark shrugs, “Jisung took over the call. They seemed to have a lot of catching up to do.”

He groans again, “God, he’s snitching on me. He'll say you're here and she'll be on the next starship to Earth before we know."

Mark's eyebrows curve upwards in curiosity. "She doesn't like it when boys come over?" he asks, and Jaemin lets out a laugh.

"No, she's just curious. She loves romance. She wants me to get married soon."

Before Mark can say anything that contains the words "me", "you" and "marriage", Jaemin sits up to roll off bed and heads to his desk. He browses through it for an awfully long time — his room hasn't ever been the tidiest, and Jisung tends to mess things up naturally —, but soon enough he's able to find the portrait that Hyunjin gave him a few years before.

He sits back on the bed, scooting closer to Mark, and clicks on the portrait so it'll light up. It doesn't, so Jaemin gives it a good punch that earns him a surprised hum from Mark, and the screen comes alive in his hands. He swipes away a few embarrassing pictures from one of the few parties he went with Yangyang, hoping that Mark won't mind his drunk teenage times, and finds the one he'd been looking for, turning the portrait in Mark's direction so he'll see.

"This is my mom," he explains. "She's a Bioengineer and lives on the Moon with her girlfriend. They've been together for a few years now."

Mark motions for the portrait and Jaemin hands it to him, watching as he zooms in his mother's face. He knows what Mark will say before he does it. "You look just like her."

"As biological children often do," Jaemin points out. He swaps the picture in search of others — he has never curated the files in this portrait, and has to quickly pass by embarrassing pictures from college in hopes that Mark won't notice, but he does and doesn't comment on them, chuckling under his breath. Jaemin nudges him on the ribs for it. "This is from the last time I've been with her. I spent spring break up there once."

The Moon isn't all that different from Earth — there are far more plants than Jaemin would've expected, and his mother's home is lovely. There is nothing special about the picture per se, just the two of them sitting in a park, and still Mark analyses it with the fondest expression. Jaemin doesn't know what to do with him.

"I know this place," Mark tells him quietly, tapping the screen to zoom in a certain sculpture in the background. "I'd take Olivia here when we were younger. She liked to climb this when I wasn't looking. One time, she fell and busted her chin open on the pavement — my dad nearly passed out himself in the hospital when he saw her."

Jaemin widens his eyes. "That's horrible. Did it leave a scar?"

"Nothing leaves a scar when you're on the Moon," Mark shrugs. "But Olivia tried, many, many times. She was a pest. She climbed on everything and didn't care if I wasn't there to catch her. Good thing I was, most times."

Jaemin lets out a long hum as Mark swipes at the screen a couple of times. He doesn't have any siblings whatsoever — though Yangyang would be a close shot —, so he doesn't know what it's like. But Mark talks about his sister like she put the stars in the sky, like he'd ride the entire Milky Way just to see her, and Jaemin doesn't doubt that he's a good older brother. He nudges him on the ribs once more, this time to get Mark to look at him, and asks: "Tell me about your time on the Moon."

"I'll gladly tell you while we have dinner."

Though grimacing, Jaemin lets himself be pulled to his feet. Mark sets the portrait down on his desk carefully, his other hand curled around Jaemin's wrist, and he spends the entirety of the two minute walk to the kitchen looking at where their skins are touching. Mark’s wearing a colorful beaded bracelet with a large flower bead, pretty and soft around his wrists, and the image is imprinted so deeply on his brain Jaemin is sure he’ll never forget it. It's a pity that Mark has to let go of him as he coaxes Jaemin into sitting by the table so that he can fetch dinner for him.

It’s nice and it’s pleasant. Mark is not that great of a cook — which he doesn’t comment on — but he makes up for it in conversation, telling tales of the Moon and whatnot while Jaemin manages to eat, not just push meat around with his chopsticks. Distantly, he notices he never had any of these ingredients in his pantry; Mark probably dropped by the grocery store before he got here. Which leads him to the question: just why did Mark get here?

“Jisung invited me,” he answers when Jaemin asks, nonchalant, “said you were feeling unwell. I thought you were sick, but that wasn’t the case. It’s casual, though — bad mental health days can be just as awful as being physically sick.”

So he doesn’t know about Renjun. Biting down on his bottom lip, Jaemin suppresses a sigh, “It’s not… Something came up, that’s all.”

Mark nods in understanding. “I figured. You don’t have to tell me. Yangyang and Hyunjin dropped by, too, but they didn’t linger. You might want to give them a call later.”

Yangyang and Hyunjin must have pierced the facts together by now. That leaves Jaemin with two options for a truth — they were either waiting for him to reach out for help first, or they knew Mark would take care of Jaemin and trusted him enough to do it. One of these is a lot more terrifying than the other. “Tomorrow,” he dismisses Mark’s suggestion, pushing another piece of food around. “When are you leaving?”

Mark blinks in surprise. “Oh, I — if you want me to, I can leave right after this.”

Jaemin shakes his head. “No. Stay. Stay the night.”

“It’s Monday tomorrow,” he reminds Jaemin, but doesn’t deny his request. “Don’t you have work?”

“I’m calling in sick,” Jaemin hums, “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“But you want to see me.”

“Mhmm.”

Mark smiles at last, sharp and refreshing. “Then I’ll stay. Do you have any clothes I can borrow?”

“Mhmm.”

“And is this really okay?”

“Mhmm.”

He rolls his eyes. Somewhere deep inside, Jaemin admits to himself that, sometimes, he does these things just to see Mark’s fond exasperation seep through his eyes, silky and wrapping around his fingers like satin.

There used to be a time when nothing held Jaemin up other than his spine and his own thighs, but that was long ago — nowadays, Mark is there to steady him everywhere he looks. They wash dishes side by side, the soft hum of the TV distracting Jaemin from Mark’s hands so clear so close to his line of sight, while Jisung does his best to clean up the mess he made from pacing around the living room nervously. Jaemin doesn’t like overwhelming his system, but he didn’t ask Jisung to do it in the first place — he did it out of worry, which Jaemin couldn’t have really stopped him from doing.

Mark takes a quick shower and steps out of the bathroom wearing Jaemin’s largest cardigan, wavy hair damp and face flushed from the steam. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but Mark’s presence makes Jaemin get weaker by the second, his restraints loosening up at each careful smile, pliable and elastic. If he steals the towel from Mark’s hands to roughly dry his hair out with it, neither of them comment on it. If Jaemin leaves the bathroom door ajar to listen to the sound of Mark’s footsteps around the apartment as he showers himself, no one says anything. These unsaid communications pile up and shape something of their own.

There are many times where Jaemin has to settle back into the couch so as to not reach out a hand to touch Mark’s cheek, ear or shoulder, but there’s grace to this longing. There’s a sweetness to this restraint, the discipline needed to not throw everything out of the window and climb Mark’s lap like a lion, depositing in him all of the weight Jaemin has been too tired to carry lately. Suddenly and all at once, Jaemin is made very scared of what that could mean, but Mark had told him he was willing to put up with it, and he trusted Mark. Jaemin didn’t trust many things, but he trusted Mark.

When he curls up to Mark’s shoulder, quiet and unblinking as he trained his eyes to the television and kept them there, there was no fear of ugliness — no fear of being too much or too little, of being too raw or too damaged. It’s a timid sweetness, but such goodness makes Jaemin’s insides twist all the same, comfort settling on his shoulder blades. He still doesn’t want to be beautiful, but that’s only because, with Mark, being ugly is not a concern. Because regardless of who Jaemin is and what he believes in, all he can think of when he looks at him is: will you have me? Will you love me?

Mark rests his palm over Jaemin’s bent knee. Yes, yes, yes…

So it matters. Of course it matters. It matters when someone tends to the dying, when someone wipes the counter, when someone finishes the order, when someone picks up the trash, when someone reads to the children, when someone goes last, goes first, when someone says hello, says goodbye, gives credit, bides goodnight, resists temptation, waits at the yellow, tips the maid, steps up, stands down, offers a hand, chooses the small portion, comforts the grieving, touches the lonely. It all matters, and though most of what is known goes unsaid, it gives a clear message all the same: I see you. I like you. I want you. Take it for the irrevocable truth that it is.

Mark is nostalgia in reverse; the longing for yet another strange land. Jaemin closes the blinds this time, when they lay in bed.

➳♡゛

Mark lets out a tired sigh once he steps into the team's booth, his shoulder squeezed by one of Jaehyun's hands as the latter explains to him the changes he'll be doing to his car before the next Blackout. He's listening, but he's not really listening — he trusts Jaehyun with his life, quite literally as Jaehyun is his mechanic and the only person allowed near his car that isn't Mark himself —, his stomach growling and eyelids heavy.

The thrill of the race can only last for so long. He nods along to Jaehyun's words and rushes to the snack table, managing to shove a few bite-sized sandwiches inside his mouth before Jennie comes fetch him for a press conference.

"That'll be great, Jaehyun," he says, mouthful much to his friend's dismay. "I can't wait to see the new engine. When can I test it?"

Jaehyun taps a finger against his puffed out cheek. He is very handsome, which has earned him many, many articles on Naver gushing about Binary Star's heavenly looking mechanic, how he should be an actor instead. Mark is sure his boyfriend also thinks he's really sweet. "Monday? Sunday if you don't have anything better to do. I surely don't, when you guys are paying me so well."

He finishes it off with a playful nudge to Mark's ribs, and the latter lets out a laugh as he stocks a few more sandwiches in a plate. "Yeah, but I might be busy," he replies, and adds quietly: "You know any good places for a date? Somewhere with few people."

"I'll text you some suggestions," Jaehyun replies with a smile. "I'm glad to know you're going out, Mark. You seem really happy these days."

Mark waves it off, quite embarrassed, and Jaehyun excuses himself shortly to check up on Lisa's car before her race. Thing is, Jaehyun isn't the first person to point out how happy he looks recently — there was Donghyuck, of course, always in a teasing tone, and Olivia with her snarky remarks, "You need to wipe that smile off your face, you look dumber than usual," —, and Mark can't possibly control what happens to his reddening cheeks every time it happens. What the thought of Jaemin does to him is a force of nature on its own, and he never intended to fight against it in the first place.

They've been taking things slow, as slow as it can get. It doesn't matter because Mark would wait for him for a lifetime, would wait for him even if Jaemin doesn't come around. But he will. Mark knows he will, and that's why he's smiling when he wakes up, why he's singing songs in the shower, why he's stopping himself from buying flowers at every flower stand he passes by. You're being too much, Donghyuck had told him, you spend all of your money in silly bouquets; I'm starting to think being in love has started to rot your brain, Mark Lee.

"You did great today!" Jeno exclaims once he sits down by the couch, his own shirt covered with breadcrumbs. He looks like he just woke up from a nap, and Mark can't blame him. He puts his plate aside in order to clean up this big baby he calls a best friend. "Wow, thanks. Heejin was here, but she had to leave. Do you want to go to a party? I know a place."

Mark scrunches up his nose. "Not really, I'm tired," he replies, to which Jeno immediately pouts. Mark pats his cheek sympathetically. "Don't look at me like that. Invite your bandmates. Invite that Yangyang guy! You've been talking, no?"

"Oh, he invited me. And I asked him if Jaemin was coming or not, but he said he isn't. Your Betty isn't much of a party person — you've found yourself quite the house fairy."

It's useless to bite back his smile, and Jeno nudges him on the ribs repeatedly once he notices the look on Mark's face. He tried to invite Jaemin to more parties, but the latter really is the kind of person that enjoys going to bed early. And Mark would ditch a hundred parties just for him, if only to spend the night looking at Jaemin curled up on his sofa, a book on his lap.

"I know," he sighs dreamily. "I'm thinking of dropping by his crib after this."

Jeno raises his eyebrows as he steals one of Mark's snacks and shoves it inside his mouth before Mark can stop him, licking mayo from his thumb thoughtfully. "And you plan on dozing off on the guy in the middle of funny business, I see. You look like you'll drop dead any second. I'd be very mad."

"We're not—" Mark scoffs. "Jeno, we haven't even kissed yet. It's not like that and you know it."

Jeno does know it, and he's only saying it to get under Mark's skin after years of practice, judging by the dumb smile on his lips. Mark rolls his eyes, munching on a snack himself. It's not that he doesn't want to, he does — but he's not obsessed about it, they're taking things slow. When he comes over, he and Jaemin just lay in the dark, talking, listening, revelling in each other's presence. It doesn't matter that Mark's hands are shaking from holding back from him, he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Well, you should get a cab," Jeno suggests, his finger poking at Mark's cheek. "I don't want you driving while so sleepy. I can take your car."

Mark nods. "Thank you. You're a dear."

Jeno smiles happily because he knows. Mark lets himself mold to his side and lets out a long sigh — he could be here all night, if it wasn't for the press conference. He's been to a billion of those and it gets more boring each time, he dreads the moment Jennie walks into the room and motions for him to follow her.

But she does, and he follows her without a fuss, settling in front of a microphone and surrounded by rows and rows of expecting reporters with their recorders and their mini-cameras. The sight only is capable of making him grim and gloomy, but there’s not much he can do to escape this — the only way out is through, and so Mark is forced to endure their privy questions and calculated smiles. Not all of them are bad, he supposes; these people work just as hard as he does, and many of the things they do aren’t their own decision, but Mark can’t help but feel threatened all the same. They’re all waiting expectantly for the moment he’ll slip and fall from the top, because that’s how the world works, and that’s how much his head’s worth at the end of the day.

The first questions are tamer, easier to answer — how does it feel to lead the rankings? Great, thank you! — but they start to get personal soon enough, the murmur of different rumors creeping up his ears like a shadow and washing all over the room, the then-tame questions turning more and more pointed and sharp. Mark presses his lips into a thin line and tries to nod understandingly as this particularly apologetic reporter asks him about his rumored involvement with Taiwanese mechanic Chou Tzuyu, to whom Mark reminds that he has came out as gay two years ago and hasn’t changed his mind ever since.

That prods another question from a reporter a few rows closer to him, a small, middle-aged woman with a bob cut that asks him, in a quiet voice, if the rumors about him and Jeno being a couple — despite Heejin, who is rumoured to be a beard — have any fundament at all. “Jeno’s family has taken me into their home when I was very young,” he tells her, measuring his words carefully, “I am perpetually grateful for them. Jeno is a brother to me; his parents are like my own. The only relationship we have is that we are family.”

A handful of questions floods the room — ‘what about Jeon Heejin?’ ‘What can we expect from you in the future?’ ‘Will you be attending the Winter Congregation Banquet this year?’ ‘Do you plan on introducing future partners to the public?’ — before Mark feels his patience crumble completely, snapping like an elastic that has been tense for too long to ever return to its original form. Jennie notices it too, from where she’s watching in the aisle adjacent to his seat, and all she can do to stop him from saying something mouthy is motion dismissively in his direction.

“You see,” Mark starts, “whether there is someone in my life or not, I don’t feel like this is the room where I’d like to introduce him to the public. Actually, scratch that — since you want to know so badly, I’ll tell you right now: there is someone, and I would never, in a billion years, subject him to this.” He takes a sip from his bottle of water. “Come on, you people. This is inhumane. What am I? A caged animal? Give it a rest, because the only answer you’re going to get from all this prying is more secrecy. Maybe I’d tell you guys more if you were a little bit nicer to me. Have you ever thought of that? I leave you with that notion."

“And oh,” he says as if he had just gotten reminded, “please get better questions. This is getting boring. I’m a racer, not a dating show alumni. Treat me as such next time, won’t you? Goodbye now.”

Jennie offers him a tired sigh by the time they meet at the booth again, but doesn’t berate him any further. She’s used to him by now, and Mark did what he said he would when he signed with her, on their first meeting — he’d said that he would not be controlled or manipulated, and that it would be inutile to try. Mark doesn’t work with people who think they are better than him and doesn’t accept subordination as means to success; these were his conditions, and she knew. So, really, it’s her fault if she ever expected anything else.

The cab that drives him to Jaemin’s building is quick and sharp like the wind, and he unwinds from the adrenaline quite easily as Jaemin’s street makes itself known through the window. Tomorrow he’d hear an earful about this press conference, but he’s sure Jaemin wouldn’t know a thing about it, which makes the tense muscles of his stomach retreat considerably. There is something timid and sweet about watching the aftermath of his fame from another perspective — Mark knows the bright, shining lights of Blackout, but he never imagined he’d have such interest for the noir darkness in between them, and that’s where Jaemin lives. However bright this side is, there’s comfort in knowing someone is watching him from behind the cameras, able to see not just his light but also the shade it casts.

His elevator ride is quiet and pleasant. Mark hears the hum of the news with only half the mind to actually take them in, instead dissecting his recent thoughts with a more objective point of view. Jaemin is never mentioned on the radio, Jaemin is never noted in the news — what a waste. If fame meant anything alike to greatness, or at least measured someone’s worth, his face would be on every magazine until the end of times. Olivia would make fun of him if she knew what he was thinking, but she doesn’t; that’s a relief.

He knocks on the door softly, a tune his heart knows dearly. It’s a bit past three — Jaemin being awake is unlikely, but Jisung always hears, and they’d grown somewhat close enough that Mark knows he’d open the door if he called. When nothing happens, he knocks once again, this time louder and more insistent, until a small beep is heard from behind the door.

The beep gets louder and louder, quite like a siren, and Mark flinches at the sound, knowing Jaemin would get a noise complaint if Jisung didn’t stop soon. The door opens and red lights flare against his face, Jisung’s small carcass beeping louder as if to announce danger, and the only reason Mark doesn’t crouch down to his height is because he’s scared Jisung actually knows how to throw punches, and not just threaten to do it.

“Buddy,” he whispers, glancing from side to side in panic. “Buddy, it’s me. Hey, come on — Jisung. Jisung, shhh. Stop. It’s me. It’s Mark. Stop. Lose the cheek.”

Jisung beeps louder in protest. Mark jumps in surprise. “Jisung. Jaemin is going to get a noise complaint.”

“Why are you here?!”

“To visit Jaemin.”

“He’s asleep!”

“It’s just me! You’ve seen me sleep in Jaemin’s room a thousand times before!”

If Jisung could squint in suspicion, he would. “But this time there was no explicit consent. I can’t let you in if Jaemin doesn’t explicitly allow you in. Plus — he’s asleep! My duty is to protect. He is too vulnerable to protect himself right now. Come back tomorrow. Goodbye now.”

“Jisung!” He exclaims, putting his foot between the door and the doorway and not allowing it to be fully closed. Mark’s pleased to know Jaemin is this thoroughly protected and cared for, but that doesn’t ease his nerves — Jisung is still beeping loudly and Mark can’t argue with his logic. He sighs, “Can’t you ask Jaemin if I can get in, then?”

“Nonsense. He’s asleep. Come back tomorrow.” When Mark doesn’t relent, Jisung offers him a last warning, “I will break your foot.”

“Jaemin would be sad if you broke my foot.”

“He’ll understand.”

“Jisung?” a voice calls from somewhere deep into the apartment. Mark knows it’s Jaemin from how his heart stirs in interest all of a sudden, but doesn’t let the feeling linger — with how Jisung is pressing the door against his foot, he seems to be keen on his promise of breaking it. Mark can’t say he’s not impressed. “What are you doing?”

“Someone is trying to get in.”

“It’s not someone!” Mark insists, keeping his tone down, “It’s Mark. I just came here to cuddle—”

“Jisung,” Jaemin reprimands, his voice rough and sleepy, “what did I tell you? Mark can always come in unless stated otherwise.”

Jisung’s inner fan quickens in agitation. “You didn’t specify if that extended to the late night, too. You were in a vulnerable position.”

Mark hears Jaemin chuckle, low and bright like a tiny sun. “I’m awake now,” he hums, padding towards the door and holding it fully open again. Mark pulls his foot away almost immediately, and he watches as Jisung climbs up the ramp near Jaemin’s desk to watch him carefully. Jaemin smiles, “Hello. You look awful.”

“He does.”

“Hey,” Mark complains, pointing a finger in Jisung’s direction. “Can’t you at least be nice to me? I told you I’m not here to cause any harm.”

“I suppose,” is what Jisung limits himself to saying before wheeling away, disappearing into the mess that is Jaemin’s apartment.

“Sorry, it’s unusual that a man comes over this late,” Jaemin grins sheepishly, stepping aside to allow Mark in. He turns around as soon as Mark is standing in his living room, toying with the hem of his sleeping shirt — a ratty, oversized piece of clothing with a yellow bear stamped over it — quite nervously. “Cuddling, hm?”

Mark shrugs, already neatly organizing his boots and coat in the corner so as to not cause Jaemin any trouble. “As we do, yes, I’ve had a stressful day.”

Jaemin cocks his head to the side curiously. His face is all puffy from sleep, and his hair is a mess of knots and frizz that would be inutile to smooth over, though Mark does it anyway. Jaemin opens his mouth to answer, but seems to lose his train of thought as Mark rakes his fingers through the orange hair, seemingly pleased to just stand there and be the object of Mark’s affection. His eyes fall closed on routine, eyelashes stitching shadows on his cheeks, and Mark is, admittedly, hanging from a very thin thread.

A knock on the door surprises them both awake. Mark lets his hand fall as Jaemin inches for the door once more, Hyunjin standing with a baseball bat on her hands being the sight awaiting him from the other side. “Is everything okay?” she asks, alert but still clearly having been woken up out of nowhere. “Jisung texted me.”

The situation is so ridiculous Mark wants to burst into laughter, but Jaemin does it before he can, rubbing his eyes between giggles. “It’s alright. He was just being dramatic because Mark came over.”

“But it’s three in the morning.”

“I’m a grown adult, Hyunjin,” Jaemin reminds her, out of breath due to laughing so hard, “and even if I weren’t, what would you do? Beat him up for visiting me? That’s stupid.”

Hyunjin opens her mouth to answer, but it’s not long before Yangyang slides beside her on Jaemin’s doorstep, holding up a butter knife in one hand and a first aid kit in the other. “What happened? Are you okay? Jisung—”

“Yes, I know. Jisung texted you too, I assume.”

“Pack it up, Yang,” Hyunjin sighs, finally letting down her baseball bat. Yangyang’s glow-in-the-dark pajamas are incredibly bright; Mark has to look away. “It’s just Mark. He came over and Jisung freaked out.”

“Came over? But it’s three in the m— Oh.” Yangyang smacks his own forehead, almost stabbing his eye out with the butter knife. “Sorry, Jaemin. You keep on with your funny business, see, me and Hyunjin are on our way out, aren’t we?”

“Actually,” Hyunjin starts, but Yangyang is already dragging her away from Jaemin’s doorway, previous scare long forgotten as Jaemin closes the door for once and for all with a quiet chuckle.

Mark lets out the laugh he was holding in, settling on Jaemin’s couch. “They were very worried.”

Jaemin motions dismissively at him. “Jisung can be dramatic sometimes.”

“I like it,” he tells him, grinning, “it means you’re in good hands. He would’ve broken my foot if I didn’t back down.”

Jaemin eyes him up and down, unimpressed, and crosses his arms. “And you would’ve let him just to see if he’d do it. Typical jock,” he murmurs. They stare at each other a moment before Jaemin points towards his bedroom with his chin, a silent invite that Mark gladly accepted as he trailed behind.

"You should take a shower," Jaemin tells him, his figure moving through the room with familiarity as he picks up a pair of pyjamas and a towel for him. Mark wants to protest, but he knows he's not the cleanest after spending so much time driving; he almost falls asleep under the water, but the perspective of cuddling with Jaemin is capable of getting him through it without slipping on the floor and cracking his head open. It would be very embarrassing for him to do so.

Mark dries his hair with a towel lazily, watching as Jaemin tries to tidy his desk in the dark. He doesn't mind the mess, but Jaemin's room has a life of its own. More often than not you'd find Mark stumbling his way through it. Once he's done, Mark drapes the towel over a hanger in the bathroom and timidly slides under the covers, pulling them to his chin.

"Are you cold?" Jaemin asks, because he's an angel. Mark shakes his head negatively as he lifts the blanket so Jaemin can get under it, which he fortunately does.

At this point, Mark doesn't know how he managed to go through twenty one years of his life without reaching out for Jaemin. Everything that came before this is worthless. He curls a hand on the front of Jaemin's sleep shirt and pulls him closer until their breaths mingle — as it always is, Jaemin's fingers entangle in his, his big eyes watching Mark before he closes them, long eyelashes resting on his cheeks.

"Jaemin," Mark whispers. His eyes open once more. "Jaemin, I will try everything to keep you looking at me."

Jaemin lets out a hum. "I thought you were going to sleep. I'll look at you when we wake up."

Fair enough. Mark doesn't have it in himself to tell him he didn't mean it like that. Everybody and their mothers have their eyes on him all the time, but none of that has ever mattered. The only person whose attention Mark is interested in getting is lying in bed with him right now. He caresses Jaemin's knuckles one by one, as if to memorize the shape of his hands, and lets out the most pitiful sound when Jaemin shies away from his touch.

"Stop being a baby," Jaemin whispers, his fingers sliding into Mark's hair briefly, toying with the short strands at his nape.

Now with that Mark might be able to fall asleep, as long as Jaemin keeps touching him. But the latter inches closer just a bit, his hand now curled around the back of Mark's neck with intention, and it feels a bit like being trapped and a bit like being alive. It’s just the touch of a hand — Jaemin’s eyes are closed and have been for a good time, though he still seems to map out Mark’s body with ease, as if there was nothing new to discover.

Perhaps it’s best that he’s not staring straight into Mark, because that would be unnerving enough to make him shy away. With so many stares all over him at all times, being truly seen is always an event; Mark feels like a cornered animal, unwilling to die but too caught up to ever escape. It should flare all of his survival instincts, to be so putty on someone’s hands, but it doesn’t, because it’s Jaemin and he is an angel. The room is dark and the only thing Mark knows is the feeling of Jaemin’s fingers tightening and loosening on his nape, as if he was deciding on two equally hard options.

He understands this internal battle very well — it’s hard to stay close, it’s harder to stay away. This is the closest Mark has ever gotten to stepping down without showing any skin. It’s terrifying and freeing all at once; Jaemin has seen everything there is to see, and hasn’t shied away yet. “Stop overthinking,” Jaemin murmurs, eyes still firmly closed, “I can hear you thinking all the way from here.”

“Tune out.”

He smiles; long and cold. “No.”

“Then stop complaining about it,” Mark answers, willing his hands to stay where they are. “What are you doing?”

“Gathering courage. You?”

He sucks in a breath. “Waiting.”

Jaemin hums, “That’s what you do. So, so patient, aren’t we?”

“I am,” Mark easily hums back, “for you, always.”

Jaemin cracks an eye open, spying on Mark. His fingers tighten. “Do you mean it?” he clears his throat. “Do you mean what you say?”

“Of course,” he breathes out. They’re talking in whispers now — the room is so small. Mark’s life is so small. “You know I mean every word.”

He nods. Once, twice, another time. “Then I mean it, too,” Jaemin eventually confesses, curling his fingers tighter than they have ever been, forcing Mark to come impossibly closer. “I want you to stop waiting.”

“Huh?” Mark asks, because of course he’d have to ask. It feels too good to be true.

“Stop waiting,” he whispers. “I want to give you what you want. Kiss me.”

“Jaemin,” he murmurs a quiet reprimand. It’s not denial — it’s a warning.

“Kiss me,” Jaemin repeats.

And Mark does.

And Jaemin kisses him back. And when Mark does it once more, Jaemin keeps kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing him back, so that the only possible thing he could do is wrap his arm around Jaemin's waist to pull him even closer, until they're chest to chest.

It’s ‘I like you’ and ‘I want you’ and ‘Stop waiting’ and ‘Are you cold?’ all at once. It’s all the times Jaemin ran a mile more to make Mark feel happy, warm, comfortable; it’s all of those small pockets of joy that only awkwardly tender people can manage, with the shyness of someone who hasn’t been loved this much before and is trying to improvise. To even be here at all is to be trusted into Jaemin’s home, into Jaemin’s bed, into Jaemin’s life — Mark is simultaneously taking a deep breath and gasping for air, if that’s possible.

It’s about calling someone beautiful and meaning it; saying ‘I love you’ and meaning it; about waiting at the door, saving Jaemin a seat, bringing him food, giving him space, offering him comforting words, simply standing there when he needs Mark to. He’s not just happy about being kissed — he’s happy about deserving it, too.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he breathes into the tender skin of Jaemin’s cheeks, panting.

Jaemin pinches his nape. “Shut up.”

“I mean it.” Mark nuzzles the very end of his jawline, grasping at whatever skin he could find. At some point Jaemin’s hand leaves the back of his neck to gently encircle his wrists, keeping them between their chests, engulfed by Jaemin’s hands.

“Shut up, Mark,” he repeats himself, no real malice to his tone. Jaemin reaches closer to kiss Mark again, a quick peck that meant he really needed Mark to just be quiet. “Shut up. Be still and be quiet. I can’t take it when you say those things.”

“Because you know I mean them.”

Jaemin hums softly. “Because I know you mean them.” He reaches a hand from their tangled wrists to tuck a stray hair behind Mark’s ear, fingers delicately cascading down the side of his head and saying all the things Jaemin couldn’t bring himself to say yet. “Go to sleep, Mark. I’ll still be here when you wake up and you can oggle to your heart’s desire.”

“Are you concerned about my sleep schedule?” Mark asks, drowsy enough for it to come out almost unintelligible, though he doubts Jaemin wouldn’t understand it either way. He always does, when it’s with Mark.

Jaemin presses his lips to Mark’s forehead for a long second, and promises: “Yes. Sleep. I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

He kisses Mark’s forehead once more, just to be sure. “Promise. Sleep.”

Mark closes his eyes, allowing Jaemin to bring him closer and closer, until his forehead rested somewhat awkwardly over his collarbones, though Mark did not pull away. Though Mark would never pull away.

He knows Jaemin needs this secrecy, knows he couldn’t take looking into Mark’s eyes right now, and he knows that it’ll eventually be easier for him to understand that Mark means every word he says, however overdramatic they seem. He’ll come around, and Mark will be more than glad to wait for when that day comes.

For good measure, Jaemin creeps a hand up his back and scratches gently, lulling him into easy, comfortable sleep. Sometimes things are easy like that.

➳♡゛

"Mr. Min, Mr. Min," one of the children tug at his pants, eyes this big looking at him. "I think there are princesses at the door."

Jaemin laughs softly as he collects the last of the assignments from Eunbi's small hands, looking down at Eunsang briefly before he begins counting the paper sheets in his hands. "Princess, you say?" he muses. "What do they look like?"

Jaejoon tugs at his pants once more. "Mr. Min, look."

Assignments forgotten for a moment, Jaemin looks up at the door not knowing what to expect. His students are often too imaginative anyway, and he wonders which of the parents waiting outside Eunsang is referring to when he spots a duo that differs from the rest.

One of the girls, the one with long and fluffy blonde hair, waves at him and Jaemin waves back, unsure as to where they have met before, and then the girl points at the far back of the classroom. Jaemin follows her motion and finds Youngjae rushing to put away his material, big purple backpack already hanging from his small shoulders, and Jaemin lets out a hum before walking towards the boy. He crouches down to his height and says: "Is someone else going to pick you up today, Youngjae?"

"Yes!" he exclaims, seeming very happy that Jaemin asked. He taps him on the shoulder and points at the window. "That's my sister, Chaewon, and that's her—" he leans in to say: "—girlfriend! But she thinks I didn't notice that she likes Olivia."

"Is that so?" Jaemin chuckles, tucking the stack of assignments under his arm so he can help Youngjae organize his pencils and crayons. "Why don't we finish this and meet them?"

Youngjae nods excitedly, and Jaemin looks back to see the helping bots assisting the other children like they always do. He doesn’t have favorites — legally, he’s not allowed to — but he always finds himself orbiting around Youngjae anyways, given his natural inclination to sticky situations and big messes. Of course, many kids are a bit on the clumsier side, but Youngjae is far gone into that side of the spectrum; Jaemin has learned his lesson when, once, the poor kid managed to scratch himself with his own scissors by simply bumping into them one too many times. He’s not taking any more chances.

When every single colored pencil and glitter gel pen is neatly tucked into his backpack, Jaemin leads Youngjae to where his sister — Chaewon, is it? — stood, a round smile on her lips and thousand or so little strawberries printed all over her dress. She is a stark contrast to her alleged girlfriend, with dark makeup and far too many chains around her neck. This one looks at Jaemin with a bored expression, bordering on annoyed, until her quite familiar black eyes double in size, her hand coming up to squeeze at Chaewon's arm.

"Hello?" he tries out, puzzled. "I'm Jaemin, Youngjae's teacher."

Olivia leans into the other girl's side, whispering loudly. "Dude, it's him. It's literally the guy. Act casual. Fuck."

"Wait, what?" Chaewon replies. The both of them promptly ignore him. "No. No way. Seriously? What the hell."

Before Jaemin can ask, most lovingly, what the fuck is going on, Chaewon turns to him with a bright smile and a hand laid out for him to shake. "Hi! I'm Youngjae's sister. He talks very highly of you. This is—"

"Olivia," the other completes. "You're not even as tall as he says. No offense, though."

Jaemin frowns as he shakes Chaewon's hand. "Excuse me?"

As Youngjae walks straight into his sister's arms, Olivia raises a neatly done eyebrow, and the act is way too familiar for him. Once she realizes he's not following, she extends a hand out to Jaemin, a colorful beaded bracelet with a large flower bead dangling from her wrist. He pierces it together before she says it, but Olivia still clears her throat and announces: "Mark's little sister, yes. You must be the boyfriend."

Chaewon nudges her on the side. She adds: "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," Jaemin replies as he takes her hand. Olivia has an iron grip, too much for a teenager. "We're— I mean, I am not—"

“Save the existential crisis, won’t you?” she smiles, and Chaewon nudges on her side again, this time harsher. “Jesus, love, he’s a grown man. He won’t take offense.”

Jaemin smiles anyways, if a bit unsure. From what Mark told him about Olivia, it’s clear that she has quite the smart mouth, just like her brother. “It’s like looking right into Mark’s face,” he hums with no bite to it, taking his hand away to run a hand through his hair — a nervous habit, but she doesn’t know that. “It’s very nice to finally know you, Olivia. I’ve heard a lot of things. Mark’s crazy about you.”

She hums. "That's not very reassuring, but thank you. He's crazy about you, too. Don't tell him I said that."

“I won’t tell if you don’t tell,” his grin turns sheepish. He didn't expect to meet Mark's sister like this, he's unprepared; Jaemin is great with children, but not grown ones. And Olivia is intimidating at best, and not because of the heavy makeup.

Fortunately, the awkward situation doesn't drag any further, as Youngjae starts tugging at his sister's dress demanding for lunch. Jaemin watches with fond eyes as Olivia gets his bag and Chaewon picks him up on her arms. The blonde then turns to Jaemin with a kind smile, Youngjae waving at him excitedly. "See you around, Mr. Min!" he exclaims.

He smiles: "See you, Youngjae. Have a good day, all of you."

Chaewon smiles even brighter, squishing her cheek to her brother’s. “Thank you! You, too. Get some rest.”

“Oh, I have more classes to teach today,” Jaemin tells her, breezy and lightheaded, “but you too. This one, especially, given how much he did today. Good job, Youngjae.”

Youngjae squeals. Distantly, Jaemin shoos away the thought of having a child of his own — he’s too young, thank you very much. They wave as they leave, an odd-looking group of two contrastingly bright and dark teenagers with a small child between them, excitedly running his mouth about everything and nothing in particular. Jaemin watches fondly for a second or two before he turns around to meet other lingering parents and their children.

He calls Mark at the teacher’s lounge when all of the other teachers have gone on their respective ways, his untouched lunch staring back at him. Mark made it for him — that is, Mark bought the food from a convenience store and placed it in a lunch bag with a Twix bar and a weirdly drawn giraffe post-it stuck to it. Ever since his mother left for the Moon and Yangyang finally got the hang of delivery, Jaemin hasn’t gotten a homemade lunch in… Well, in forever. Mark didn’t even cook it, but the act makes him feel touched all the same, if only because he cared enough to do it in the first place.

“Hey, Betty.” Mark’s voice and glitching hologram appear in front of him, projected over his table. He’s — in bed. A quick look at the clock tells Jaemin it’s a bit past two in the afternoon, but he supposes he can’t blame Mark for his laziness; Blackout is very exhaustive, too. And he does it every week. “Did you like the food I got you? I was just thinking that maybe I should’ve gone with something easier to pack, like rice and meat. Well, let me know, alright? I could try and cook your lunch for you but I don’t think you’d want food poisoning this early in the day.”

Jaemin huffs, finally taking his first forkful of food, if only to keep himself from saying something stupid like ‘how do you exist?’, ‘you’re the best’ or anything of the likes. “I like it,” he informs Mark with exaggerated motions, “but you don’t have to do it every day. You’re going to go bankrupt.”

Mark motions dismissively, burrowing further into his comforter. “If I do, I’ll use the company’s credit card. What are they going to do? Fire me?”

“Don’t say stupid things.” Jaemin shakes his head in exasperation, though it’s fondly. He pushes around a piece of cabbage for a few seconds before saying, “I met Olivia today.”

By instinct, Mark freezes. “God, no. No, no, no. What did she say? Olivia’s on her one man mission of ruining my life. Listen, I promise you that I’m not that embarrass—”

Jaemin chuckles, motioning dismissively. “Lose the cheek, you. She just said hi because her friend, Chaewon, is the sister of one of my students. Crazy, right?”

“Her girlfriend, Chaewon, you mean?” Mark grins, his agitation from earlier long forgotten. “She’s a sweetheart. I didn’t know she had a younger brother, though; what’s his name?”

“Youngjae,” he tells, “he’s this very small kid with eyes this big.” Jaemin widens his eyes to make a point, but settles back once he realizes he probably looks crazy. As if on knee-jerk reaction, Mark widens his eyes back. His eyes, too, are ridiculously round and big. “Well, and he’s one of my smartest students. But they’re all smart, really. It’s crazy how smart kids are these days.”

“With you as their teacher, it’s a given, Betty,” he grins again, this time bashfully. Jaemin points a plastic fork in his direction, and Mark raises his arms in surrender even if they’re miles away. “Hey, no homicidal thoughts at the lunch table. You need to eat better.”

Gruff, Jaemin resumes stabbing vegetables with his plastic fork. He much preferred chopsticks, but he’s too lazy to find a pair on his bag. “I didn’t realize I signed up for a mother hen rather than a—” he stops himself before he says it.

Mark raises an eyebrow, amused. “Rather than a what?”

“Don’t be cheeky,” Jaemin reprimands, “and if anything, you tell me. Olivia recognized me as ‘the boyfriend’.”

It takes Mark a second to find a good answer to that. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” he confesses easily, “it doesn’t bother me.”

Mark smiles. “Then I mean it. It’s easier than introducing you as ‘my Betty’.”

Jaemin grumbles, “I suppose. But I’m onto you, Mark Lee.”

“Oh, please be onto me more oft—”

“Shut up!” he interrupts, looking around as if anyone had heard that. “God, I’m going to kill you.”

“I understand,” Mark muses out, “just give me a second to be prepared for it. ”

“I won’t. You’ll never be prepared.”

“Is that so?”

Jaemin grits his teeth. “Yes. I’ll hit you where it hurts. They’ll never know what happened.”

“I see,” he hums, “do you plan on hiding my body or hosting a funeral? I’d like to be buried near the Han River, I’ll let you know. And I’m an organ donor, too, see — everything will be gone either to science or to public hospitals. Remember that.”

“You’re impossible.”

Mark offers him a thumb-up. “I know. It’s my charm.”

“It is,” Jaemin gruffly agrees, maybe more than he’d like to. He changes the subject, “What are you doing today?”

“The same as always, Jaemin. I am going to laze around the entire day then visit you when you get off school. Oh,” he interrupts himself, “but today I’ll grab dinner with Jeno, I think. You wanna come, Betty?”

“Maybe,” Jaemin breathes out, which means yes in his personal language. “Should I dress fancy?”

Mark shakes his head leisurely. “Nah. Jeno will outstage all of us regardless. Plus — not good to draw so much attention, Betty. You wouldn’t want to lose me to the fans, would you?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m considering it and I don’t think it sounds so bad.”

“You wound me, Jaemin,” Mark whines, “I’m starting to think we’re enemies with benefits.”

“No,” Jaemin corrects him, “I mean — didn't you just say I was your boyfriend? Keep to your word.”

Mark rubs his eyes, hiding a smile behind his fists. “I did say that.”

“Then mean it,” he mumbles, pointing the plastic fork to Mark’s hologram image once again. Jaemin misses him most at times like these, when the only glimpse of Mark he has is through his phone and he still has hours of work to do. “I have to go. I have a class in ten minutes. Will you—”

“Yes, Betty,” Mark laughs, falling back on his pillows. Jaemin wishes for nothing more than to be where he is, touching and being touched, but duty calls. “I will pick you up. Seven’s casual?”

“Yes,” Jaemin tells him, reaching out to turn off the call. “I’ll check you later.”

“You bet!”

And then his image disappears, and the room gets ten times colder.

As always, Jaemin takes a moment to revel in Mark’s absence, quietly noticing the rising disappointment that follows it right after and the enticing contrast of when he’s here and when he’s not. It’s hard enough to admit to himself that he’s this far gone, but something else creeps up his spine; an icy fear Jaemin has to shake away. Mark had said he wanted Jaemin, and he never did anything to make him believe otherwise. He had said he wanted Jaemin and he kept wanting him, even when Jaemin couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t want him back. There is nothing to fear. This is his to keep.

And to lose, an unhelpful voice reminds him. Jaemin gives it a few seconds before he chases it away like he would a particularly inconvenient mosquito.

Jeno is in the backseat of Mark’s car when Jaemin first steps into it, and though he didn’t look all that pleased about it, he waved Jaemin an excited hello, a toothy grin on his face. Mark was right — nothing Jaemin could’ve worn would outstage Jeno’s bright red jacket and sharp white makeup, forming clear lines along the corner of his eyes. More often than not Jeno looks like the type of person you see on magazine editorials, but Jaemin understands and respects the sharpness underneath his white-lace goodwill. He’s learned about Jeno for one of his media classes, years ago; his power moves and sneaky scandals, all of the things he’s said and done when no one was looking, the fights he’d instigate to call off rumours about Mark.

Jaemin respected him for much more than just his softness. He’d never say it out loud, but Jeno probably knew — he was never not watching, anyways. “Hello, Jaemin, how are you?” he belts cheerfully, leaning against Mark’s armrest to take a good look at Jaemin. “Oh, aren’t you two the cutest couple of the year.”

“I’m doing alright, what about you?” Jaemin answers, fixing his seatbelt — Mark’s explicit orders — and promptly ignoring Jeno’s last comment.

“Well, you know,” Jeno distracts himself with saying, “a little dark, a little gloomy, a little not. Been working hard on our new EP, I’ll let you know. It’s going to be radical. We’re experimenting with synths.”

Jaemin hums in interest, allowing Mark to offer his greeting by pecking his cheek, once, twice. “That sounds nice. Yangyang’s been really happy about working with you. It’s his first gig as a producer, so you must imagine how off the rails he’s been. I mean,” he stops to peel Mark’s lips away from him with a giggle, pushing him back to the driver’s seat. “I mean, I can barely get him out of the studio to eat. Give me my best friend back, will you?’

Jeno smiles. “Only if you give me mine back.”

Mark makes an offended sound. Jaemin pretends to consider the request before breaking into a grin, “Deal.”

“Excuse me,” Mark complains, starting the car. “I am not a thing to be given back. There will be no give-backs. Jaemin, I’ve only been your boyfriend for, like, two days. You’re being mean.”

Jaemin laughs, leaning against his head rest. “I’m not giving you back because you don’t come with a receipt.”

“Oh, in that case—”

“Jeno,” Mark whines, “I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”

Jeno lets out a laugh, loud and bright and contrasting with the darkness of the night. Mark leads them through Seoul with the ease of someone who owns the city, and when his hand timidly goes to rest over Jaemin's, something in his heart resigns with familiarity, the stutter of his heartbeat spelling out of course.

Jaemin could get used to this.

➳♡゛

The Prince and The Pauper: Everything about Mark Lee’s new affair.

On the night of Lee Jeno’s — frontman to The Killjoys and son of Eclipse Ent. CEO — welcome home party, racer Mark Lee has been spotted climbing up the roof with a mysterious orange-haired commoner to one of the many stargazing booths available for the guests. Reports say they spent the rest of the party together and away from other guests, keeping to themselves and doing God-knows-what, though fellow guests claim that they had been “acting intimate’ throughout the night.

A close informer tells our staff that the orange-haired man that managed to snatch Mark Lee’s heart is, in fact, a preschool teacher whose only information available is his first name; Jaemin. Three other Jaemins from the Seoul district claim to have received emails from none other than Mark Lee’s bot asking about their last meeting, which led us to believe Mark Lee was the one who initiated the chasing, and that it had been love at first sight.

Jaemin has been spotted with Mark a few more times since then — at a Italian restaurant with the racer and Lee Jeno, hand in hand with Mark on a lunar park for what we believe to be an anniversary trip to the Moon, in matching suits at Lee Jeno’s and Jeon Heejin’s wedding. All in all, Mark Lee’s new boyfriend is not a big fan of appearing to the public, though he has no reservations when it comes to showing public affection towards Mark, as seen in the pictures shown under the cut.

With a new season of Blackout coming up and the slow but sure approach of the Winter Olympics of 3000, will Mark Lee’s entanglement with the mysterious man hinder his career? When questioned about it, Mark seemed adamant in his refusal, claiming he will remain at the top of the industry until someone worth his time takes him out. Despite having been reached out to by our staff, Jaemin did not offer any answers to our questions.

[+126, -10] ‘The Prince and the Pauper’ ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ Mark Lee will flip the f*ck out when he sees this.

[+78, -3] At this point, isn’t his boyfriend a celebrity too? There are Pann posts about his looks ㅋㅋ there is no need to call him a commoner

[+45, -9] Mark Lee is not a kid without a brain. If he’s been ‘caught’, he wanted to be public about this relationship in the first place. He’s got the same media training as Lee Jeno, but not the same temper

[-67, +32] fans who are angry at this should just leave the fandom~ we don’t need you here~ he is a racer, not your boyfriend ㅋㅋ fans are getting too comfortable these days

[+20, -2] ㅠㅠ Truly a shame. Even so, I hope they are happy