#sorry sorry brain is still soup from the end of year crunch at work. also i took my meds way too late today so it's extra soupy now
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
elkkiel Ā· 1 month ago
Text
hi!!!!!! hello eepy gift exchangers!!!!! I'm so sorry, the check-in today totally fell off my radar and I didn't reach out to any of you (in my group lol. Nina is wonderful and on the ball as per usual šŸ©·šŸ©·)
I'll reach out tomorrow to see how things are going :3 Also, for the AO3 authors, we'll have the collection ready to go as well + will provide the link!
9 notes Ā· View notes
sisterspooky1013 Ā· 3 years ago
Text
Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 4
Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic
Finally, after fifteen minutes of staring at her mostly full coffee cup, Mulder tosses both their drinks in the trash and trudges back to the Hoover building. He had plans to work late, but seeing Scully makes focusing on work impossible so he goes home to lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling instead, replaying their one-sided conversation over and over. Upon reflection, he realizes that he didnā€™t speak a single word to her other than her name. He was paralyzed, his feelings for her in direct conflict with his desire to never again feel the way he felt after she left his apartment that final time. He wishes that heā€™d asked her what she wanted from him, why she was there.
The phone rings and he rolls off the couch to retrieve it from his desk.
ā€œHello?ā€
ā€œWill, Iā€™m surprised youā€™re home. I was expecting to leave you a message.ā€
He smiles at the coincidence of Valerie calling him at this exact moment; she always seems to intuit when he needs to hear from her. Like he does with everyone, he had directed her to call him by his last name when they met. She did so for a while, but when things took a turn towards the intimate she informed him that she could not call a man she was sleeping with ā€œMulderā€ and sought to find an alternate moniker, Fox being out of the question. He was Maverick for a bit, then Sly, and for a brief moment Doug (he was never clear on the origin of that one). Ultimately, she went with his middle name, William, and finally shortened it to Will.
ā€œOh, and whyā€™s that? My bustling social calendar?ā€ he retorts, finding his way back to the couch and sitting heavily.
Valerie snorts. ā€œMore like your hopeless addiction to work. How are you? Itā€™s been too long.ā€
Mulder sighs. ā€œIā€™m...okay.ā€
ā€œThat bad, huh? You wanna talk about it?ā€
He considers the question. Talking to his ex-girlfriend about another woman seems a bit uncouth. ā€œIā€™m not sure itā€™s something youā€™d want to weigh in on.ā€
ā€œGirl trouble, then?ā€ she says with a smile in her voice.
ā€œSomething like that, yeah.ā€
ā€œSpill it,ā€ she demands.
He tells her everything, about meeting Scully, about getting to know her, falling in love with her. He spares some of the gory details on their sexual encounter and her visit the next morning. He finishes on seeing her that day, and the reason he begged off work early. This is the most heā€™s shared with anyone about Scully, The Gunmen being great friends, but not the sort you seek dating advice from. It feels good to get it all out.
ā€œDamn, Will. Thatā€™s a lot. Shouldnā€™t you be happy, though, after seeing her today?ā€ He can hear the crunch of potato chips as she speaks, ever the dedicated snacker.
ā€œIt was good to see her in a sense, but it also feels a bit like a step backward. Like Iā€™ve lost progress in the effort to move on.ā€ Heā€™s lying down now, one leg kicked over to rest on the coffee table and Priscilla curled up on his belly.
ā€œI donā€™t get it,ā€ Valerie says deadpan.
ā€œWhat do you mean?ā€ he asks.
ā€œYouā€™ve been pining over this woman for the better part of a year, and she turns up to tell you sheā€™s single and she realizes that she should have chosen you all along. Thatā€™s somewhat of a fairy tale ending, is it not? Aside from the whole cheating-on-her-fiancĆ©-part, I guess.ā€
ā€œNo, Val, she said that getting involved with me was a mistake, which I already knew. If anything she was rubbing it in, which seems uncharacteristically cruel.ā€ He runs a hand down Priscillaā€™s back and she cracks an irritated eye at him until he stops.
ā€œOh my god, Will,ā€ Valerie replies, pulling the phone away from her cheek and sighing in exasperation. ā€œYou know, for all that fancy education your parents paid for, youā€™re really dense sometimes.ā€
ā€œWell then by all means, enlighten me.ā€
ā€œShe said she ignored the signs and made the wrong choice. Sheā€™s divorced now. The marriage was the wrong choice, you dolt. That other guy was the wrong choice. The signs were telling her you were the right one.ā€
Mulder sits up suddenly, Priscilla clinging to his chest in a last-ditch attempt not to get dumped on the floor and piercing his skin painfully. She ends up on the couch beside him.
ā€œHow sure are you about that?ā€ he asks, his heart starting to race.
ā€œPretty damn sure. The way you describe her, she sounds like a thoughtful person. I donā€™t see what motivation sheā€™d have to reiterate to you that what happened was a mistake; sheā€™d already made that clear in the first go-round. The only reason sheā€™d want to say all that to you is if she realized she was wrong. She wanted to set the record straight, and apologize. Not for what happened with you, but for choosing the other guy.ā€ He can hear the slurp of her eating something like soup in between sentences, the wet smacks making this revelation sound like an offhand comment.
Heā€™s quiet for a long moment, replaying his interaction with Scully today through the lense of her wishing sheā€™d walked away from Ethan, that sheā€™d chosen him. He closes his eyes. Does he dare hope that Valerie is right?
ā€œYou still there, Will?ā€ she asks impatiently.
ā€œYeah, yeah Iā€™m here. Iā€™m just...trying to wrap my head around all this.ā€
ā€œWell, I gotta run, so hopefully you can do your ruminating solo. I didnā€™t even get to tell you the reason I called.ā€ He can hear her up and moving about, opening and closing drawers and cupboards.
ā€œShit, youā€™re right. Sorry. Whatā€™s up?ā€
ā€œIā€™m pregnant,ā€ she says, and then waits a beat before adding ā€œitā€™s not yours, if thatā€™s where your brain is going. We havenā€™t slept together in almost two years, you may recall.ā€
ā€œUh, yeah...yeah I do recall that seeing as I havenā€™t slept with anyone in almost two years. Are you...should I be offering congratulations? This is a good thing?ā€ Heā€™s hesitant, unsure if theyā€™ve reached a stage of life where a pregnancy is happy news.
ā€œYeah, itā€™s a good thing. Iā€™ve been seeing this guy for a little over six months. It wasnā€™t planned, but weā€™re excited. The relationship is still pretty new, obviously, but I think I can see myself growing old on a porch swing with him.ā€ Thereā€™s a smile in her voice, a dreamy contentedness that makes his chest ache. Itā€™s the reason they broke up, so they might each have a chance at something like this. He hopes heā€™ll have his chance too.
ā€œThatā€™s great, Val. Iā€™m happy for you,ā€ he says with a tight voice.
ā€œThanks, Will. Sounds like you found your person, too. You just gotta go out and get her.ā€
ā€œYeah, I guess I do.ā€
ā€œWhat does she call you, by the way?ā€
ā€œShe calls me Mulder.ā€
Valerie laughs softly. ā€œMust be fate.ā€
ā€”ā€”ā€”
The days since seeing Mulder have been dreary, both in terms of the weather and her mood. She has already lectured Missy repeatedly over her terrible advice to see him again, opening up fresh wounds and sealing shut doors that she had previously held out hope might open again. The morose look on his face as she admitted that she wished sheā€™d chosen him was a kick to the gut. It was too late, far too late, and he wasnā€™t able to forgive her. Though itā€™s what she knows she deserves, it still hurts.
She sits in the clean and quiet autopsy bay, filling out paperwork that she tends to reserve for the end of her days. Sheā€™s been working more overtime lately, in no rush to return to an empty apartment and be alone with her thoughts and self recrimination. The idea of dating seems obscene, and yet she can admit that sheā€™s lonely. But not lonely for just anyone; she wants only the one person she knows she will never have.
ā€œExcuse me,ā€ calls out a smooth baritone from behind her, and she turns on her stool to see Mulder there. His charcoal grey suit and white dress shirt stand in contrast against his red tie, one hand in his pocket in an attempt to be casual. The cool bravado she saw in him before is absent, replaced with something vulnerable and raw. She feels adrenaline rush through her limbic system, stealing from her the ability to speak.
ā€œIā€™m looking for the pathologist on duty,ā€ he continues, and she feels a rock in her gut. He had to come here for work, and see her again. She feels guilty for existing in a space that he is forced to enter.
ā€œIā€™m the pathologist on duty,ā€ she responds regretfully.
He approaches her cautiously, taking the stool beside her without invitation, and considers her for a moment. With a look of trepidation, he holds out his hand and she gives him a quizzical look.
ā€œFox Mulder,ā€ he says, his green eyes so earnest and open. There is no anger, no resentment.
ā€œDana Scully,ā€ she replies, her voice catching as she understands, slipping her hand into his.
They are starting over. A clean slate. A new chance to get it right.
ā€œYou donā€™t look like a Dana,ā€ he says, and thereā€™s just a hint of playfulness in his voice.
She laughs, her mouth smiling while her eyes glaze over with tears. Their hands still clasped, he pulls her close, her stool rolling into the space between his knees as he wraps his arms around her shoulders. She should be embarrassed by this unprofessional display out in the open, but the only feeling she can muster is relief at the smell of his cologne and the press of his chest into her cheek. How many nights has she mourned the loss of this? Hundreds. Perhaps last night will be the final time.
ā€œWould you like to get coffee with me?ā€ he asks against her hair and she laughs again, nodding as her cheek brushes his shoulder. ā€œAre you free now?ā€ he adds.
She pulls back and looks at him, his eyes shining back at her with hope theyā€™d both given up on.
ā€œYes, Iā€™m free,ā€ she answers.
46 notes Ā· View notes
7fics Ā· 8 years ago
Note
Can I request a markjae wherein can I request a markjae wherein markjae: youngjae is a tourist who just arrived in los angeles and mark is the random skateboard guy he met and they would eventually develop feelings despite of language barriers. fluff :) thank you!
Warnings: swearing, mentions of suicide, probably rated pg-13
Author: Mia
Word Count: 5.5k+
A/N: So sorry for this completely veering away from the prompt because Youngjae speaks very fluent English and heā€™s also a catboy??? for reasons unknown. And also Angst alert. But thereā€™s some fluff as well so I hope that makes up for it. :3
august nights in los angeles are the reason why mark hasnā€™t moved down to chicago like tyler is always pressuring him to. sure, he misses his best friend of over six years and would like nothing more than to kick it with him on the daily. but itā€™s the warm breeze blowing across his front porch, tickling the leaves and making them rustle, the taps and crunch of his penny board rutting over smooth sidewalk, and the umami smell that always hits him in the face when he rolls past tjā€™s skinny dump, the best place for chinese-korean fusion this side of seventh street, that anchors him here. he wouldnā€™t trade this feeling, the feeling of waking up to home and going asleep to home and being home, for anything in the world.
he usually takes a quick ride after a heavy night of studying to drain the caffeine from his system and wind down enough to get some type of quality of sleep. good or bad, thatā€™s up to the tides and the moon and black magic because itā€™s finals week and rest comes around in short, clumsy spurts when the exhaustion finally does his ass in.
mark hits up his neighborhood convenience store for some ramen and monster, truly staples of his diet. he microwaves the ramen in some water and stirs in the soup packet, stuffing noodles in his mouth with some chopsticks as he gurgles out a goodbye to the storeā€™s owner mr. den, a wrinkled vietnamese man of sixty-two with a drinking problem and swearing addiction. nevertheless, mr. den fixes his green polo shirt with a rough hand and waves with the other, always a nice dude as long as no oneā€™s asking for any trouble.
the block mark lives on has a reputation of being that ā€˜rowdy frat blockā€™; true to the rumors, parties happen on a bi-weekly basis, more often during festive seasons, but regular enough as it is. on a good day, they end in some sick-covered laundry to do and booting of wasted stragglers. fortunately, kappa alpha theta is the preferred spot to throw the craziest rangers, as they are sponsored by one of the membersā€™ insanely rich parents and have a huge swimming pool and alcohol bar. parties occasionally break out at delta tau delta and run into the deep night, but they never make campus news for being the best or greatest. which is okay with mark because he gets to sleep in his own bed most nights and rarely faces sick cleanup duty.
even so, parties or any social gathering of any kind are almost unheard of during finals week. the same week responsible, capable students are reviewing for their exams, party-addicted knuckleheads are blowing their brains out to get something done, and in-betweeners like mark are working moderately hard, not sweat inducing, life contemplatively hard, but hard. with the brain and instincts mark has, pursuing a journalism major and korean minor, he finds a nice ratio of him working it and it working him.
this all said, the streets are usually a ghost town by this hour. which is why he finds a hunched body trembling in the orange glow of the streetlight more than an oddity. some part of his brain is urging him to ignore it. superhero mark is nice and all in the daylight, but a creepy dude under a streetlight past midnight is psychopath serial killer territory. he has some exams in the next few days that he probably needs to be alive to take. but another part is telling him, as he gets closer and hears the quiet sniffling coming from the figure, that he doesnā€™t look like a serial killer at all. if he is, either heā€™s a real good one, or mark is a damn sucker, or both.
even if mark wants to pass him up, just feet from his house, almost at the finish line, the guyā€™s shoulders shaking and his endless crying has mark slowing his steps and eventually stopping right where he is.
against all his better judgement, mark says, ā€œhey, you alright man?ā€
the guy, boy really, once he lifts his head and mark gets a good luck at his soft features and young face, looks up. his glassy eyes find mark in the dusty glimmer of the light and mark sucks in a heavy, important breath as he discerns a current of fear so thick it nearly shocks him. he hopes this isnā€™t some trick serial killers use to get their victims to soften up, because mark is falling for it, hard.
but what really hits mark like a frigid ocean wave is the velvet, auburn ears twitching softly in his equally dark hair and the matching tail flicking languidly behind him. heā€™s a catboy. markā€™s never met one before. itā€™s kinda cool. but the situation itself overshadows the revelation.
the young catboy has a bulging backpack weighing on his shoulders, his entire life probably inside, along with a black suitcase on wheels that heā€™s using as an impromptu seat. if jaebum hadnā€™t schooled jackson on the finite differences in physiology of the east asian races, after the ladder let his ignorance slip (something not to be done in jaebumā€™s company) and mark hadnā€™t been suffering through every waking minute of it with a dead phone battery and no fake appointment to excuse himself to, he wouldnā€™t be able to tell that this guy looks korean as hell. and by the ā€˜america rocksā€™ button pinned to his thin jacket and the sadness in his pretty eyes, mark can tell heā€™s a tourist thatā€™s having a strike of very bad luck. to mark, los angeles is his home. but to this poor guy itā€™s a jungle of unfamiliarity and he must be scared shitless.
thatā€™s gotta suck.
ā€œiā€™m lost,ā€ he admits finally in a heavy accent. mark shouldnā€™t be thinking that itā€™s cute and melting a little because heā€™s still not out of the danger zone. he could be carrying murder tools in his backpack, itā€™s definitely big enough.
ā€œand they stole my money,ā€ he adds miserably in elaboration. ā€œi have no money, and iā€™m lost. iā€™m stupid.ā€
ā€œyouā€™re not stupid,ā€ mark canā€™t help but say, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand holding his black plastic bag, fingers looped through the handles. ā€œuh, whatā€™s your name?ā€
the guy clears his throat, sucking up his sniffles. ā€œyoungjae. choi youngjae.ā€
ā€œnice to meet you, youngjae. iā€™m mark.ā€ donā€™t tell him your last name, idiot. i swear for the love of all thatā€™s good and pure, donā€™t- ā€œmark tuan.ā€ he points behind him, kind of guessing the direction so he has his eyes on youngjae, gauging his comprehension of the situation. ā€œthatā€™s my frat over there. since you donā€™t have money, you can crash there tonight and we can figure things out in the morning. what do you say, youngjae?ā€
youngjae looks troubled, uncomfortable. ā€œhow do i know youā€™re not going to harvest my organs and sell them on the black market?ā€
mark is equal parts amused and deeply mortified. ā€œamerican television is crap. itā€™s all crap, okay? read books, youngjae. i promise not to harvest your organs and sell them on the black market. so come, yeah? iā€™d hate to have you sitting out here because i can guarantee iā€™m the nicest person youā€™ll encounter in downtown la in the middle of the night.ā€
youngjaeā€™s eyebrows furrow in thought. he casts one long glance at the street before turning back to the hand mark has out stretched to him, a very transparent question: risk it for a cool bed or play it safe and end up roaming downtown la in the dead of night, susceptible to god knows what? for some reason, when youngjae takes markā€™s hand and allows him to pull him up, he gets a weird sense of accomplishment, as if youngjae hadnā€™t just chose short-time survival over very possible long-term suffering.
ā€œlet me get that.ā€ mark pulls up the handle of youngjaeā€™s suitcase and rolls it alongside them as they walk, closing the distance between the street and the house with each anticipated step. mark has clocked out his good deed meter and is ready for some blissful, air-conditioned sleep. again, up to the moon and the tides and good oleā€™ black magic. but nobody can tell him not to dream.
ā€œwhy are you out here, youngjae?ā€ mark asks curiously as they step through the front gate, barb wire swinging closed with a clink and clack, whining like the antique it is.
ā€œamerica is very beautiful,ā€ youngjae says wistfully, slight smile visible underneath the porch light as it hums to life. ā€œiā€™ve read about america in books as a child. the land of opportunity. i never thought iā€™d get to go. then my mother committed suicide just a month ago. i dropped out of university and worked full time at a cafe, saving money to come here. looks like iā€™m back at square one.ā€ his coy smile doesnā€™t hide the tsunami of pain roaring in his eyes, suddenly too much for mark as he looks away.
ā€œiā€™m sorry...uh, about your mom,ā€ he mutters uselessly. ā€œiā€™m sure sheā€™s in heaven.ā€
ā€œor hell,ā€ youngjae blurts out unceremoniously. ā€œsuppose you go to hell for that sort of thing. or purgatory. maybe sheā€™s there.ā€
all other generic, commercialized words of condolence burn at the back of markā€™s throat, dying right where they are, cold, metallic niceties that slide down as heavy as iron and drop resolutely into his gut. he coughs out a meaningless ā€œyeahā€, like he gets it. he doesnā€™t.
this is weird.
they walk inside. as jackson is the only one with a car, thereā€™s no way to tell if the others are home. markā€™s quiet anyway. always is.
ā€œthis is the living room,ā€ he says, and flips a table lamp on. light blooms in the crowded space. the black, suede pull-out couch is swimming in clothes, a mixture of clean and not. empty cans of monster and beer litter the squat coffee table, rings of moisture already leaving their presence on this little piece of the earth where jackson lives to irk markā€™s patience. he always tells that slob to get tidy or get out. of course since mark holds no ownership over the house heā€™s a little out of his jurisdiction to call those types of shots, so jackson mostly ignores him. but he still says it and occasionally jackson likes to play human, doing human things like having some dignity and not crapping where he eats.
mark points to the darkened room right off the living room, left of the staircase, ā€œkitchenā€, and then to the room left of that one, ā€œfirst floor bathroom. help yourself to anything in the kitchen as long as you clean up. i hate messes because no one cares enough to fret but me. need anything and iā€™ll be upstairs, preferably sleeping but probably not.ā€
for the first time since heā€™s seen him, youngjae actually smiles. not a tight grin or nervous twitch of his lips, but a real smile. the kind of smile that is raw and panic inducing and something mark wants to lock in a box forever.
ā€œthanks, mark.ā€ youngjae drops his backpack on the floor and goes over to the couch. mark regains his senses in time to run over and knock all of the clothes on the floor, pulling out the couch into a bed and dragging some pillows and a comforter from the surrounding furniture to make it look somewhat like a decent place to sleep and not just a filthy couch stained with caffeine and virginity.
ā€œno problem.ā€ he waits awkwardly as youngjae toes out of his shoes and lies his jacket aside in quiet task, content.
ā€œdo you need some sleep clothes?ā€ mark asks, surveying youngjaeā€™s remaining cotton graphic tee and blue jeans.
youngjae smiles meekly. ā€œwould it be trouble?ā€
ā€œnot at all. wait here, okay?ā€ mark goes up the stairs, all nervous and jittery for some reason. he bangs around oafishly in his black room for a few minutes, not having the sense to turn on some light as he focuses on finding youngjae something comfortable to sleep in. he finally decides on some green basketball shorts and a plain white sleeveless shirt.
this is weird, mega weird. heā€™s letting a stranger sleep in his house, wear his clothes. jaebumā€™s gonna chew him out for this. itā€™s almost not worth the headache. he goes back downstairs and hands youngjae the stuff.
ā€œthanks.ā€ youngjae does that thing again where he smiles and mark doesnā€™t know what to do with the raw and genuine sensation.
ā€œyeah, sure.ā€ oh, jaebumā€™s definitely gonna chew him out.
he goes back up to his room and collapses in his bed. whatever happens in the morning is for the morning. the caffeine cleanse apparently worked, as he passes out much sooner than expected.
Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  * Ā Ā * Ā Ā * Ā Ā *
ā€œyo, tuan!ā€
mark rolls over in his bed, groaning at the bomb of luminescence bathing his room in unrepentant shine, unamused. if jaebum didnā€™t haunt his dreams on a regular enough basis he wouldnā€™t be doubting his actual presence. but after a door--his door--slams open, mark groans again, but no longer doubts that the real jaebum is in his room, and angry for some reason lost to his drowsy conscious.
ā€œtuan, i swear to god-ā€
ā€œjaebum,ā€ mark says in a mock conversational tone, sitting up and kicking his thin sheet off his legs, blinking his eyes open slowly. ā€œto what do i owe this unexpected visit?ā€
ā€œi could say the same,ā€ jaebum grits out, livid. ā€œwhatā€™s a stranger doing on my couch?ā€
thatā€™s when the gears get spinning and mark looks over at his seething friend, who has what he remembers to be youngjaeā€™s bag gripped roughly in one hand, the other screwed on his hip in impatience. mark understands why heā€™s mad, knows thereā€™s a dude sleeping on their couch who could still be a serial killer despite his completely disarming smile and shy tendencies. but heā€™s not one to lose to jaebum.
so he says, ā€œyou mean our couch?ā€ even if just to save face.
as expected, jaebum is less than amused at the quip. ā€œiā€™ll give you two seconds to talk, dumpling face. who is that guy?ā€
mark stands up finally, and shivers off the rest of his sleep. he refuses to flinch at jaebumā€™s unrelenting glare. ā€œhis name is youngjae. heā€™s a kid from korea, and he got mugged last night, so i let him sleep here. i couldnā€™t just leave him outside so something worse could happen to him, jaebum. thatā€™s just cruel.ā€
jaebum visibly softens, the grip on youngjaeā€™s bag handle loosening and his stare melting a bit, not as hot and unforgiving as before. ā€œhe understood you?ā€
ā€œyeah.ā€ mark shrugs. ā€œhe speaks perfect english.ā€
ā€œdammit, mark.ā€ jaebumā€™s frustrated more than mad now, which really is an approvement. ā€œyou couldnā€™t be your normal nonchalant i-donā€™t-a-flying-fajita self?ā€
ā€œflying fajita?ā€ mark stage whispers.
ā€œwhatever.ā€ jaebum waves him off, tossing him the bag which mark catches easily. ā€œtake care of it. if heā€™s going to be staying indefinitely, i want some background info.ā€
ā€œgot it.ā€ mark nods firmly.
ā€œyouā€™re just a regular oleā€™ clark kent,ā€ jaebum grumbles to himself all the way to his room, closing the door and leaving mark standing in his open doorway with youngjaeā€™s bag and at a loss for what to do next. he loops the bag over one shoulder and pads down to the living room. his fear of youngjae possibly being awake to suffer jaebumā€™s wrath and feel all unwanted is dissipated when he sees that youngjae is still in deep sleep, half of his face buried in the pillow, softly twitching ears and rising back the only sign of movement. he then sneaks a peek over at the den adjacent to the living room. jackson is knocked out, pacified in slumber by some beer that reeks its way all the way over here.
mark crinkles his nose and moves closer to youngjae, dropping the bag softly as he takes a tentative seat at the sleeping boyā€™s feet, gazing curiously at his peaceful face. youngjae looks so young that mark is immediately guilty for some reason. he has these soft looking, peach-hued lips and a cute nose. being able to stare so intently, mark also notices a beauty mark under his left eye--well, markā€™s left, but youngjaeā€™s right. heā€™s very pretty; so pretty that mark is lost in him, only aware that heā€™s being just a bit creepy when those sweet eyes blink open and fix him a perplexed stare.
ā€œuh, sorry.ā€ mark backs up, actually blushing like some chastised schoolgirl. youngjae barely responds, still mostly sleep, only blinking curiously at mark so blankly that mark is forced to ask his next question. ā€œhow old are you, youngjae?ā€
ā€œ18,ā€ youngjae says sleepily, rubbing his eyes and fixing to sit up. heā€™s a baby, mark thinks solemnly to himself.
ā€œyou graduated early?ā€ mark asks after remembering some stuff jaebum told him about the age of university in korea being 20 instead of 18 like in the states. he smiles. ā€œyou must be smart.ā€
ā€œdumb enough to get robbed,ā€ youngjae answers cynically. markā€™s smile vanishes. he doesnā€™t know what to say to follow that up. move on.
ā€œdo you know anyone out here?ā€ mark asks. ā€œanyone you can call, or ask for a favor?ā€
ā€œit was really a whim decision,ā€ youngjae admits sheepishly. ā€œi hated being in that apartment by myself. everything reminds me of her. her clothes, her bills, her favorite spot on the couch. everything smells like her.ā€
mark is really at a true loss when youngjae becomes visibly shaken, choking up on his words and eyes watering. if mark is good at anything, itā€™s giving people space and letting the dust settle. but he canā€™t exactly leave youngjae while heā€™s on the brink of crying, doesnā€™t want to leave him. he wants to hug him and whisper hushed comforts until he stops crying and making mark feel like an unfeeling ogre as he continues to sit by and do nothing.
who has he let into his house?
ā€œyoungjae,ā€ mark says gently, biting his lip in awkward anticipation. ā€œcome here.ā€
youngjae looks up at him then, glassy eyes the same ones that had warped him the night before when mark first saw him, sitting like a sad puppy on the curb and waiting for a sucker like mark to stroll by. his bottom lip is trembling a little, and mark cracks at that. youngjae inspects markā€™s open arms for a moment, not too sure what to do with him, and then, to markā€™s bittersweet triumph, actually crawls into them.
youngjae sits cross-legged next to him, head cushioned on markā€™s shoulder as the man rubs his back, hating the hiccups and shivers that rattle through him. markā€™s never been the most clever or timely with words, so he keeps his mouth shut until youngjae calms some time after, shoulders stilling and crying fading into the early morning birdsā€™ orchestra.
ā€œiā€™m sorry,ā€ youngjae whispers in a quiet rasp. ā€œyou donā€™t even know me. i donā€™t know you. but look what iā€™m doing in your house. i really am stupid for coming here. you know, the really sad thing is i realize that after iā€™ve had my money stolen and have no way to get back. iā€™m an idiot. iā€™m so stupid. iā€™m the biggest dummy-ā€
heā€™s knocking his knuckles against his temple so hard that mark worries heā€™ll crack something, and he swoops in to grab his wrist impulsively. the boy looks up at him quizzically.
ā€œyouā€™ll hurt yourself,ā€ mark answers his unasked question. ā€œand youā€™re not stupid. youā€™re grieving. you can stay here as long as you need, or want. as long as you want.ā€
youngjae smiles finally. ā€œyouā€™re really nice, hyung.ā€
mark stiffens unintentionally. ā€œhyung?ā€
ā€œis that not okay?ā€ youngjae sits up in a flash, face suddenly contorted in panicked apology. ā€œiā€™m sorry. i didnā€™t mean to. itā€™s just, iā€™m pretty sure youā€™re older than me. is it weird? should i just call you mark?ā€
ā€œno, no, no.ā€ mark laughs. ā€œhyung is okay.ā€
youngjaeā€™s smile returns, and mark knows itā€™s gonna be the end of him one day.
thatā€™s when jacksonā€™s loud grunt breaks through the peaceful silence, taking youngjaeā€™s attention, something mark didnā€™t think he would mind until now (because he does).
ā€œjesus fu-ā€
ā€œidiot.ā€ jaebum comes skipping skipping down the stairs with a joyful smirk, books ladening his arms and backpack slung on his shoulder. he looks much happier than about ten minutes ago. he must have a stash of chocolate in his room. mark wouldnā€™t put it past him.
ā€œwhoā€™s this?ā€ jacksonā€™s irritated frown turns into a curious smile at the sight of youngjae. heā€™s looking at him the way the man looks at anyone heā€™s preparing to swoon, and for some reason mark is ready to spring between them because of it. he doesnā€™t, though. they just met. mark has no claim over this beautiful catboy named youngjae.
that would be weird.
ā€œyoungjae,ā€ mark says a bit sullenly, already resigned to this quiet fate. ā€œhe flew from korea.ā€
ā€œi didnā€™t fly,ā€ youngjae interjects, looking over at mark.
ā€œbus thenā€¦?ā€
ā€œsome very nice men and women drove me here,ā€ youngjae says vaguely. markā€™s eyebrows pinch.
ā€œyou hitchhiked?ā€ markā€™s voice raises before he has any control over it, almost hysterical in that instant. ā€œyoungjae, thatā€™s so dangerous. you canā€™t just trust anyone. strangers are off limits, okay?ā€
ā€œyouā€™re a stranger,ā€ youngjae says cheekily, a very clear smile on his face. mark is disarmed for a very long second, again at a loss for what to do with youngjae. this strange catboy who is lying on his pullout couch, apparently an orphan (though heā€™s not sure about his dad, maybe thatā€™s too personal though). he doesnā€™t know what to do with any of it.
ā€œi donā€™t count,ā€ mark says after a long time.
ā€œokay.ā€ youngjae shrugs indifferently, faint smile still etched on his lips.
Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  * Ā Ā Ā * Ā Ā Ā * Ā Ā Ā *
somehow, mark is able to convince jaebum that youngjae is not a serial killer, despite his own doubts, and he has agreed to let him stay indefinitely. youngjae has his own special magic. maybe it was between the behind-ear-scratches and the content purring; regardless, jaebum and jackson are both infatuated. jackson is more vocal, but when is jackson not more vocal in general?
mark is happy. he really is. but he has no idea what heā€™s doing at all. youngjae seems fine, most of the times. heā€™s smiling and munching on jaebumā€™s secret stash of chocolate (which jaebum doesnā€™t mind at all, the discrimination!) and being all obliviously cute as he floats around in markā€™s slightly too big clothes like everythingā€™s hunky dory.
(itā€™s not.)
then heā€™s crying quietly in a corner of the bathroom before startling as mark purposely clears his throat, feigning ignorance as he stomps inside to throw a thin greeting his way.
he thinks they have built up a system that isnā€™t perfect, but functions somewhat smoothly. youngjae vents to himself, and mark intrudes after some time to keep him from drowning in his own anguish. itā€™s good. itā€™s a good system.
then the systems breaks about a week after that.
one day mark actually does walk in on him as heā€™s crying far too quietly to even be picked up. mark doesnā€™t even notice him until heā€™s halfway in his room, shirt already off and hand digging around in his drawer for something less sweaty.
their acā€™s old and uncooperative sometimes.
youngjae is wrapped up in markā€™s blankets despite the increasing wave of heat blowing through the house, lasting as long as the ac decides to spazz. his ears are flattened against his fluffy hair and he looks so small and sad that a piece of mark dies. the olderā€™s puny desire to hurriedly pull on another shirt to cover his bare torso is disintegrated under the need to move closer to youngjae. which he does.
his shirt is dropped somewhere on the floor on his way to the bed.
ā€œhyung,ā€ youngjae sniffles quietly, big, pretty eyes full of tears.
ā€œdo you want me to leave?ā€ mark asks stagnantly. he doesnā€™t want to at all. but if youngjae says so then he will.
ā€œno.ā€ youngjae shakes his head while looking all vulnerable and hurt. mark slides in next to him, pulling him instinctively into his lap without fretting if this is too intimate. youngjae wraps around him. the top of his head slots perfectly against markā€™s warm throat and the little breaths heā€™s blowing from his nose tickle the skin there. the boyā€™s tail floats down across markā€™s thigh and coils loosely.
ā€œyour mom?ā€
ā€œmy mom.ā€
ā€œwhat was she like?ā€
ā€œsometimes she was mean to me,ā€ youngjae breathes unsteadily, wet cheeks signalling to mark that heā€™s crying again, or more, since he never really stopped before. ā€œshe called me mean names and hit me. dissociative identity disorder, the doctors called it. itā€™s like she had more people than just her living in her head. sometimes she was really nice. she baked my favorite cookies and rocked me to sleep. then she was being mean again, Ā pulling my tail and tugging my ears until i was so dizzy that i passed out. when i woke up she would often be crying with a new batch of cookies in the oven. she was my best friend and my worst enemy.ā€
ā€œyoungjae, iā€™m--uh, youngjae--ā€
ā€œyou donā€™t have to say anything, hyung,ā€ youngjae whispers. ā€œcan you please just hold me?ā€
so marks shuts his mouth, which is the best decision heā€™s ever made in his life, and holds youngjae in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. heā€™s not sure if thatā€™s okay at all. but youngjae purrs like he does when he really likes something, and so mark doesnā€™t apologize about it.
Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā * Ā Ā Ā * Ā Ā Ā * Ā Ā Ā * Ā Ā 
taking him sightseeing had been made a thing with jaebumā€™s offhanded suggestion and youngjaeā€™s enthusiastic approval of the idea. he sees how youngjae slugs around the house in boredom, pressed thin between the thoughts of his mother, which are so obvious mark can almost drown in them along with him, and youngjaeā€™s own restlessness.
mark is more than apprehensive about it all because as much as the right side of la can be a Ā plethora of all good things; the bad side can be the complete opposite.
even though mark doesnā€™t mind seeing youngjae walk around in his clothes, small frame swallowed by the fabric, loves it actually, he would rather other people never have the pleasure. he takes the boy shopping at a high-quality and wallet friendly shop in the mall as a segue to the afternoon leg of their downtown adventure.
the morning had been a rush of breakfast, window shopping, and youngjae touching everything they passed, never letting a single thing go without mulling over it first, endlessly excited and curious and so new to everything. mark thinks heā€™ll fall asleep to youngjaeā€™s voice going ā€˜whatā€™s this?ā€™ and ā€˜whatā€™s that?ā€™ and ā€˜is that what this thing does?ā€™ because heā€™s heard it enough to absorb the sweetly pitched tones into his bloodstream. as if he needs anymore of youngjae running through his system than there already is. Ā 
ā€œhyung!ā€ youngjae tugs his arm and drags him over to a shop after theyā€™re done picking out a few bags of nice, cheap clothes that should get youngjae by for at least a few weeks, paired with items from markā€™s wardrobe since he wonā€™t ever get over seeing youngjae wear his clothes.
mark isnā€™t partial to shops with ā€˜pinkā€™ or ā€˜stuffedā€™ in the name just because those things creep him out. also, his sisters used to force him into dresses and makeup when he wasnā€™t old enough to toddle away by himself, so the traumaā€™s still there. heā€™ll brave if for youngjae, though.
heā€™d brave so many things for youngjae.
ā€œisnā€™t this one cute?ā€ youngjae holds up this bear thing with freakishly huge eyes and the cheesiest smile mark has ever seen. itā€™s this pastel purple color that makes the olderā€™s skin crawl. itā€™s not only cute, but creepily so. killer china doll cute.
ā€œyeahā€¦ā€ mark lies uncomfortably, trying to appease youngjaeā€™s smile with a tight grin. ā€œreally cute.ā€
ā€œyou hate it.ā€ youngjae drops the thing with a sigh. his eyes search around quickly after that, widening in delight when he sees something else he likes. he rushes over and mark trudges along behind him.
ā€œwhat about this one?ā€ he holds up a baby blue pikachu with white blushing cheeks. itā€™s actually cute and doesnā€™t look like something heā€™d open his eyes to at 2am trying to harvest his insides. because mark tends to be as easy to read as black and white print, his approval spills out onto his face and youngjae beams.
mark actually gets the thing because his tight wallet becomes a little looser with youngjae giving him these pretty pouty eyes and pushing his bottom lip out like the sun will stop shining or water will stop being wet if he doesnā€™t get this blue fuzz thing with the white cheeks, ears twitching something furious.
they have a pair of burgers and fries at the food court before leaving for their next stop. mark wonā€™t forget how youngjae looks at everything like itā€™s earthā€™s saving grace, canā€™t forget how the sweet kitty touches everything with an innocent wonder and amusement not easily replicated by hands that have touched and eyes that have seen and chests that have burned for reasons beside the scorching love for oneā€™s love lost.
the original plan had been to catch the fireworks at six, grab some snack to take home, and be done with their adventure. however, markā€™s perfectly scheduled conclusion to their day is derailed when youngjae stops him as theyā€™re walking over to the park, pointing excitedly at a crowd of people huddled around something. upon wandering closer, mark recognizes this man as the one that usually sets up his street magic a few blocks from his house and amuses groups with tricks difficult enough to entertain the average person, but simple enough that mark was able to memorize them in just a month after a dumb bet with jackson that cost him time better spent. heā€™s not at all impressed, but youngjae is engrossed, gasping generously enough for the man to come closer and let him get a better look at some tricks.
ā€œis it that fun, youngjae?ā€ mark asks with an easy grin, never not fascinated by how the kitty manages to find boundless excitement in the near mundane.
ā€œlook at that!ā€ is youngjaeā€™s enthused reply, eyes sparkling and hands mimicking the manā€™s motions sloppily, completely focused. thatā€™s when mark thinks to himself, infatuated beyond belief, that if spring were a person, itā€™d be youngjae. he has such a fresh attitude; that paired with his teeming exuberance and virginal glee towards most of anything has mark swooning, falling so hard heā€™ll need someone to scrape him off of whereā€™s melted in a puddle for this sweet, pretty catboy with bright eyes and a childishly pure trust in others.
dammit, dammit, dammit.
as theyā€™re walking home mark is internally pleased at how they can still still see the fireworks from across the lake and youngjae is ā€˜oohingā€™ and ā€˜ahingā€™ again as if he has the sole power to see everything in existence through rose-colored glasses. he wants to ask youngjae how heā€™s feeling about his mom and just talk to him to see if heā€™s still hurting because mark gets sappy at the curling at dusk when the warm wind is whistling past his ears and making everything loose and quietly blissful. he also wants to press him into his chest and kiss his cute, squishy face until everything else loses all meaning. the only concrete necessity being youngjae cradled in markā€™s arms.
none of these things come to pass because youngjae slips his hand in markā€™s and the older forgets how to breathe momentarily, exhaling when he needs to inhale and almost passing out before he gets the hang of it again. he spares a sideways glance in the kittyā€™s direction to see his tail swaying happily in the breeze and a soft smile on his clear, bright face.
not to be dramatic or anything, but itā€™s a smile that could cure the world of all of its impurities.
ā€œcan i stay with you?ā€
mark startles at youngjaeā€™s honey-slick voice, staring down at him more focused. he must look like a puppy on a leash, but heā€™s okay with it being youngjae whoā€™s seeing him like this, will always be.
ā€œcan i stay with you, hyung? for a long time?ā€ he asks again, tightening his grasp on markā€™s hand just the slightest and blinking up at him like this is all he needs. mark doesnā€™t even need to think, doesnā€™t care about the implications or strings attached because itā€™s youngjae.
ā€œfor a long time.ā€
and he really fucking means it.
36 notes Ā· View notes