Chapter Text
There’s three things that happened senior year that were so bonkers, they’ve permanently embedded themselves into Mark’s psyche.
1. Somebody stole a Smart Board. (Self-explanatory. It was from Mark’s homeroom, the whole school went on lockdown, everybody in his class got questioned, he got questioned, the whole she-bang. The Smart Board Swindler was never caught— they’re still at large and still striking fear into the hearts of the IT department with every utterance of their name. And honestly? What a freaking legend.)
2. Mark walked into Jeno making out with Jisung Park behind the bleachers in the middle of their senior track meet. (Here’s what Mark thinks happened. Whatever grand deity that presides over them decided to throw two darts, blindfolded, at a spinning wheel with the faces of every single person in their damn school tacked onto it and the darts landed on the most random pairing known to man and then they went, ‘You know what? Why fuckin’ not?’ The wildest part isn’t even that they started dating after that— nor is it the fact Mark had never seen them have a conversation before then, nor is it that Jisung’s dad is the track and field coach— the same man who wrote Mark a college recommendation — it’s the fact that they’re still dating.) (Also, witnessing one of your best friends violently sucking anybody’s face is… well… let’s just say Mark was ready to take two starting pistol shots to his head. One for each eye.)
And last but certainly not least—
3. The crazy party at Chenle’s place that happened the Saturday before AP week.
If the definition of crazy party abided by typical conventions and standards and norms— whatever gets shown in the movies and award-winning HBO serieses— then the party wasn’t even that crazy. It was a freaking high school party so, really, how crazy could it possibly have been plus he’s been out of high school for, what, a couple years now so he knows damn well what a crazy party really looks like.
It was crazy in the sense that it played out like that final battle in Endgame where every single hero in the franchise went up against Thanos’ army, except instead of having an epic tag-team moment with Scarlet Witch and Captain Marvel, it had one of the varsity wrestling boys taking a messy, messy body shot off a senior member of the theater troupe. And it was not even close to epic. Quite the opposite, actually.
It was, essentially, a major crossover event. Everybody was there. And in every retelling of the event, somebody is always very quick to point out that the same thing happens in college– much more readily too– but here’s why this is different: Mark played little league baseball with that theater kid when they were in elementary school, and he’s pretty sure his mom (as in Mark’s own mom) got into a heated confrontation with that varsity dude’s mom at some school budget meeting. That’s the thing about living in a small town— everybody knows each other and if not that, at least of each other meaning there’s this underlying, pervasive cesspool of shared histories exclusive to their school. Some people dove straight into it, embraced it, and some people were violently pushed. And Mark was the latter.
So what about the people who simply dipped their toes in that figurative pool, or were never in that figurative pool to begin with? No way the town was that small, right? Well, they were around, they were real cool, and they showed up to that party too.
That’s where Mark usually stops when he explains why this not-even-that-crazy party was so formative, and everybody who listens assumes that’s the end of it, readily accepts that that’s why that night sticks with him to this very day. And their assumptions are right. Sort of. Well. It’s not that they’re not, but they’re meant to make that assumption because of how Mark tells it. Because if Mark ever went on…
People would… come to a different conclusion.
Which only Mark knows— because his mind unhelpfully completes the story for him— but whatever. Yes, there’s no reason for any further explanation because there’s nothing really worth explaining because it doesn’t really matter. Even if it does matter enough to omit because otherwise he’s got an entirely different reason for… remembering… the party…
Mark suddenly drops his head and runs a hand through his already unkempt hair, exasperated at himself. This is what happens when he runs on four hours of sleep; he starts thinking about… things. Things that he shouldn’t be dwelling on still. He should have gotten some shut eye on the way to this station instead of rewatching No Way Home to feel something. Just one more train and then he’ll be home and then he can pass out.
He sighs. He’d seriously appreciate it if he didn’t run into anybody he knew right now. Of course, thinking that is a given whenever he goes home but especially at this instance, on this platform, because he doesn’t think he can muster up any energy for polite small-talk or to even brace himself for any sort of confrontation or to look somewhat presentable and decent to… whomever Mark might encounter again.
He’s just feeling really fucking bedraggled. Looking very worse for wear. Very uncute. If Chenle were here he’d say, 'who cares if somebody recognizes you?' And who cares, right? But that’s a lot easier said than done, Chenle. Stupidly, he does care, just a little. Residual caring, if you will, from his high school overachiever days.
“Just say high school days,” Chenle would then retort. “You’re still an overachiever.”
But at least he’s not an uptight overachiever anymore. He cared about how people saw him because— and every time he looks back on it it’s so dumb– he felt like he needed to be as good and infallible as everybody made him out to be.
Everybody slips up, Mark knows that. But back then it didn’t feel that way. When somebody’s got the entire school’s eyes on them, their single, minute slip-up will always be next to some seven storey-staircase that’s lined with electrified barbed-wire at every step with the wildebeest stampede from The Lion King at the very bottom. And they’d land on a comically big red button that notifies everybody within a two mile radius. Everybody finds out, because everybody knows you. But at the same time nobody really knew him.
Mark closes his eyes, exasperated once again. He really needs to go to sleep.
Point is, he still cares. Not in the I-can’t-jeopardize-my-chances-at-a-top-twenty-school way (it hasn’t been like that since high school) (and thank God for that because if that’s any indication he’s matured he’ll gladly take it) but more in a I-hope-he’ll-think-I-got-cooler kind of way.
…He meaning they, of course, as in speaking generally.
Definitely.
Because Mark isn’t thinking of anybody in particular. It’s not like that anybody-in-particular paid him any mind to begin with. Or did he? It looked like— no, it felt like he did that night. But to be fair, this person didn’t really pay anybody any mind (that’s what made him so cool, Mark recalls, because he kind of just did his own thing… moved at his own pace… which is so cool) not to mention Mark’s judgment wasn’t exactly perfect and rational then so who knows what part of those feelings were informed by soju and nasty jungle juice. He couldn’t even drive that night and— and maybe he could’ve if he hadn’t decided to not care what people thought right then and there and— no—
Maybe he’d have an answer to his own question. So that maybe he wouldn’t remember the party like that.
As if on cue, his head replays the scene that should have been nothing but a passing moment, but remains as clear as it did years ago.
Because at a point in time where Mark was barrelling through life, the world around him slowed as if suspended in glimmering amber. His shoulder propped against the doorframe, his arms crossed close to his chest, his heart, his eyes following an SUV as it pulled out of a driveway. A chill that relieved him of the heat of the party but did nothing to calm the warm glow of his cheeks. An aching distance measured in headlights dwindling then disappearing into the night, and the longest fleeting moment where he had hoped, for once, that somebody would be looking at him. His body was so close to giving up then, and yet, Mark would have spared one more conversation. One more joke. One more word.
Mark opens his eyes— a jump cut back to the station platform. The same biting cold and the same dreary gray of concrete, unchanging no matter how many trips he’s taken back home. He can only hope the same cannot be said about him.
He’d seriously appreciate it if he didn’t run into anybody he knew right now. But if he does…well. Maybe he’d know if he changed at all then.
Mark tilts his head back and lets out a breath, watching it materialize and be blown away by a sudden gust of wind. He can predict the next scene: in exactly five minutes, he’ll hear the rumble of the train in the distance. It’ll be coming from his right, and– wait a minute.
There’s something coming from his… left? No way. From his left, the sound of shoes frantically hitting concrete— running? Who the hell is running— the train isn’t even here?
Then a flash of white flies past his eyes.
Huh?
Mark quickly brings his head down and, instinctively, turns his gaze towards the direction of whatever he just saw— wha— it’s— a ticket? That’s why— wait! It’s so close! He’s got to be fast— it’s not within arm's reach but if he takes one more step he can just grab it—
"I got it!"
He turns to his left, ticket in hand and a surprised, triumphant smile on his face.
“Oh my God , thank you so mu—”
Eyes meet. Mark freezes.
He feels his expression betray him, his grin falling into a shocked ‘O’. Opposite him, the owner of the ticket appears just as bewildered— but Mark is certain it’s not for the same reason as him. Right?
And as it was that night as it was now, time slows down to a near standstill.
In the bleak and weary of this train station, a rare instance of sun streams in and casts its light on the platform. And it dawns on Mark that he still cares. A lot. No, not in the high-school-will-make-or-break-me way— not even in the I-hope-he’ll-think-I’m-doing-pretty-well way like he thought all these years!
He cares in the does-my-hair-look-okay? sort of way.
In a I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-hands way. A why-am-suddenly-forgetting-how-to-speak? way. A I-hope-he’ll-think-I-got-cooler… because-I-want-him-to-see-me-in-the-same-light way.
Before him, haloed by a soft, disarming, almost unreal glow, stands the one boy Mark wished he knew. The one boy for whom Mark wanted to slow down time, in spite of a so-called ‘bright future’; to make a move, no matter how painfully clumsy it may be; to tell of complicated histories, including his own. The one boy— really, a man now— that Mark had hoped wanted to know him just as much.
His heartbeat picks up the pace, a feeling far from foreign even after all this time. He might not have gotten any cooler, but Mark thinks he’s a bit braver now. Braver than he was back at that party.
So in a grand, great, impulsive gesture of boldness, Mark offers a small smile, sheepishly raises his hand, and makes the motion to wave.
And the ticket slips from his fingers.
“...”
“...”
Mark remains frozen, stunned. In front of him, Renjun stays the same.
The cold shock of panic strikes them after a second— a second too late— and it’s then that they can only react with a single, visceral, shared—
“Shit!”