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“I hate to be the voice of reason,” Jeno is saying, Donghyuck interrupting him with a dry oh rrrrreally, “but I’m sure if there was a rulebook for starting your own band, it’d say don’t date a bandmate.”
“And what’s Jaemin? Your goldfish?”
“If,” Jeno continues, “you’re gonna dump him in Baskin Robbins a month before Battle of the Bands. No offence.”
Donghyuck emphasises his groan by slamming the glass of homemade lemonade Jaemin’s mom brought them onto the arm of the couch. It splashes onto his ripped jeans. He sighs, catching the tissue box Jeno chucks him from where he’s sitting on the ground. “I read the fucking Wikihow page, and it said—it said—don’t mix business with pleasure. Ha.”
“That’s right,” Jeno chuckles, his eyes doing the Thing. It’s infuriating.
Donghyuck dabs at his damp jeans, eyeing the clock on the opposite wall. Renjun is fifteen minutes late for band practice, as usual. “Last I remember, you were all telling me to go for it. Why the change of heart?” He narrows his eyes at Jeno, who is now fiddling with his guitar tuners and looking anywhere but him. “You’re on Mark’s side, aren’t you.”
“There aren’t any sides, sweetie,” Jaemin comments, walking into the garage after he’d disappeared to make his bed (“What’s the pooooint, I’m gonna sleep on it in a few hours,” he’d whined at his mom, trailing after her into the house.) He settles down on the rug next to Jeno, with the air of a cat, and places a hand on his chest, reciting, “We are one band, one family, one heart.”
“If Jeno’s on Mark’s side, which I totally expected, fuck you, Jeno,” Donghyuck mumbles to himself, his finger tapping against his knee, “That means Jaemin’s on Mark’s side, by proxy.”
“Yeah, hypothetically speaking,” Jaemin says through a yawn, his cheek squished against Jeno’s thigh, “But—”
“I knew I couldn’t trust you,” Donghyuck seethes, tossing his sticky tissue at Jaemin. It floats pathetically to the ground. When Renjun chooses this moment to walk through the door, a glass of lemonade in his hand, Donghyuck’s demeanour changes. He beams, and shouts, “Renjun, my dude! You’d pick me over Mark, wouldn’t you?”
Renjun flinches at the unexpected welcome, taking a timid step back into the house. “Uh, why? What happened?” He tiptoes across the garage, perching himself on the beat-up sofa next to Donghyuck. He plucks the cocktail umbrella out of his lemonade, the one that Donghyuck had gently refused from Jaemin’s mom because, y’know, uncool, and tucks it into his red hair. It looks disappointingly Cool.
Jeno strums his guitar in a D minor. “Mark and Donghyuck broke up after you left last night.”
“Oh. That’s sad,” Renjun says, mildly. He takes a sip from his glass. “So Mark’s not coming?”
“Ughhhhh. Another one bites the dust,” Donghyuck bemoans, slumping onto Renjun’s shoulder. “My life is over, and I haven’t even got ice-cream to mourn its death. I’m never stepping foot in Baskin Robbins again.”
“You broke up with him,” Jaemin points out.
“Exactamundo,” Donghyuck says, using the fabric of Renjun’s sweater to wipe away at a non-existent tear, “How the fuck are we going to work together for the next month?”
“How the fuck indeed,” Jaemin echoes.
“Why weren’t you at practice last night?” is what Donghyuck greets Mark with in Monday’s Advanced Music class. It’s the first sentence he’s spoken to Mark since, “We’re over, dickhead.”
Mark glances up from the notebook he’d been doodling on. He goes wide eyed for a moment, before his face settles on a frowny expression that sets off a dull ache in Donghyuck’s chest. He shrugs. “Didn’t think you wanted me there.”
“You’re right,” Donghyuck says, tapping his foot on the floor to the tune of Kiss the Rain, the piece they’d been assigned over the weekend. Mark is the leader of their band, The Millennials. Donghyuck feels almost bad that he scared him off, not the other way around. But, “I didn’t want you there.”
Donghyuck reflexively moves to place his books on the left side of Mark’s desk, where he always sits. Pause. He can’t do that anymore. He scans the classroom for a seat, a blush crawling up his collar. “Yeri!” he calls out, spying a free spot next to her, “We’re sitting next to each other from now on.”
“Hell no,” Yeri laughs, flicking her braid behind her shoulder. She pats the chair next to her in beckoning, however, and Donghyuck could kiss her for saving him from Mark’s quiet, searching gaze.
He parts with a sickly sweet, “We’re winning Battle of the Bands, whether I want you there or not. So make sure you’re at Jaemin’s, Wednesday. We can be civil for a few weeks, right, leader?”
“Whatever, Donghyuck,” Mark mumbles, looking back down at the two person desk, the D + M = ♡ scratched onto the dividing line. He reaches up to dig a knuckle into his eye.
At lunchtime, half the band is missing, and the only reason Donghyuck has someone to sit next to is because Renjun would rather walk into traffic than miss out on the nachos they serve on Mondays. His words, not Donghyuck’s.
Plus, Chenle and Jisung sit at their table come rain or shine. Donghyuck had given the pair the title of The Millennials’ official groupies when they’d begged to join the band a year ago—hey, they’ve already got a frontman, and what can Jisung do? Play the triangle?—but three months later, Jisung grew wise to what a groupie actually is. After a series of scathing Facebook messages, Chenle spiking Mark’s water bottle with laxatives (at least, they suspect), and one emergency group meeting, they were reinstated as the band’s PR team.
“So, I’ve been thinking about how we can use the breakup to our advantage,” Chenle announces, slamming his tray onto the table for dramatic effect. Jisung slides onto the bench after him, no tray but a mug of black coffee from the staff room in his hands.
“That’s not a thing we’re doing,” Donghyuck says, taking an indignant bite of his apple.
“Too soon,” Renjun agrees, as he pats Donghyuck’s shoulders.
“Oh, don’t be pathetic,” Chenle clucks, “This is exactly what the band’s needed all along. Drama,” he says, flourishing a corn chip about. “You two are, sorry, were arguably the school’s hottest couple. Say we talk to someone at Big Fat News, they write a favourable article on our new angsty Taylor Swift angle, and the entire student body will be creaming themselves over the image of you and Mark having crazy hate sex after Bands.”
“Are you hearing this?” Donghyuck groans, kicking at Jisung’s leg under the table. Jisung startles, blinking rapidly. “Stop him, Jisung.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Jisung offers, with a halfhearted shrug.
“Sure you do,” says Donghyuck. “Well, I think I don’t wanna be publicly humiliated, and what I say goes. Also, we don’t need sympathy votes. Also, Taylor Swift sucks.”
Chenle slowly rises in his seat, placing his palms on either side of his tray, and leans forward. “One, you might like to play leader but what Mark says goes. Two, in case you weren’t aware, there has been a four percent swing in favour of Girl Next Door in the past week alone. And three, I know for a fact that your first Apple Music download was Speak Now, a-freaking-men.”
“Oh my God,” Renjun squeaks, after a prolonged staring contest between Donghyuck and Chenle.
“Fight me, you small human,” Donghyuck snaps, attempting to stand up before Renjun drags him back down.
“Hyuckkie is all bark, no bite,” Chenle says to Jisung cheerily, shooting a smirk Donghyuck’s way. He tugs on Jisung’s collar in an attempt to haul him up, and Jisung barely saves his lukewarm, half-drunk coffee from spilling onto Donghyuck’s lunch. “C’mon, Jenny Humphrey, we’ve places to be.”
So Donghyuck hadn’t thought about this. It’s no biggie. Walking home every afternoon will be great for his health. Who needs a boyfriend with a fancy car his parents bought him when Donghyuck has two working legs and his pride!
That is until Donghyuck is just past the school gates, striding along with a put-upon pep, and Koeun—his neighbour and fittingly, leader of Girl Next Door—rolls up to the sidewalk and honks at him.
“What do you want?” Donghyuck says, continuing to walk. Her car creeps alongside him.
“Get in, dweeb,” Koeun shoots back, “I’m taking you home.”
“Did my mom put you up to this?” Donghyuck asks. He watches Mark overtake Koeun’s car, without even a glance Donghyuck’s way, and Donghyuck mentally throws up the middle finger at his stupid MAKGEOLLI licence plate.
Koeun gasps. “Is it so hard to believe I’d give you a ride out of the goodness of my heart?”
“Ummm,” Donghyuck pretends to chew over the question, “Yeah?” But he opens the side door anyway, forcing her to brake abruptly. “Thanks, Koeunnie, I love you,” he sing-songs.
The inside of Koeun’s VW is a pigsty. There are McDonalds’ bags strewn across the floor of the backseat, an empty bird cage resting atop a stack of biographies—Blondie, Aretha Franklin, Selena, to name a few—Hina’s pink drumsticks stabbed into the crevice of a seat, at least half of Koeun’s wardrobe, and when Donghyuck sinks into the passenger seat, he has to pull out a sweater from underneath him, lilac cashmere and smelling distinctly of Yeri’s Chanel No. 5. He raises an eyebrow at Koeun. She gulps.
“Soooo, do you notice anything different about me?” Koeun deflects, directing a wide and stiff smile at Donghyuck.
Donghyuck’s seatbelt clicks into place. He shakes his head just to be difficult, but he’d immediately noticed the metal bar speared through the shell of Koeun’s ear, her dip-dyed hair tied back loosely to show it off. The skin around it is a tender pink.
“Dude. Look closer.”
“Did you skip class to get that done?” Donghyuck taunts, tsk-ing like he isn’t totally jealous that Koeun’s parents let her get her ears pierced. She always was the cooler rockstar between them.
“Nope,” Koeun’s mouth pops. “I’m a good girl. I went during lunch.”
“Oooooh,” Donghyuck drawls, leaning back in his seat to gaze out of the window. The city flashes by, in amongst it the blue and pink logo of a Baskin Robbins, the Baskin Robbins, and everything warps, sluggishly, achingly, and then it’s gone, and it’s just a city once more.
“Thinking about someone?” asks Koeun, her tone a gentle and familiar teasing. It’s reminiscent of her mothering over Donghyuck and his sister when she’d be asked to look after them years ago. She used to have this packet of Sailor Moon band-aids—Donghyuck would run to her, presenting to Koeun every paper cut or scrape or booboo he’d ever had, and he would giggle as she struggled to open a plaster with her stubby fingers. Then they grew up, and those stubby fingers became insanely proficient at playing a bass guitar, and Donghyuck always did have a little bit of an inferiority complex.
“Thinking about how we’re gonna kick your ass at Bands,” Donghyuck retorts.
Koeun snorts, pulling into her driveway. “Yeah, yeah. Now get out, my generosity has its limits.”
Donghyuck exits the car, turning back to give Koeun a salute, and pointedly ignoring the, “Remember, Mark Lee isn’t worth crying over,” she yells at him. He hops over the hedge of rose bushes dividing their houses, and inside, he tosses his backpack next to the shoe rack, making his way to the kitchen to grab the container of kimbap he’d forgotten to take to school this morning.
His mom is out grocery shopping with the younger ones, and his twin sister, Sookhee won’t be home from tennis practice for another two hours—she attends a different school to Donghyuck, a small technical college across town—which means Donghyuck can practice to his heart’s content. No Sookhee banging on his bedroom wall when he so much as breathes. No small children barging in to provide lyrical advice in the vein of Cartoon Network theme songs. No mother sitting on his bed to talk about feelings, schoolwork, more feelings.
It means peace, quiet, aaaaaaaaaand
there it is again. Mark on his mind.
Donghyuck’s been trying his best to distract himself. He marathoned Game of Thrones the Sunday after the breakup, tried to ignore the fifty messages Mark sent him trying to explain, and crawled into his mother’s bed after band practice that night. She stroked his hair, listening to him until he knocked himself out blubbering about how he’ll never believe in love again, and that was all well and good, but it’s been two days and his brain constantly slips back to one thought: Mark fucking Lee.
He’d been thinking about Mark on the way home from school, when Koeun had asked. He thought about Mark during English as he cracked open his Othello text, for no other reason than he’d recalled how much Mark had enjoyed studying Shakespeare the year before.
He thinks about Mark now, lying on his bed in his school uniform, a Battle of the Bands poster in his hand. It’s crumpled but the writing scrawled across the bright artwork is still legible: Mark Lee, it reads in a loopy signature, followed by a note, we’re going to win this thing, baby, and even if we don’t, you’re still number one in my heart. Fuck, it’s the dumbest thing Donghyuck has read in his life, and he’d scoffed out loud when Mark handed it to him, but now—now—
Now the thought of winning Bands is all Donghyuck has.
Almost two years ago, Donghyuck had been messing around on the keyboard Sookhee got him for his birthday when his phone lit up with Mark’s name, and the text message: wanna start a band? He’d been joking, mostly, but after a week of endless brainstorming on the bus rides to and from school, the two of them decided it was something they had to do. Convincing the others wasn’t a difficult task—though there had been some contention over who’d play what—and ta da, The Millennials was born: Mark on drums, Jeno and Jaemin, bass and rhythm guitar respectively, Renjun on backing vocals and the keyboard, and Donghyuck taking lead.
Entering Battle of the Bands was pretty much a natural progression in their career. If you wanted to make it as a band formed in your sixteen year old friend’s garage, winning Bands is the way to do it. Girl Next Door had taken the crown the year before—though Donghyuck likes to tell Herin it was because they didn’t have real competition—and were the only thing standing in the way of The Millennials and 1000 dollars in prize money and a shiny gold trophy to boot this year. There is however one other band in the running: Superband. They’re comprised almost entirely of Math Club members, and their genre of choice is jazz metal. Donghyuck tries not to regard them very often.
The point is, The Millennials have got Bands in the bag.
Now all they need is a song.
Well.
Easier said than done.
On Wednesday evening, the band is gathered together on the Turkish rug in Jaemin’s garage. There are two metres between Donghyuck and Mark. It’s simultaneously too much and too little space. Donghyuck is leaning against the couch, legs slung across Jeno’s lap, and Mark is sitting cross-legged next to Renjun, quietly chatting to him about something Donghyuck can't hear. He’s slouching more so than usual, like there’s something physically weighing down his shoulders, and Renjun has reached up to halfheartedly massage his nape. Donghyuck wants to crawl across the rug and slap his goddamn hand away.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Donghyuck plucks one of the stapled sheets of music for a song Renjun and Jeno wrote from the pile strewn across the floor, reading the title aloud for Jeno to play the demo on his cellphone.
It’s a balmy sort of track, Smells Like Teen Spirit meets Love Yourself, the emotion building like frothy waves lapping against a sunsoaked shore. Donghyuck looks up from the lyrics to see Mark with his eyes closed, swaying lightly in his spot.
His first thought is: it could be the one.
His subsequent thought is: if Mark likes it, then fuck no.
“Nope,” Donghyuck decides, tossing the song onto the reject pile, which is already twenty pages thick.
“What the hell, Donghyuck,” Mark mutters, over the closing notes of the track going faint. He catches Donghyuck's eye, his expression one of calm irritation. In his periphery, Donghyuck sees Jeno wriggle his fingers, making a crackling sound effect in his mouth. “That was good.”
“How so?” Donghyuck folds his arms across his chest. His denim jacket bunches uncomfortably around his shoulders, and Mark raises a taunting eyebrow, but he stands his ground.
“First of all, the lyrics—”
“Are trite,” Donghyuck interrupts.
“Aw, you finish each other’s sentences,” Jaemin helpfully pitches in.
“I’m just saying,” Donghyuck continues, “don’t you think the bad boy good girl trope is a tad bit tired? Why not bad boy good boy at the very least?”
Mark squeezes Renjun’s midriff, a grin toying at his mouth. “Leave our token straight alone.”
“Am I meant to be offended right now?” Renjun asks.
“Ignore him, Renjun,” Donghyuck says, rolling his eyes.
“If you really believe gaying it up will make this track better, you wouldn’t have torn all three of my songs in half,” Mark bites out, letting go of Renjun, “Not even in half. In ridiculously tiny pieces that are going to be a pain to clean up. Sorry, Jaemin.”
“Boo fucking hoo,” Donghyuck replies, “Your songs sucked ass, your character voice is wimpy and idealistic, and his love interest sounds like a Ken Doll, or like, someone out of a Disney movie.”
“It’s song writing, Donghyuck, exaggeration is the norm.”
“I don’t know,” Donghyuck spits, “The protagonist sounds like the kind of guy who’d fall in love with any living thing. Hasn’t he heard? Commitment is sexy these days.”
Mark gets up suddenly, a tremor in his legs. “Yeah? Well, the protagonist fell in love with the love interest whether he chose to or not, but the love interest wasn’t as perfect as he thought. Apparently the love interest would gladly dump the protagonist over something he never even fucking did.” And with that, Mark, as though possessed by some incensed alter ego, turns on his heel, and storms out of the garage.
The silence that follows his abrupt exit is unsettling, to say the least.
And then Jaemin gets up, and disappears into the corridor after Mark.
Donghyuck clears his throat. “I say we have a vote,” he announces lightly, grinning at Jeno and Renjun’s bewildered faces. “We kick Mark out. No, not because of the, you know, but because he’s technically not even a millennium baby. He’s cramping our brand. What do you say, team? Majority rules?”
On the drive home, Donghyuck texts Mark a simple i didn't mean what i said abt the songs. they're good, from his mom's cellphone. Ten seconds later, Mark writes, ik u didn't. Donghyuck doesn’t cry despite his mom playing his favourite MJ record to make him feel better (it did, a little) but when he enters his bedroom, and takes one look at Markiepoo, the giant bear Mark won him on their first date, it’s game over. He snatches his blanket from the bed and hightails it down the corridor to Sookhee’s room.
He and Mark had known each other since Donghyuck entered high school, but only started dating this year. Donghyuck confessed under the bleachers of the basketball court after the band (Jaemin) got sick of all the pining and (Jeno) practically shoved him into Mark's arms when it was clear Mark was either oblivious or purposefully holding out.
Fast forward their honeymoon phase, and the breakup had gone like this:
The Millennials were hired to play at a pub in Koreatown—which was most likely not legal but Jeno’s mother knew the owner and put in a good word—alongside Born Outcasts, a group of four who’d won Battle of the Bands in Mark’s freshman year. Donghyuck, being in middle school at the time, only knew the bare minimum about the band: that Jeno and Mark are family friends with Jaehyun Jung and they have dinner at each other’s houses every other week, that Taeil Moon, the unofficial fifth member now crusades as their manager after recording the demo for their winning Bands track, and that Taeyong Lee has a beautiful face.
It all went pretty fast. One moment Donghyuck was milling about the pub after their performance, the next he was fishing his iPhone out of a toilet bowl, fighting back tears and trying to ignore the blowjob occurring in the stall next to him.
When Donghyuck manages to retrieve his phone, drawing out a metre of toilet paper in a vain attempt to dry it, the Instagram app is still open, on a photo of Mark sitting in a booth with Jaehyun, a girl hanging off either arm. Then the phone, with a zap and yet another alarming jolt of jealousy in Donghyuck’s chest, bleeds black.
“Fuck,” he mutters, holding down the power button in the hopes that it’ll resurrect itself. When it unsurprisingly doesn’t, Donghyuck sinks to the floor, looking away from the girl’s bare knees underneath the stall over, and rakes his eyes over the graffiti and stickers on the grimy periwinkle wall opposite him. The I WANNA MEET YOU, CALL 010-5627-BIAGRA written over a poster advertising imported Honey Butter Chips earns a hiccup-laugh from him. But there’s a simultaneous gagging sound next door, and he tears up again; burnt onto his eyelids, the image of Mark leaning against the bar in his leather pants and sleeveless shirt, looking as sinful as Mark could manage, a girl with strawberry blonde hair stretching forward, closer, closer, Donghyuck twists away.
Five minutes later, Jaemin finds Donghyuck, dabs at his eyeliner-streaked cheeks with toilet paper, and awkwardly shepherds him out of the bathroom to the sound of a dude Donghyuck vaguely thinks might be Born Outcasts’ Ten orgasming.
Ten minutes after that, when the Millennials congregate in Baskin Robbins, as is their tradition after a gig, a cone of Mint Chocolate narrowly misses Mark’s head, and Donghyuck’s saying the words, “We’re over, dickhead.”
Twenty minutes after that, Donghyuck is sitting in his mom’s bedroom, overcome with the kind of spitting fury that makes you want to throw things against walls and hear them smash to bits. He copies out Kurt Cobain’s suicide note from memory (I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away. Peace, love, empathy. Donghyuck Lee), nearly tearing the paper in the process, and when finally, he reaches the end, all the fight drains out of him, and he can do nothing but curl up next to his mother when she enters the room with a mug of hot chocolate, and cry.
Here he is again: in a fetal position on Sookhee's bed, reliving their entire relationship like a movie reel, over and over again. He’s sick of it.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Sookhee asks, having just come home from an after school Chem practical. She’s still wearing her lab coat, smelling of chemicals and burning. The mattress dips as Sookhee sets a knee on it, steadying herself with a palm on Donghyuck’s hip.
Donghyuck shakes his head in response to her question, burrowing himself even further into his arms.
“Alright. Wanna throw darts at his face?” Sookhee gently nudges at his shoulder, as though prising his body open, until he’s flat on his back. “No? No.”
“I don’t deserve a cuddle, but could you give me one anyway?” Donghyuck sniffs.
Sookhee hums, belly flopping onto Donghyuck, nuzzling into his neck.
“Sookhee,” Donghyuck says, after a while.
“Yeah?”
“I wish I—nothing.”
“What is this?” Donghyuck slams this month’s copy of Big Fat News onto the table at lunchtime; the title on the cover reads, thnks fr th mmrs: A Look into this Year’s Bands’ Drama by Yerim Kim. Chenle yelps, cowering into Jisung.
“Oh, nothing,” Chenle says, “Don’t you worry your pretty little mind. Jisung and I are handling it.”
Donghyuck picks up the newspaper, flicking it to make it straight, and starts to read, “‘We aren’t going to deny that the breakup had a profound impact on the band. Mark and Donghyuck are the heart and soul of The Millennials and to have something like that happen, it—it—’ at this point, Chenle, one half of the The Millennials’ PR rep, turns away to wipe a tear from his eye. ‘Poor Donghyuck won’t stop playing Taylor Swift songs. Oh God. Why won’t he stop?’”
“Technically, it’s not untrue,” Chenle argues, a rueful smile on his face.
“You really went and gave an interview to Yeri?” Donghyuck cries, “She wrote that I let our band be torn apart and without a miracle and/or team bonding boot camp, there’s no chance of us getting it together before Bands. And then she went into explicit detail about Koeun’s thighs in a pair of ripped jeans. Journalistic objectivity, my fucking ass.”
“You gave an interview too,” Jisung points out, “It says right here, Donghyuck, with red rimmed eyes and a demeanour of pure heartbreak, confesses, ‘I still love him, more than anything, but it was for the best. I think?’”
“She’s obviously lying, I would never—oh God. Ohhhh boy.”
During this week’s Advanced Music lesson, Donghyuck again took the opportunity to sit next to Yeri. “So, Donghyuck,” she’d said, chin propped up against her palm, her red lipsticked mouth deadly, “Talk to Yeri noona.” Ha, talk he did. It’s not his fault that where Mark bottles up all his emotions, Donghyuck’s are ready to spill out of him at any given moment. Yeri used that to her advantage!
“Has Mark seen this?” Donghyuck asks, slumping onto the bench.
“Uh, yeah,” Jisung answers, pushing his coffee towards Donghyuck in a show of comfort.
Muscle memory leads Donghyuck through the school—past the electrified fanfare in the corridors, the posters for Battle of the Bands pinned to every noticeboard, a fanclub member here and there selling unofficial merch—and down to the outdoor basketball court, where the team should be finishing up practice. It’s only as he’s reached the bleachers, in plain sight of Mark & Co, that Donghyuck realises that relationship habits really do die hard, and he isn’t even meant to be here. He doesn't have to be here but now that he is, he has to come up with an excuse—“Jeno!” Donghyuck yells, standing on his tiptoes and waving emphatically. “Do you want to grab food with me?’
Jeno shares a long look with Mark, and judging by Mark’s panicky hand gestures, they’d already made plans to go out.
Donghyuck glances at the bleachers, trying to gauge how quickly he can exit the scene before he all but dies of embarrassment.
“Donghyuck,” Mark’s voice calls out. Donghyuck pauses, turning back. Mark is walking towards him, his blonde hair damp and pushed back by a neon orange headband, a towel slung around his neck, with Jeno in tow. “We have to wash up first, but um, do you want to join us?”
Donghyuck narrows his eyes. “Where are you going?”
“Bas—”
“McDonald's!” Jeno bursts out, stepping in front of Mark. “I have this sudden craving for fries. Right, Mark?”
“Same.” Mark smiles, rubbing his stomach.
“Okay, I’ll meet you at the gates in fifteen?” Excuse me, I have to go hyperventilate in the bathroom briefly, Donghyuck doesn’t add.
Hanging out with his ex (plus Jeno) is less eventful than Donghyuck had anticipated. They were friends first and foremost, so although his chest seizes up every time he makes eye contact with Mark, it's easy to fall back into casual and familiar camaraderie over a table at McDonald’s. Granted no one brings up Bands.
Jeno does, however, bring up Bands.
“So, is it a solid no for mine and Renjun's song?” he asks, when there's a lull in the conversation Donghyuck would have once effortlessly filled.
“Personally, I love it,” Mark says, giving Donghyuck a sidelong glance over his vanilla milkshake.
“Me too,” Donghyuck insists, “But I just think we need a more meaningful song. This is the last year we're going to be together as a band in high school.”
A chair screeches against the monochrome tiles, and Mark is saying, “Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.”
“Graduation's a sensitive topic for him,” Jeno explains, after a moment.
“I know that,” Donghyuck replies, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth.
“Especially after you broke up with him,” Jeno lowers his voice, leaning in closer. “I shouldn't be telling you this, but judging by what you said in that article Yeri wrote, I think you deserve to know how he feels.”
“What,” Donghyuck barks, chewing noisily in his equivalent of covering his ears and chanting la la la.
“He says he feels lost now that he isn’t planning his entire future around you. You guys were meant to be together forever,” Jeno tacks on the last statement in a stage whisper, pulling a face and laughing a little.
“That's what everyone thinks about their first love,” Donghyuck mutters. Including him. He has their wedding vows somewhere, the ones they'd scribbled down on the back of a Lush receipt underneath the bleachers. They're ridiculous and not even half serious but if they were to ever get married, Donghyuck thinks he’d want those to be the vows he gives.
“What do you want to happen after Bands, Donghyuck? Let him go just like that and never speak again?” Donghyuck doesn’t reply, simply standing a limp fry onto the table and watching it droop, so Jeno continues, “Mark wants to reconcile, but he’s useless and doesn’t know how.”
“Saying sorry might be a start,” Donghyuck says.
“Hey,” Jeno says, nudging Donghyuck's leg underneath the table, “The girl came onto Mark, he turned her down. That’s all.”
“Yeah, I get it, I overreacted. But I still feel like,” Donghyuck starts, watching Mark exit the bathroom, almost tripping over a worker. He holds her arms and bows his head, tender and apologetic. “You've all been really unfair to me.”
Jeno cocks his head to the side, and hums. “Sometimes, we forget you're not as strong as you make yourself out to be. But still.”
Mark's grabbed a napkin from the counter, cleaning his round glasses as he makes his way back to their table. Donghyuck exhales. Mark plonks down onto his seat, freeing Donghyuck from having to give Jeno an affirmation. “What'd I miss?”
Donghyuck is reclining on his bed in complete darkness, listening to some good ole MCR, when Sookhee yells his name. “PHOOOOOOOONE!” she hollers, knocking on his wall. He drags himself to Sookhee’s room, scrubbing a hand over his face. When Sookhee hands Donghyuck the handset of the vintage phone she’s had to share with him until he gets his cellphone replaced, she mouths it’s Mark and scurries away in her slippers, slamming the door behind her.
Donghyuck stares at the handset like it’s a thing possessed for what feels like minutes until he hears Mark’s faint voice saying, “Donghyuck, you there?” He presses the phone against his ear, clambering onto Sookhee’s bed.
“Hello?” he tests, nervously fiddling with the curly cord of the phone.
“Oh, hi,” Mark says, “Didn’t think you’d answer.”
Donghyuck giggles a little before he can stop himself. It’s been a long time since he’s spoken to Mark over the phone. They used to talk for hours—“How’d you know to call Sookhee’s landline?”
“Renjun told me,” Mark says. Donghyuck can visualise him scratching at his nape. “I’m sorry about your phone.”
“Why’d you call me, Mark?” asks Donghyuck. He sinks back into the pillows with a yawn, and ignores the apology.
“Wanted to ask for your advice on a song,” Mark explains, “And I kind of wanted to hear your voice.”
“The cheeeeeese,” Donghyuck whines, clutching his chest so his heart doesn’t fall out. “Alright, tell me about this song.”
“It’s about you.”
“Mark.”
“Well, about us, really.”
“Mark.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Mark says, “But I really think this might be our song. Our song for Bands.”
“If you say so,” Donghyuck mumbles, trying to repress the anticipation that seeps into his voice. He crosses his legs, and waits for Mark to set up his speakers, and hit play.
It’s a rock ballad. About heartbreak. And longing. And friendship. Donghyuck can hear a piano being smashed somewhere in the instrumental. There’s violin too. “You know,” Donghyuck says slowly, “We weren’t meant to actually do what everyone expected us to.”
“That’s exactly why we should,” replies Mark.
“That doesn't even make sense,” Donghyuck shoots back. He feels sheepish in the face of Mark practically baring his soul to him, and—he doesn’t know if it’s an invitation. He doesn’t know what Mark wants.
“Do you like it though?”
“Mmm,” Donghyuck simply provides, because he’s scared. “We’ll do a run-through on Wednesday and see how it plays.”
“Damage control,” is what Chenle greets Donghyuck with at lunch the following Thursday. The entire band’s here, including Mark. Donghyuck has no idea where he’s been going for the past three weeks, but a gooey relief oozes through him at the sight of Mark sitting at their table like he’d never left. “I feel a little bad about the article—surprise!—so I’ve decided to host a party. My parents are in the Maldives, or was it Fiji? Whatever, the point is, my house is empty and begging for us to trash, sex, drugs and rock n' roll style.”
“Uh, that sounds like a visit from the police and three months of grounding just waiting to happen, Chenle,” says Mark, “What will Yeri think of us then?”
“There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Chenle protests.
“That’s what you said about the article,” Donghyuck points out, pushing his container of carrot sticks towards Mark. He’s hated throwing them in the bin because Mark wasn’t there to eat them for him. “But I think it’s a brilliant idea. We’ve got a song now—thanks Mark—and we’ve practiced till our fingers bled—”
“A poet,” Jaemin cuts in, swooning against Jeno.
“—but the public vote still counts for twenty five per cent of our score, and this’ll boost our cool factor tenfold.”
They all turn to Mark, who’s biting into a carrot stick. He doesn’t look any less unconvinced, but eventually he nods in assent.
Chenle claps his hands together. “Alright, Jeno, get your phone out and start messaging invites to the b-ball team.”
On the night of Chenle’s party that Saturday, Donghyuck learns that he's a lightweight.
To say he wasn't planning to drink would be a lie, but he'd never planned to get this smashed. But someone (Jeno) had invited Born Outcasts (along with the entire fucking school district), and Ten immediately takes a liking to Donghyuck when they’re formally introduced. And Ten, although well-intentioned, is kind of a bad influence.
He sits Donghyuck down in the crowded room of Chenle’s house solely dedicated to a pool table, and pours him a series of shots. He talks in detail about his open relationship with some guy called Johnny. He’s played the Parisian underground. He receives blowjobs in pub bathrooms. He’s a Cool dude.
“Dunno if I love or hate you,” Donghyuck slurs after his fourth shot, pressing his forehead into Ten’s shoulder.
Ten coos and smooths a hand down Donghyuck’s spine when Donghyuck keels over, feeling like someone just poured gasoline down his throat and lit a match on his tongue. “Both, always both,” he laughs. “By the way, your boyfriend is asking for you.”
Donghyuck looks back to see Mark standing by the door, making throat slitting motions at Ten. His hand snaps back when he realises Donghyuck’s watching him, and flashes his perfectly scalloped teeth before stiffly edging out of the room. “My boyfriend,” Donghyuck breathes.
“You can leave the nest,” says Ten, elbowing Donghyuck lightly, “Go, be free. Find true love.”
Donghyuck rises to his feet, and then immediately collapses onto Ten.
“And maybe lay off any more drinks,” Ten groans.
Donghyuck can’t find Mark but Mark finds him, cross-legged in the entrance of one of the balconies, watching the moon. Even over Lady Gaga’s discography blaring through the house, the splashing from the swimming pool down below, the drunken chatter around them, Donghyuck recognised Mark’s footsteps, the way he clears his throat before settling down next to Donghyuck, and sighs when he hits the ground.
“Markiepoo,” Donghyuck gurgles, hooking their arms together. “Where have you been?”
Mark’s hand hovers next to Donghyuck’s head, hesitating before he combs his fingers through Donghyuck’s auburn hair. “Was listening to the EP Born Outcasts are working on with Jaehyun. He offered me a joint but my mum’s like a sniffer dog, man. I don’t wanna get in trouble.”
The huge part of Donghyuck that is inebriated and distrusting wants to pursue the topic of Jaehyun, but no. Mark doesn’t deserve that. “Why are you so cute? You're such a goody two shoes,” Donghyuck blurts out, instead.
Mark blinks, his cheeks dusted pink. “Haven’t heard that in a while.” He shuffles forward, perhaps unintentionally. But it’s an invitation. Donghyuck knows Mark Lee better than anyone.
Donghyuck reaches down to grab Mark’s hand. “Mark.” He inhales. “I’m sorry.”
Mark tugs Donghyuck forward, kissing him square on the mouth. Koeun, who’d been sitting with Yeri in the room behind them, hollers. It lasts a heartbeat. Then Mark’s pressing their foreheads together, and saying, with a laugh, “I’m sorry too.”
It’s silly how quick it’s all over.
The week before Bands goes by without mishap, thankfully. Donghyuck and Mark don’t tell the others they’ve gotten back together, so as not to distract, and aside from Jaemin raising an eyebrow at Donghyuck picking up Mark’s fallen drumstick and tucking it behind Mark’s ear, no one questions why Donghyuck hasn’t cursed Mark’s name once. They practice, and practice, and practice some more, and still, Donghyuck’s nerves never subside.
(The night before D-Day however, an odd sense of calm fills Jaemin’s garage. They put down their instruments. Chenle brings a chocolate cake he’d baked himself, the barely legible words PRE-CONGRATULATIONS CHENLE (AND JISUNG) (and Mark) iced across the top. Mark holds up a slice, and says, “Whatever happens, we’re family. The Millennials are too dope to die.”)
An hour before they’re due on stage, Donghyuck breaks away from the throng of people backstage, and heads down to the bleachers by the basketball court. It’s a strange sort of familiar, being at school during the evening, on a weekend no less, and Donghyuck is thankful for the quiet after days and days of music.
Mark is there. His head snaps up at the heavy footfall of Donghyuck’s black boots, and he lights up, holding out his hand.
An hour later, Donghyuck’s barely rearranged the bandana around his mussed up quiff the way Sookhee had done it for him, and Mark’s mouth is a telling shade of red, and Jeno tries to hide a smirk behind the neck of his guitar, but unfortunately for him, his eyes never lie. Donghyuck sticks out his tongue, and Jeno turns away from the audience to make an obscene gesture at Donghyuck with his hand.
And then, The Millennials are announced as the last band for the night.
Mark nods at Donghyuck and tosses a drumstick into the air.
Donghyuck twirls around to face the crowd, steadying himself on the microphone stand.
“Two! Three!”