Work Text:
Mark’s eyes sting as he rubs them for the ninth time in the last ten minutes, half-heartedly trying to make sense of the messy bits of Hangul and English scrawled across the stained pages of his notebook. Despite the exhausted slope of his broad shoulders and the light quivering of his thin, ink-marked fingers, he breathes evenly, a determined furrow in his brow as he concentrates. Through the irritating haze clouding his mind, he’s distinctly aware of the pleasant gurgle and drip drip drip of his salvation.
If someone asked him to spell the name of Jesus Christ right now, he would respond “C-o-f-f-e-e,” without hesitation.
Absentmindedly, he taps his foot against the front of the stove, adjusts his glasses further up his nose, and takes up his pen to tuck even messier notes into the margins of the paper. He tries not to question if he’ll be able to read this in the morning; that’s a problem for Future Mark.
The seconds tick past -which is mildly unsettling because there’s only a digital clock nearby, but he decides not to dwell on that either-, and not a moment too soon he hears the merciful chime of the coffee maker. Relief swells up in him.
His chair clangs against the stove in his haste to retrieve a mug from the cupboard. He cringes at the ruckus, but doesn’t bother checking the stainless steel appliance for a dent. In a dorm with seven boys under the age of twenty, everything in this house is doomed (including Mark).
An attempt to pour coffee when he can barely feel his hands is bound to be messy, so it shouldn’t be a surprise when the liquid, brewed dark and bitter enough to kick his ass in gear before reality can flat out kick his ass, sloshes over the side of his mug.
Except, it is.
At first he doesn’t register bright red blooming across his still-shaky hand, or the oh, shit, hey, that hurts, until…
“Oh, shit! Hey- gah, ouch!” His hand whips back so hard that more coffee spills, and his fist crashes into the steel of the fridge, which is far too cold and hard for the delicate skin of his knuckles. Heat carves into his nerves, cleaves through each to set them alight with white-hot pain, effectively banishing his fatigue. Muddy tones discolor his arm in streaks, a simmering warmth much more bearable than that which scalded him, yet still unpleasant. “Fuck!” He whisper-yells, understanding that it’s 1:27 in the damn morning and his friends are going to kill him if they find him awake.
He pads quickly over to the sink, sock-clad feet a garish orange against the soothing pale tile, his heart pounding in his chest to the rhythm of his throbbing hand. He doesn’t wiggle around when the icy water douses his hand, and he most certainly doesn’t whimper at the uncomfortable frigidity of it.
Definitely not.
What is he even supposed to do for a burn? Bandaids? Ointment? He doubts the ‘kiss it better’ approach would work here.
“Why are you still up?”
Mark stills; his heart drops to his stomach as the undercurrent of sleepiness slurs Haechan’s already lisped words, his dulcet tone causing a tightness in Mark’s chest; he can’t tell if it’s fondness or stress. He turns, and his heart bungees right back up into his throat.
The light in the hallway flicks on, silhouettes Haechan and highlights his tanned skin. Even in the dimness, Mark can still make out his features. The slight boy’s eyes are still puffy with sleep, there’s some drool crusted on the corner of his pout, and half of his inky hair falls fairly across his stupidly pretty cheekbones, while the rest sticks out at odd angles. Combined with the sweet concern lacing his voice, it all makes him far, far cuter than he has any right to be.
Suddenly, the kiss-it-better approach doesn’t sound so bad, after all.
“...Mark?” The smaller boy repeats quietly.
“Huh? … Oh, oh yeah, uhm- I was just working on a, uh, thing,” is what he ends up responding, but only after he clamps down around the, “You’re really cute and I wanted to write about how much I love you because I literally cannot even with how cute you are, who gave you the right?” He knew exactly where that conversation would go- where it always does. As much as he can’t handle Haechan wearing only an oversized t-shirt and a pair of shorts, sleepy and sweet due to the early hour and his doting nature, he absolutely cannot deal with him when he’s filled with confidence. That pretty pout turned into a sly, knowing smile, those soft thighs pressed against him, the innocent facade in his doe eyes as his hands trace feather-light touches up and down Mark’s sides, completely aware of what he’s doing but still having the audacity to ask Mark why he’s breathing funny- God help him, Mark would burn alive if that Haechan made an appearance tonight.
This Haechan is almost as troublesome, though; especially when he’s dressed in Mark’s clothes.
Wait, he’s what?
“Is that my shirt?” His voice is not as shaky as he expected, and he mentally pats himself on the back for it. Achievement unlocked: ‘Try Not To Seem Like a Panicked Gay’. Skill: ‘Don’t Cry Over Pretty Boys,’ partially mastered.
“Not anymore,” Haechan sniffs, fiddling with the bottom hem, before he gestures to Mark. “You hurt yourself…”
“Huh? Oh, it’s nothing.” The taller boy curls into himself slightly, belying his words with a muffled wince as he hides his hand behind a dish towel.
Haechan snorts, rolling his eyes. “It’s the same shade your face turned when you first saw me naked,” he snarks. Mark splutters, choking on his own saliva and biting his tongue. The shorter boy slips closer, “Shh, you’re going to wake up the whole house at this rate. My God, Mark, you’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” He murmurs without thinking.
“Unfortunately.”
“Hey!”
Haechan just hums, whirling swiftly through the kitchen to prepare an ice pack for him- only because Mark’s hurt, not because he’s trying to hide a sickeningly fond smile-, also grabbing some aloe gel. “Sit,” he commands, patting the stool. Mark complies without hesitation, plunks down, and inhales a stuttered breath.
The cool aloe mixed with the heat of Haechan’s hands is an interesting sensation to say the least, but the love of his life is kneading his hand in smoothe, calculated strokes, so he’s not about to complain.
His boyfriend is so beautiful it’s not fair. At this angle, he can count every tiny freckle dusted across his petite nose, sloped gently with the cutest button tip that Mark boops 24/7, and his eyes- God, Mark wants to curl up and die in their warmth. Haechan has schooled his expression to stay blank, unaffected, as he tends to Mark’s hand, but the latter can see it.
The tenderness in Haechan’s gaze as he gingerly massages the aloe into his lover’s pale skin has Mark’s heart so full in his chest that it hurts. Mark forgets himself, staring openly at the slight furrow in his angel’s brow, and he just wants to reach up and smoothe his finger over the little wrinkles. He wants to sweep back the silken black strands curling loosely over his forehead, maybe kiss it after. He wants to trace over the constellations on his skin, to press delicately against his squishy cheeks, and watch that button nose he adores so much scrunch at the sappiness of the motion.
So, he does, because he feels brave and stupid and very, very in love.
Haechan is so focused on his task, on making sure he doesn’t hurt Mark more, that he doesn’t see him move, doesn’t expect to be caressed so carefully- like he’d break if there was too much pressure. There’s a long, silent moment where neither of them move, Mark’s hand cradling the side of his face. Instead of shifting away like Mark expects him to, he leans further into the embrace.
To the surprise of them both, Mark doesn’t recoil, or choke, or spontaneously combust. Instead, his thumb maps over the rises and valleys, merrily dotes on the perfect imperfections that he knows by heart. Warmth and affection unfurl in the limited space between them, lazily filling the air with palpable emotion.
It’s Haechan who breaks away first, unable to withstand Mark looking at him like that- fuzzy and sleepy and like he knows Haechan would never hurt him.
“Do you know you look like a lovesick puppy right now?” he mumbles, unable to summon any of the intended bite to his words.
Mark blinks slowly. “Yeah.”
Luckily, in the morning Mark won’t remember Haechan staring dumbly at him, his mouth open in a silent squeal. Apparently, the latter’s cheekiness prefers to sleep at ass-o-clock in the morning, abandoning him to Mark’s cuteness. The injured boy yawns like a baby lion, his tongue curling out nose scrunching, ending the moment. Suddenly, he’s all bleary eyes and lolling head. The raven-haired boy coos, and he presses a mushy kiss to his wrist, complete with a sloppy “Mwah!”
A cheery grin dimples his cheeks, as bright as a sunrise in the dusky room. He pats the icepack on Mark’s hand, directs the man’s opposite to clutch it tightly, and pulls him up, his hands anchored underneath the lanky boy’s shoulders. With some effort, and a face red from exertion, they are both standing- rather, one standing and one wobbling precariously. He sidles up under Mark’s arm, steadying him.
He’s not at all distracted by the lean muscle he can feel shifting with every step, or the defined bicep literally right next to his head, hot damn, okay he really needs to breathe. Dying tonight is not the plan. But, then again, neither was waking up in the middle of the night to the pained screech of a sleep-drunk imbecile, i.e. his boyfriend.
And yet, he finds himself under a wet blanket of a man, half-guiding, half-dragging his sleep-deprived, yet nicely toned, ass to bed. If he hits a few doorways and countertops on the way, no one has to know. (Spoiler alert: he doesn’t knock Mark into any hard surfaces, because he could never harm the fluff ball, as much as he threatens to some days.)
It’s not easy, and it takes them minutes instead of seconds to amble through the halls and into Mark’s room. The oaf belly flops unceremoniously onto his bed.
Haechan deems it a six out of ten, since his leg swung a bit wide while still airborne.
The wet noodle wriggles across the shark patterned comforter (they’re adults, they swear- well, for the most part, anyways), and the younger wants nothing more than to plop down right next to him. But, there’s that stupid nagging voice in the back of his head.
The coffee has to be cleaned, or it will stain and Taeyong will see it. He shudders at the thought, remembering the time he got ketchup and glitter stuck in the carpet.
“Where are you going?” Mark slurs, and the underlying whine in his tone tugs at his heart strings; it’s almost enough to keep him there, Taeyong be damned. He pauses at the door.
“I’ll be right back.”
Once he reaches the kitchen, the bed seems even more tempting. This place is a wreck.
After being ignored for so long, the dark liquid has pooled around a familiar red booklet, and trickled down the white cabinets.
The slight human rushes for any towel he can reach; the paper variety ends up strewn haphazardly about his feet to sop up the mess, while he desperately wipes away the muddy hue from the pages. A chorus of “No, no, no, no, no’s” fill the empty room. The paper eventually lightens after an onslaught of furious wipes and cautious dabs, but the scribbles are still barely legible.
Leaning closer, he squints, wondering if it’s just Mark’s crappy handwriting, or the effects of the coffee. Taken aback, he chokes on air once he’s able to discern the squiggles. His eyebrows disappear into his hairline, and a llama is murdered somewhere in the room. Oh, wait, no- that’s just him dying.
Painfully.
Haechan clutches his chest, taking deep breaths because his heart is palpitating frantically and he’s pretty sure there’s not supposed to be a stabbing sensation in his ribs.
Is this what a heart attack feels like? No, he won’t go out like this, he outright refuses. This will not be how the great Haechan Lee bites it.
“Mark you disgusting, sappy, vomit-inducing piece of shit,” he sobs quietly, reading the lyrics again to make sure he’s not imagining things.
“‘I saw an angel when I first saw you, you shone like an angel from heaven, I got curious. Who do you resemble to be that beautiful? I’ll be your morning star, and you are my angel’- bitch, who in the fuck!” he weeps, rereading the lines as his vision blurs.The butterflies in his stomach are stomped to shreds by the angry kangaroos now inhabiting his gut. Mark’s out to kill him, he’s sure of it. Love is a conspiracy and Mark is an assassin plotting to rip out his damn heart.
“Mission accomplished, you rat bastard,” he spits venomously, wiping a fake tear. Yeah, it’s totally fake. Mhm.
He stares at the pages a little longer, the towels beneath his feet completely soaked, and the mess mostly clean. Shaking his head to rid himself of the daze, and any stray tears collected on his lashes, he tidies up the sloppy area, tired and sappy and really wanting to hug his boyfriend. Once everything is taken care of, he carefully grips the book, and checks the time.
If he didn’t cry before (he did), he’s about to. If he didn’t curse his boyfriend’s name before (he did), he is seriously considering it. He huffs on his way back to his boyfriend, “That asshole workaholic, how dare he make cutesy shit at two in the morning!”
As he places the damp journal on his nightstand, he notices the ice-pack laying on the carpet. He kicks it under Mark’s bed. Warily, he regards the lump snoring softly on the bed: his mouth is ajar, and drool collects on his grey pillow while he hugs the sheets
to his chest.
Gross.
Despite himself, fondness flourishes in his chest. Mark has been neglecting himself in order to work for as long as Haechan can remember. The cinnamon-haired dork needs this, deserves this.
The oceanic comforter- which he’s pretty sure Mark bought from the kid’s section- is soft under his knees, the fabric wrapping him up in a little hug, and he sighs. He loves Mark’s bed almost more than he loves Mark.
The latter is knocked out, not responding at all to the foreign presence in his bed as Haechan lifts his arm and snuggles up to his side, wriggling until Mark’s leg is tangled between his- holy shit he’s got great calves too, when did this happen?- and his arm is tossed over the smaller’s chest.
“Love you,” he murmurs into the sleeping boy’s shoulder, placing a light peck there.
To his surprise, Mark rolls over, collapses on his chest and slides his hands under Haechan’s back to hug his waist. His lean weight presses against the younger’s tummy and his head rests directly over his unsteadily thumping heart.
Then, Mark smiles. It’s sleepy and soft and sweet, and Haechan can’t bring himself to push him off, despite not being able to breathe. “Love you, too, Angel,” Mark murmurs, and places an affectionate kiss on his chest, the warmth of his breath piercing Haechan’s skin to spread through his body, cozy heat thrumming all the way down to his toes. Those soft-spoken words seep from the air straight into his chest, curling protectively around the beating organ.
Is it beating? Haechan doesn’t think so.
He can’t breathe, but it’s in the best way possible. This shouldn’t be comfortable, and honestly it really isn’t, but he wouldn’t move for the world because Mark’s snoring again, just as quietly as before, his breath even and a peaceful look on his face.
Haechan winds his own arms around his boyfriend, contentedness in his heart and exhaustion in his bones, and tells the part of his brain saying he’s uncomfortable to shut the fuck up because dammit he’s going to sleep like this if it kills him. (Spoiler alert: he lives, but there’s an ache in his spine uncomfortable enough that Mark makes chocolate chip pancakes out of guilt. All in all, Haechan considers it a win.)