Archive of Our Own

It’s better like this.

That’s what he has to tell himself, what he has to believe, when his phone rings. Not many people call him anymore, so he knows who’s face he’ll see on the caller I.D. Even if the ringtone is the same dull, default sequence of notes that he has for everyone on his phone, Haechan knows who’s on the other side.

There just aren’t many possibilities anymore.

Most of his friends don’t call him often, let alone at three in the morning on a Wednesday. The few times he hears from them are always in the afternoon, sometimes on the weekends. They’re all off at their respective colleges, leading their own lives and doing their best to make good decisions; sleeping during the night, acting responsible and somehow balancing the weight of education and work seamlessly.

Sitting alone in his apartment, covered in a quilt while staring blankly at his laptop, Haechan can’t fathom how they do it. Then again, he’s never been the brainiest of the bunch; most outrageous, sure, but never the smartest. That title goes to Chenle (much to Renjun’s chagrin), who would always call Haechan first whenever he won an award, or did well in class. The chump wanted treats and praises every time he accomplished his goals, and being the soft-hearted idiot Haechan was, he could never deny the kid.

Distantly, Haechan can still hear the screams of his tormented wallet, an eternally empty husk of all his poor financial decisions. Damn that gummy eye-smile, it’s impossible to refuse.

Of all the mistakes Haechan has made, the ones he made for his friends he still wouldn’t take back. Every late night spent quietly listening to rants, every papercut from flipping through their notes to help them study, every burned tongue from too-hot coffee meant to ease the ache behind his eyes; all of it was worth it.

He was content with his life, existing as the crutch, the person everyone can fall back on for support. There was no reason for him to think things would break apart, because he was young and stupid and thought they were invincible.

For someone who’s supposed to be invincible, he feels pretty fucking broken.

Haechan sinks further into the cushions of his couch, the soft material rubs comfortingly against his back as he slides into a better position, and picks up his phone from the nearby table.

He used to think that one day there no more bruises from catching his friends when they fall, from throwing himself under them, saving them the cuts and scrapes that would have only been skin deep. One day, he thought, there wouldn’t be a need.

How could he have predicted that once their need for his help ended, their need for him would too?

Sometimes he thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he had let them collide with the cold, unforgiving concrete, they would have realized. They would have understood. Shame washes over him every time, but he still can’t help but think about it.

He closes his eyes, breathing harshly.

No.

He doesn’t blame them for leaving, for being happy; he’s glad that all of his efforts to build them up worked.

It’s better like this .

They live well without him . They don’t need him hurt anymore. They left him behind are happy now.

Mark is the only one left who still calls at odd hours asking to come over. Perhaps Haechan should be grateful that someone still puts up with him. He should be ecstatic- answer the phone with sunshine in his voice and heart, preen under the attention and the fact that he’s not useless .

But he isn’t happy, can’t even fake the cheery tone he normally hides behind.

“Hello?” The voice isn’t gritty or distorted, and the clarity allows Haechan to hear the excited cadence in his friend’s tone.

The bright screen of his laptop blurs, and Haechan wonders if his eyes shine brighter than the dull brown they’ve faded to; if his tears conceal the depressively dark irises.

“Hi, Mark.” His voice is small, hesitant- a pitiful echo of the joy he used to radiate. The phone is tucked between his ear and shoulder while he shifts the heavy blanket he’s under so that he can breathe again.

It doesn’t help.

A weight still rests on his lungs; concrete that restrains the swirling emotions that threaten to drown him- a dam that suffocates him nonetheless.

If Haechan could breathe, he would laugh at the irony.

“Hey! For a second I thought I lost connection, you were so quiet,” Mark says, vibrant and bright and almost more than Haechan can take right now.

“I’m sorry.” Haechan has said that a lot lately, probably too much. Mark responds, something about not needing to apologize, but Haechan doesn’t know what to say.

The screen is almost blinding now, light refracting through the tears pooling in his eyes, making the half-revised thesis impossible to read. The words have laughed at him, mocked him, for over an hour, unchanging. He’s stuck, no matter how hard he tries to force the words to form coherent sentences.

Part of him wishes Renjun were here; he was always great at this sort of thing. After so many late nights spent hunkering down over essays they had procrastinated until the last moment, Haechan learned that more than academic help, Renjun just needed emotional support.

If he was here, he’d shoot Haechan one of those darling smiles, maybe toss a foot over the younger’s lap, and instantly know how to accomplish the task. It’d be done faster and more eloquently than Haechan could ever hope for.

But, if Renjun were here, he’d see the state Haechan is in; hair in a matted mess, deathly bags under his eyes, complexion pale and sickly. He’s pathetic.

His bottom lip trembles.

It’s better like this .

“Haechan? Did you hear me?” Mark asks, concern lacing what’s left of his glee. God, Haechan has to get a grip. Mark is the only one left who still talks to him, needs him, cares about him.

“No, I’m sorry I zoned out. What’s up?” he tries to back-pedal, muffling the phone with his should when he hiccups. The fabric of his sweater is soft, but it feels rough when he sweeps it over his eyelids. Soaked material clings to his neck- a hand clenched tight around his windpipe-, a suffocating pressure.

“Hey, we just went over this. You don’t have to apologize; if anyone should it’s me. I’m sorry I called so late.”

“No, it’s fine. I was up anyways.” Haechan doesn’t even know what time it is, but Mark is only ever free after midnight. The life of an up-and-coming rapper is absurdly busy, so Haechan can’t fault him for it. Mark does his best.

“College homework?”

“Yeah.” It isn’t a lie, but it feels like one.

“Hyuck… Are you alright?” Mark’s voice softens significantly, and Haechan hates that he stole the excitement that was so obvious in his friend.

“Yeah,” he says, almost too quickly. His mind screams “ No! ” but he swallows it down despite the pit lodged in his throat. Mark is still here. Haechan isn’t going to add more to his plate, isn’t going to give him a reason to leave. “I’m just a bit tired is all. Why’d you call so late?”

The brightness hurts too much now; Haechan shuts his laptop and sets it aside. He closes his eyes when the pain persists, allowing a fat teardrop to slip through his lashes.

“It’s honestly not a big deal. I just miss you and want to know what’s going on in our little Fullsun’s life,” Mark says, and Haechan bites his lip to stifle the cry rising in his throat. There it is, that stupid ‘ our .’ Haechan wants to laugh, can’t hold it in.

It’s bitter, and painful, and rips from his lungs like the scab off of a wound. Stinging at the sudden exposure, the vulnerability, all of the struggle from the past eight months flees from him as a damning, broken chuckle. He hates the guilt already souring in the back of his throat, hates the admission that tumbles from his lips in the form of a contorted laugh.

There isn’t an ‘ our ,’ not for Haechan. He’s not theirs anymore, hasn’t been for a while.

Mark doesn’t make a sound, and part of Haechan wonders if he hung up; if he realized what the others seem to have. He hopes that he’s wrong. What if after tonight he isn’t Mark’s either?

The laugh morphs into sobs, raw and agonizing and Haechan hates that Mark is a witness.

“I wish you hadn’t called tonight,” he gasps quietly, his knuckles white from clenching the blanket too hard. It’s true. Had it been any other night, maybe he could have held it together.

He checks the clock: 2:17 a.m.

“Did you know my birthday ended over two hours ago?” he asks. He doesn’t want to make Mark feel guilty. He knows the elder boy does everything he can, gives more than he ought to. But the dam cracks; anguish sloshes up over the side and spills through the seams. It crashes onto the only bystander, an innocent person, a friend who’s thrown paint and spitballs and so much stupid shit at the unbreakable wall that there’s no way to remember it all.

The line remains quiet, and Haechan is sure Mark left him too.

Haechan sucks in a breath, words jumbled in his mind and he tries to speak but all that comes out is a choked “ I’m so sorry. ” He doesn’t know what he did wrong, but he feels wrong, and an apology is all he can offer, even if no one is there to hear it.

Haechan knows Mark would never hurt him, especially not on purpose. None of them would. But they did .

A slight inhale is heard over the line, followed by an equally quiet curse. Haechan is surprised the elder stuck around, but he can’t tell if it’s for better or worse. His hands release the comforter to clutch each other, fingering over the scars on his palms.

Mark sucks at skateboarding, always has, and one day he lost his balance too quickly to catch himself. Haechan hadn’t thought twice before throwing himself against the pavement. “ I would rather get stitches in my hands than get flowers for your funeral,” he’d said when Mark cried in the emergency room. They were only eleven then.

“Haechan, I’m so sorry. Did the others call you? God, I’m sorry I forgot. Being busy isn’t an excuse, you’re my best friend, I-”

“You’re my only friend.” Haechan didn’t mean to let it slip out, but his head hurts and his heart hurts and, damnit, everything just hurts .

It’s better like this .

“What? Haechan that isn’t true,” Mark says, confusion and sadness evident in his tone. Haechan knows he’s hurting him. He’s hurting them both, but he can’t stop. All the lights are off in his house, and Mark isn’t even here but he feels like Mark can see him. He slinks further under his blanket, a shaky hand pulling it over his head.

“They haven’t spoken to me in over a month, Mark. They don’t call, or text, or anything. I haven’t even seen them since you performed at that club, and we barely even spoke then.” He hiccups as he speaks, gasps and sniffles and does nothing to hide the agony he’s in.

Mark doesn’t say anything, and guilt intermixes with every other emotion wreaking havoc inside Haechan. The poor boy just got blindsided by torment he shouldn’t have to endure. This isn’t Mark’s fault.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, you don’t deserve this. I-I’m just being too sensitive, it’s okay. I’m okay,” he says. No matter how much he doesn’t want to cry, he can’t seem to stop. He thought he did everything right.

“I thought that I was enough,” slips out before he can stop it, before he can mend the dam he’s kept on his emotions for so long. The misery, the loneliness, they are just the tip of the iceberg. Emotions that Haechan doesn’t want to name, doesn’t want to feel, swirl around in his chest, slice at his ribs, demand release.

He won’t.

One breath.

He can’t.

Two breaths.

He does.

Betrayed, abandoned, alone.

Words rise like vomit,- saltwater in his lungs tainted with bitterness and bile and putridity- and he knows it isn’t Mark’s fault. Mark just has the unfortunate fate of being a sincere, trustworthy human being. What Haechan believed was unbreakable crashes to pieces, and he is helpless against the flood.

He’s angry, but he doesn’t want to be. They don’t deserve rage or blame, deep down he knows that, but it’s buried under so much hurt that he can’t reach it- he’s tugged away by the current.

Why is it that after everything they’ve been through together, Haechan is the only one left behind?

They all kept in touch with each other. Haechan knows because he saw it first hand at Mark’s concert, heard it in the “Did you hear what happened to Jeno” and the “You’ll never guess what Jisung did in Psychology,” on the rare occasions he was contacted. And yet, despite having the time to hang out with each other, Haechan is kept in the dark.

A forty minute train ride isn’t that far.

A random text telling him he they miss him isn’t that difficult.

A phone call on his birthday isn’t too much to ask.

It lasts like that for a while, Mark not saying anything, listening quietly while Haechan sobs over the phone. The only breaks in his silence are when he mumbles reassuringly that he’s still there, or tells Haechan that it’s going to be okay.

He’s exactly what Haechan needs in the moment, and Haechan supposes that’s because people can’t be friends for over a decade without learning each other’s needs. His tears stop flowing after half an hour of babbling into the phone, and Mark stays on the other side through it all.

The thoughts are still there, the loneliness an ever-present companion, but they aren’t as loud now that he’s been able to voice them.

It feels nice to have someone listen, to have someone care. Selfish, maybe, but still nice. At one point he thinks about how many times this situation has been switched, with Mark breaking down on the other end as Haechan consoles him.

The only difference is that Haechan is always on the way to Mark’s apartment during the conversations.

Haechan doesn’t ponder that too long, not only because thinking in general causes physical pain, but because there’s a loud, incessant knock on his door.

“What- it’s 2:30 in the fucking morning, what kind of asshole- wait. Mark? Is that you?” he asks, confusion tinting his words.

“Yeah, and it’s really cold out here so please let me in,” Mark whines, although his tone is still soft.

“You’re in a hallway, not outdoors. You’re fine,” Haechan giggles, and this time it isn’t as bitter. It takes some effort, and a bruised knee, but he’s able to unwind from the blanket he used to shield himself from the empty apartment. Mark is still huffing about the inhumane temperatures by the time he gets to the door, and if Haechan didn’t appreciate how long Mark stayed on the line with him he would have hung up by now.

“You complain about the cold a lot for someone who’s supposed to be from Canada,” he deadpans, but he can’t muster any bite. The sadness is still a well within him, brimming in his eyes and dripping down his face. Talking doesn’t make it disappear, barely helps at all, but Mark is here.

Mark is trying.

“What do you mean ‘supposed to be’? I am from Canada!” Mark hisses, incredulous. One look at Haechan’s face, though, and his exasperation dissipates. The younger’s eyes are puffy and red, and there’s snot and saliva crusted around his nose and mouth. White lines streak over his tanned skin, marking the path of his tears. The top three inches of his t-shirt cling to his chest, and his dark hair is matted against his head.

He looks like shit.

It’s better like this .

“Oh, babe,” Mark tosses out the pet-name casually, like it’s nothing ( it is nothing ), and Haechan knows he’s emotionally fucked when it doesn’t mess with his heart. Before he can dwell on that notion too long, Mark tugs him into a hug, dropping the plastic bag he’d brought to the tiled floor, snacks spilling out.

One of his hands wraps around Haechan’s waist, and the other buries itself in the younger’s tousled mane of hair, guiding his head into the crook of the elder’s neck. The physical contact that usually calms Haechan, centers him, only breaks him down further. Knotted emotions tighten in his chest, collapse his lungs and he can’t do anything as he’s swept into the current once more, crying into the other’s shirt.

“What do you need?” Mark asks. Knowing Haechan for his entire life only gets him so far; he can’t guess what to do in a situation like this. He’s never seen Haechan like this before.

Haechan can’t respond, can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs, so he shrugs, pressing further into his friend’s embrace. Not crying would be nice, but that’s something neither he nor Mark have much control over. But Mark’s here, giving him the next best thing. Fatigue swims just beneath the ache in his chest. The lateness of night coupled with the emotional outburst has fried Haechan’s nerves and exhausted his system.

What he needs is to not feel this way anymore; to feel okay again.

“Haechan?” Mark breaks the silence after a few minutes. Still standing near the door, embracing the younger boy, Mark tucks his chin over Haechan’s head. As an afterthought, he places a chaste peck there. With any of the other boys he wouldn’t have done it.

Haechan melts a little bit more into his arms. Mark’s shirt smells like laundry detergent and fabric softener; it’s comforting- familiar. The scent soothes him, fills his lungs easier than the stagnant, cold air of his apartment.

“Yeah?” he says after a beat, voice wet and mucusy.

“Why haven’t you told the others about this?” His tone is gentle, but it doesn’t soften the bluntness of the question.

Haechan knew it would come eventually, when Mark decided it was time to work through the issue instead of letting it fester. Taking care not to dislodge Mark’s hand from his hair- touch has always been the fastest way to calm the younger down- he shifts so that he can speak more clearly. His breathing has evened out over the past minutes, but he still hiccups occasionally.

“They’re happy, aren’t they?” Mark expects him to sound bitter, or angry, or something . For an hour it’s been a whirlwind of all the hurt he kept inside; Mark prefers it to the apathy in his tone now. The younger can feel Mark tensing, so he adds, “It’s alright, Mark.”

“The fuck it is,” he responds, frustration evident in his voice.“They’re only happy because they don’t know anything is wrong. Not hurting them isn’t a reason to hurt yourself. They would be devastated if they knew, because they love you.”

If Haechan was less drained, he might have fought Mark on that. Emotions have run their course, and all Haechan wants to do is lie down and sleep. But, Mark isn’t satisfied with the younger’s silence, knows it’s avoidance rather than understanding.

“They love you, and they would do anything to show you that- to fix this. We still need you, Hyuck, always will.” Mark sounds so damn sincere that it almost brings Haechan to tears again.

Deep down he wants to believe Mark is right, but everything still feels like he’s underwater. His mind swims in the rush of chemicals his brain released, his eyes still wet with emotion, his heart still weeping blood from its frayed seams.

A headache throbs in his temples, white noise fills his ears, and the only thing keeping him from passing out is the anxiety buzzing in his mind.

Everything aches - his head, his sinuses, his throat-, and the only thing he wants to do is slip under his blankets and sleep until he can open his eyes without them brimming with wetness.

Despite this, he hesitates.

It’s stupid to be afraid of Mark leaving, he knows this, but fear isn’t rational; it can’t be argued out of existence just because it doesn’t make sense.

“Can you stay tonight?” he asks hesitantly, still ignoring Mark’s comments. He’ll revisit the conversation later, when he can think properly. Mark rears back, and for a moment Haechan is afraid he stepped over a line, asked too much. Then he sees Mark’s face.

“I can’t believe you thought I’d ever go anywhere in the first place,” he squawks, face contorted into one of the ugliest expression’s Haechan has ever seen. Instead of a snippy comeback, Haechan sighs, quietly offers his gratitude while he presses his cheek against soft cotton, and Mark’s expression falls.

“Do you want to go to sleep?” Mark asks, sweeping his gaze over Haechan’s frame. The ice-cream he bought from the corner-store has melted, reduced to a soggy mess contained by plastic wrapping, and his legs have ached for a while. Leaving this unresolved doesn’t sit well with him, but Haechan obviously doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.

Without distancing from Mark, Haechan has curled in on himself as much as possible, and won’t meet the elder’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Haechan murmurs, wriggling out of Mark’s embrace. The taller man lets him go- albeit reluctantly- stooping to grab the grocery bag from the tile. The kitchen is to their left, so he tosses the bag into the sink.

Mark is in an ongoing, constant state of exhaustion, so he deals with it better than Haechan- can still see clearly despite the heaviness of his eyelids and lateness of the hour.

Protective fondness swells anew in his chest when he looks up to see Haechan’s form tilting this way and that.

Swaying on his feet without the support of his friend, the younger blinks slowly. His vision is blurry, but he can’t keep his eyes open in the first place so it doesn’t make much difference. A yawn slips from his lips, and even that sounds pitiful, his chest shuddering. Before he knows it he’s shivering.

He doesn’t feel cold, so it must be an after-effect of crying so hard.

Either way, Mark notices his quivering form and immediately wraps his arms around the younger once more. “C’mon,” he says, slowly leading them to Haechan’s room. He doesn’t comment on the pile of toilet-paper wads that cover the smaller boy’s coffee table, pretends to be blissfully unaware of the makeshift tissues. A pang of regret strikes through Mark’s hear.

The light from the bedside lamp is dim, just bright enough to illuminate the mattress and a the clothes piled in the nearest corner.

Haechan crawls into his bed, his vibrant, fire-truck red sheets pooling around his knees.

“You still have these? Mark snickers, “Dude, how do you even sleep?”

Haechan fiddles with the hem of his duvet, shuffling to get comfortable. “I don’t know. I just grew to like it, I guess.”

Mark’s smile drops all over again. The younger used to hate red with an ardency only rivalled by his distaste for seaweed. There’s only one reason he’d ever have it in his vicinity.

When Jeno’s parents were finalizing their divorce Haechan wore red every single day to cheer him up, because it’s Jeno’s favorite color. Not pretty or fashionable outfits, no- Haechan made a public spectacle of himself every single day for six months. Scarfs, hats, shirts, cargo-pants, all of it was red.

Mark vividly remembers the day Haechan walked into class with flaming red hair, and how Jeno smiled so wide his puffy eyes closed completely. Huh, now that Mark thinks about it, maybe he was trying to shield himself from the garishly bright color.

Even a pair of heels was thrown into the mix, at one point.

More often than not it hurt to look at him, but Jeno smiled almost as brilliantly as the color whenever he saw Haechan strutting around like he wasn’t the ugliest sight in a ten mile radius.

It’s not like Haechan was too young or naive to know how he looked; this happened just last year. He just didn’t care about what anyone said, not when he was around his friends.

Everyone thought he was invincible.

Guilt has been a pit in Mark’s gut ever since he heard the first quiet sniffle, swelling more and more the longer Haechan cried into the phone. He should have seen that Haechan was struggling before it go this bad.

Now, his best friend is bleary-eyed, curled into his sheets, and obviously weary.

His eyelids droop once, twice before they close completely. “Mark…” he trails off.

Mark crosses the room, plops unceremoniously onto the bed. “Yeah?”

Haechan peeks one eye open- well, partially open. It doesn’t last long, but Mark discerns the hesitancy in the younger’s expression, and he thinks he knows what’s bothering the younger.

“Don’t worry, I’m staying right here,” he says, ruffling Haechan’s hair. Mark’s heart cracks a little deeper when Haechan doesn’t scrunch his nose or bat the elder’s hand away.

Apparently his guess was correct, as sleep overcomes the younger quickly. Before two minutes have passed he begins to snore. There’s a small pool of spit beginning to form on his pillow by the time Mark deems him truly asleep. At that point he is so out of it that he almost follows suit.

He can’t let himself, not yet.

Praying that Haechan doesn’t wake up, he gently slips out of bed, and exits the room. Mentally, he apologizes to the younger for lying.

When he pulls his phone from his sweatpants, the screen is too bright, and he has to blink until his eyes adjust.

3:59 a.m.

First, he texts his manager that he won’t be able to make his schedule tomorrow. Thankfully that shouldn’t be a problem, since Mark is lucky enough to have an agent with a soul. Next comes the more difficult conversation.

For a moment, he stares at the number at the top of his screen, wondering if he should do this. Haechan’s sobs echo in his ears.

“ I thought I was enough .”

Mark presses his thumb down, and listens as the dial tone begins. All it takes is three rings.

“ Mark? What the hell, man. It’s literally four in the fucking morning, ” Jaemin slurs, and a loud thump sounds through the speaker, “ Ow! Shh- please don’t tell me you’re drunk somewhere- ”

“Jaemin.” One word has a profound effect on the younger boy, silencing him. “Do you have classes today?”

“ Uh, yeah? What’s going on ?” Jaemin asks, worry shading his voice. Mark doesn’t mean to sound as abrupt as he does, but it’s late and he’s stressed and he’s at the end of his rope.

He run his hands through his hair, sighing quietly. “It’s about Haechan.”

“ Babe, who’s on the phone?” Jeno’s voice sounds far away, and sleepy.

“Wake him up too, I’m adding Renjun to the call. We can fill Chenle and Jisung in after.” Mark muffles his voice with his hand, and takes a seat on the couch. He prays Haechan won’t hate him for this.

~ ~

The first thing Haechan realizes when he wakes up is that he fell asleep in sweatpants, and a snot-sticky shirt. The second is Mark isn’t next to him.

He left-

Wait. Haechan can smell eggs cooking.

Panic.

He throws the duvet off himself,  rushes out of bed, almost tripping over a stray pair of jeans. Mark can’t cook for shit, and Haechan just leased this apartment four months ago, he has two left on his contract and if the place burns down he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

His sock clad feet skid on the floor, and he almost loses his balance a second time. A wave of nausea hits him, and the ache in his temples returns when he shakes his head to rid himself of the dizziness.

He braces himself against the closed door. Standing up so fast was not a good idea. His mouth is parched, and Haechan recognizes that he’s probably dehydrated.

Memories from last night hit him full force, and he doesn’t want to leave his room anymore, apartment be damned. He wants to stay here, hidden behind the wooden panel, safe in the familiarity.

One glance at his bed, and he changes his mind.

His eyes burn, but remain dry. Crying before took too much out of him, and the color he grew to tolerate reminds him of something he doesn’t want to think about anymore.

It’s better like this .

“Mark?” he calls, padding into the living room.

Immediately, he’s engulfed in a hug so tight he can hardly breathe, his face buried into Mark’s shirt. He stands shock still for a moment, not expecting such a fierce hug. Mark’s hugs are comforting in a different way; reassuring and patient. This feels like the other wants to infuse every last ounce of love into the embrace, force his emotion to seep through his skin and into Haechan’s, show what he isn’t saying.

It doesn’t smell like Mark, either. It smells like coffee, and something light- like coconut.

Everything full-stops, the nausea in his gut, the pulse in his temples, and Haechan’s heart beats so hard in his chest that he can hear it, and he’s sure the person hugging him can feel it.

It smells like Jaemin.

“I’m so sorry,” is whispered into his hair, wiry arms encircling Haechans shoulders tighter. The voice in his ear is soft, resonating, with the rasp of someone who hasn’t slept all night; it crackles like a campfire, yet retains the gooey and sweetness of warmed marshmallows.

It sounds like Jaemin.

“Jae?” he asks tentatively, face still buried in the other’s shirt. His arms hang limp at his sides.

“Yeah, Hyuck, it’s me,” Jaemin answers, reluctantly loosening his grip slightly so that Haechan can pull away if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to ask, or pull away, or know what’s going on. This can’t be real- a dream, a hallucination, a cruel trick of his addled mind. This isn’t real .

Even so, the urge to hug back is too strong to ignore for long, and Haechan clasps his hands behind Jaemin’s back tentatively. Fearfully. Nothing happens; he doesn’t wake up in his bed, the feeling of Jaemin hugging him doesn’t distort.

The taller boy remains a warm presence surrounding him, and it’s real .

Jaemin’s chest shudders, and Haechan leans away, wetness tickling just below his lashes. Sorrow shining in his irises, Jaemin meets his gaze, the skin beneath his eyes damp from previous tears. A sniffle sounds behind the man clutching Haechan, and he stands on his tiptoes to see over Jaemin’s shoulder. Three blinks to try to clear his vision, blurriness still swimming in his eyes, and Haechan almost loses it.

Jaemin must have felt his inaudible breath catch, his chest clench with a new tightness, because there’s a hand threading through Haechan’s hair, pressing him so close that the elder boy feels like he’s being strangled and suffocated at the same time. It’s relaxing. Eyes slipping shut, Haechan tries to steady himself enough to process the situation.

Renjun and Mark stand, leaning on the island that separates his kitchen from his living room. Jisung and Chenle are next to each other on the sofa, but neither of them meet Haechan’s eyes. Jeno is mostly hidden behind Mark’s figure and the countertop, but Haechan catches his gaze before landing back on Renjun.

Knuckle pressed to lips bitten scarlet, both shaking, Renjun can’t meet his eyes. Instead the flit over his face, cast down to his bare feet, and ceiling-ward again. The stifled sobs still reach Haechan’s ears despite the Chinese boy’s best efforts, and if the image of his friend so broken, so hurt, doesn’t tug at the bloodied shards of Haechan’s heart, the sound does.

A voice filled with honey and cinnamon was never meant to seem so hollow.

“Renjun.” He twists in Jaemin’s arms, wriggling just enough in Jaemin’s hold to make room for the boy. “Come here,” he says softly. Two steps closer and Renjun buries his face in Haechan’s neck, hands clinging to the younger’s t-shirt.

“What are you guys doing here?” Haechan’s voice shakes more than he wants it to, but it can’t be helped.

He hates that they’re all upset, feels responsible for it.

“I called th-” Mark starts, only to be cut off by Chenle.

“We all came as soon as we heard what happened. How you-” he sucks in a breath, “What we- I did. I- I acted so cold . I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.” It comes out choppy, like his uneven inhales, and he looks so genuinely distraught that Haechan just wants him to be okay. Wants them all to be okay.

“It wasn’t intentional. None of you meant-” he tries, but Renjun’s head snaps up so fast Haechan is afraid that he hurt himself.

“What we meant doesn’t matter, we hurt you, Hyuck. I hurt you,” he says, “I checked my phone, and I haven’t contacted you since March, and that was to rant about my own shit. I never thought- I didn’t-” His head drops back against Haechan’s neck, and the younger brings a hand to sift through the Chinese boy’s hair.

Something taut, vulnerable, snaps in Haechan’s chest, but it isn’t sadness. The emotions inside him don’t swirl or spillover like before. There’s something holding them at bay, strong enough to withstand what made Haechan feel like he was drowning.

They’re here.

“And then your birthday…” Jaemin trails off, shaking his head. Beneath the concern and guilt in his expression, frustration gathers his brows together and tugs down the corners of his lips. Haechan sees it, recognizes it, but it does nothing to hinder the emotion igniting in his chest; wet kindling taking to the new spark as though it has never witnessed the flood.

They know .

“Haechan?” Jeno speaks this time, in the soft, rolling tone that calms everyone around him. Mark moves to the side, slips between Chenle and Jisung on the couch. He wraps one arm around the youngest, who’s shoulders have begun to tremble.

Jeno steps into Haechan’s view, only a thin sliver of vision between faded pink fluff and dirty blond threads. He’s dressed head to toe in the most obscene shade of yellow Haechan has ever seen, and when he steps around the counter Haechan’s jaw drops.

Bright yellow jeans shouldn’t even exist, but here they are, glaring defiantly back at Haechan. That isn’t what gets him, though. A soft, pale shade of the sunny color criss-crosses over Jeno’s legs, the fishnet stockings visible through the wide rips in his jeans.

A fire crackles and roars, dispersing the lingering dew and Haechan just feels warm .

They love him .

“I was an idiot, and I’m going to wear this god awful outfit until you forgive me,” he tries to smile, the kind that crinkles his eyes- the kind that he knows Haechan adores. It’s a crying shame when even Jeno can’t smile, so Haechan sends him his best, brightest beam. Suddenly there’s a third person wrapping him up, spearing a hand between Renjun’s torso and his own, and damn near stabbing Jaemin.

“Ouch! Watch it!” Jaemin grumbles, shifting so that he’s farther away from his boyfriend. Jeno ignores him, until Jaemin nudges him away from Haechan. “Dude, shit he’s crying.”

Is he? Haechan hadn’t realized, but his face feels wet. Jaemin’s cheeks glisten too, but the same can be said for everyone in the room. Happiness blooms in his chest, and a sweetness simmers under his skin, warmed through.

They’re here .

Haechan shuffles, creates a bit of space inside the hug. “It’s good crying. I’m just- fuck- I’m just really glad you guys came.” He stands on his tiptoes to look over Jaemins shoulder, continuing, “But, what the hell are you guys doing over there? Are you waiting for a written invitation or something?” he asks, quirking a brow. He hopes the jest conceals his pitifully happy countenance.

Mark’s shoulders sag when he stands, looking like someone lifted the weight off his shoulders, relieved.

“I love you guys so much,” Haechan says once they’re all together.

“We’ll work it out,” Mark says quietly, arms encircling the group, ever the strong, steady presence. “We’ll do it together.” Haechan squeezes a hand through the small gap between Chenle, who hasn’t said a word the entire morning despite his normally loud nature, poking Mark’s chest before replacing his hand on the back of Chenle’s neck.

His friends are willing to make the effort; to come back and find him when he’s lost. He’s always been a step behind, but now there’s seven pairs of hands ushering him forward, into the center of the group. They didn’t forget, they didn’t move on, they didn’t leave him behind.

He squeezes the boys in his arms a little tighter, and tells the voice in the back of his head saying that this was only temporary to fuck right off. He trusts them, always will.

It’s so, so much better like this.