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“You were real lucky, son,” the doctor tells him one last time with a friendly smile, clapping Mark’s non-injured shoulder before walking out. The word bounces around his head, dredging up the images of four cars piled together.
Mark swallows, eyeing the white treatment room he’s in, and breathes out slowly. “I got lucky,” he murmurs at the floor.
He’s still faintly shaking, can still hear metal shrieking in his thoughts, tires squealing and a desperate honk loud in his ear. At that point the world flips, Mark’s memory one big blur as his car did a side-roll into the ditch. It saved his life.
“Lucky,” he mumbles one last time, then eases himself off the treatment table. He’s in nothing but his jeans and sneakers, the air chill but not cold on his exposed chest. Besides, the amount of painkillers currently flooding his system is enough to drown out any sense of heat. They had to pop his dislocated left shoulder back into place and stitch two cuts on his forehead from where shards of the front window sliced it. Other than that, he’s fine. A few superficial scratches on his cheek and chin, but not even a concussion despite his car doing a full 360 flip. Mark got lucky, because the other four cars created one big pile and two of the drivers died on impact, along with one passenger, while the other five people involved are all in critical condition except for a teenage boy who’s simply ‘injured’. Mark could’ve been added to that list, probably should’ve been, but sheer, random luck plucked him away from the carnage.
So, here he is, left arm in a sling and snug against his chest, face and upper body strangely numb while small tremors keep running through his limbs making it a lot harder than it should be to put his hoodie back on. They’d been able to save it because it’s three sizes too big, though his jacket unfortunately didn’t survive. Then again, neither did the car, but Mark somehow did. For now, that’s what he’s focusing on.
Because Mark got lucky.
He wasn’t in the pile-up. The fact his car flipped to the side saved his life while plenty of others weren’t that lucky.
Lucky.
Mark sits down again when his knees begin to shake. Breathe, he tells himself, you’re okay. You’re lucky. His head is in his hoodie, right arm wriggling inside his sleeve and then he can slowly pull the rest of the black garment down. His left arm is bulky underneath, the sleeve hanging uselessly, but Mark’s dressed and ready to go and lucky. Mark is really lucky.
With a quick check to see if his legs will hold him, Mark breathes in deep then walks to the door and cracks it open. The hallway is moderately busy with mostly nurses and doctors, the occasional patient walking by searching the wall for their ascribed treatment room. It’s all exceedingly normal, though the friendly nurse waiting with a wheelchair is a little less so.
The man grins at him, greying hair styled away from his face and baby blue eyes behind his glasses. He pats the wheelchair with an apologetic shrug. “It’s policy,” he states. “I’ll bring you down to the entrance and you can go by yourself from there, okay?”
Maybe the man thinks Mark will refuse, will somehow demand to walk by himself, but he sinks into the strange blue wheelchair with a grateful smile, limbs still trembling. “Thank you,” he manages, earning him a wide smile showing gap-teeth.
“My pleasure, sir. Just keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times. I’ll get you down in a jiffy.”
His merry mood draws the ghost of a smile out of Mark, mind still too full to respond with any more vigor. Because Mark got lucky.
Meaning in another universe, in another way, with nothing but the smallest of changes, Mark wouldn’t have gotten lucky at all. He’d be either dead on impact or lying in an ER with slim chances of survival instead of being wheeled down cream colored hallways with an eternally optimistic nurse behind him.
Mark finds his empty sleeve and starts to fiddle with it as the nurse pushes him into an elevator, the man humming a merry tune but thoughtfully refraining from talking to Mark. His thoughts might be written all over his face, or maybe just the fact that he is in thought. Whatever the reason, Mark barely sees the halls they go through as everything keeps circling to the same thing, as his thoughts constantly come back to the reason he’s shivering in his hoodie.
If Mark hadn’t been lucky, he wouldn’t be going home right now. He wouldn’t be going back to Jackson.
Lucky, he reminds himself furiously, pushing the ice-cold thought away and focusing on the squeak of the wheelchair rolling over the hospital floor.
Mark got lucky because Mark didn’t die, but mostly because Mark gets to go down to the entrance and call Jackson. His phone was in its holder on the dash when the crash happened, and later couldn’t even be found, meaning Mark gets to walk away from a fatal accident with nothing but a dislocated shoulder, bruises and some cuts, and gets to call home. Which also means he’s trying to paste together the words to tell Jackson that a) he’s sorry for missing dinner, b) sorry he didn’t pick up because his phone is presumably in ten different pieces, and c) managed to total their car but got lucky and is going to be fine.
Knowing Jackson and his tendency to worry about a splinter, let alone a cut, Mark isn’t yet sure how he’s going to bring it, only that he can’t wait to hear Jackson’s voice. After getting lucky and watching paramedics carry the bodies of those who didn’t out of their respective cars, Mark wants to do nothing else but to hold Jackson and never let go. At least for the foreseeable future.
The wheelchair stops moving, yanking him out of his thoughts and he’s blinking at the hustle and bustle of the entrance, nurses with clipboards walking past while further on family members and a few low-risk patients wait their turn. The reception is behind the corner on the left, the edge of the counter peeking out and Mark smiles for real, a certain weight lifting off his chest.
The nurse even comes around to give him a hand in standing up, not saying anything about Mark’s death-grip on his arm. The help is more than appreciated. “Thank you,” he tells him one last time, feeling suddenly strange that he’ll never know more about this man besides his face and kind words, but the other grins and gives him a mock salute.
“My pleasure, sir.” with a last wave he’s walking back the way they came, Mark inexplicably small in his sweater and feeling lost in the hallway without someone tethered to him.
Lucky.
He breathes in, holding his right arm protectively over his left. “Call Jackson,” he tells himself, needing to hear the words even if he’s the one saying them. “Just call Jackson.” Call Jackson and ask him to come pick you up because three busses back home sounds like too much to do by himself in his current state of shaky and tired because Mark could’ve died two hours ago and could’ve said ‘I love you’ to Jackson for the last time this morning but didn’t, and Mark just really needs to say it again.
A sudden shout breaks through his thoughts. “Then check again! He has to be here!”
Jackson. Mark turns in place, heart suddenly beating faster because his prayers are not usually answered this fast. The hallway and waiting area are void of any brown-haired twenty-six-years olds, and Mark is moving toward the reception around the corner as Jackson’s angry tone bursts out again.
“He’s not-! He’s here, and you just need to find him!”
“Sir, I can’t-”
“He has to be there!” Jackson yells, voice near breaking which matches with the insanity of the rest of his appearance. Mark rounds the corner, finding a sight so incongruous he stops dead. The love of his life stands in a rumpled shirt and one of Mark’s denim jackets, Jackson’s brown hair in complete disarray and eyes red from crying. “Please,” he begs the receptionist, “you have to check again. They called me, he’s here. He’s in surgery! He’s not-” he cuts himself off with a painful whine, tears once again spilling over.
The cogs in Mark’s head are slow and it takes ample seconds to piece the whole story together. For some reason his boyfriend is convinced Mark is a lot worse off than ‘lucky’.
“Jackson,” he says clearly, loving how those dark eyes snap to his in less than a second. He smiles at the man. “I’m ok-”
Jackson moves faster than Mark’s ever seen. One second he’s three steps away, then he’s wrapping both arms achingly tight around Mark, sobbing into his shoulder.
“You’re alive, oh go- you’re alive.”
“I’m okay,” Mark starts again, but then Jackson’s arms tighten. His boyfriend burrows into him with shuddering breaths, pressing so close it’s like he wants them to inhabit the same physical space. As much as Mark loves it, wants to lean in and press kisses all over Jackson’s neck, his recently dislocated arm protests despite the painkillers.
“Jackson,” he hisses, pain numb but spiking. He taps his lover’s lower back, the only part he can reach. “Gaga, arm, pain.”
Jackson shoots back as frantically as he came in, lower lip quivering and eyes drinking in Mark to the point it’s worrying. Then the other keens.
“Your arm,” he breathes, broken.
“It’s okay,” Mark shushes, too tired to understand what’s happening but needing Jackson to stop looking like his whole life is crumbling. “Gaga, it’s fine.”
Jackson snaps his eyes up. “It’s gone!” he yells. He’s shaking in his skin, face white enough Mark thinks the other might pass out. Whatever his boyfriend thinks, he’s making things much too bad in his head.
“Dislocated,” Mark corrects him, grabbing one of Jackson’s trembling hands and putting it on his left arm, squeezing through his sweater. “I dislocated it, they popped it back in. I’m fine.” He smiles, tries to pour his relief at seeing Jackson into it. Whether it fails or Jackson doesn’t even notice, the other isn’t having it. He’s still crying silent tears, face positively ashen as his hand travels from Mark’s arm to his shoulder, chest, and eventually his face. He freezes at the cuts, thumb ever so carefully ghosting over his skin. As if in a delayed reaction, Jackson’s left hand comes up as well to hold Mark’s neck, the extra stability too comforting to complain about the strong grip.
Then Jackson opens his mouth, voice crippled by grief and a painful hope. “I thought you were dead.” He continues in the same tone even though Mark stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “The police called and said there was an accident and that you,” his voice catches, “they said you were critical, that maybe you wouldn’t-” he can’t finish the sentence, sobs overtaking his words as he leans back in for another hug, this time keeping his right arm still while his left hand slowly falls to the small of Mark’s back. It takes considerable effort to stay strong for Jackson, mostly because his legs are literally losing their ability to function the longer he stays upright. Luckily, the counter helps him, and by extension Jackson, in staying on his feet.
He does kiss Jackson on the neck this time, a little below his ear, already mentally cursing at the officer who made such a horrendous mistake. “I’m okay,” he promises softly, hugging back with his right arm. “I got lucky.”
The words of the day do nothing to Jackson, so Mark whispers an explanation. “The car got pushed to the side and flipped over itself. It landed in the ditch, away from the main crash.” He leaves out the part where he still could’ve died from anything from a blow to the head to a shard of glass in the jugular. Jackson’s already sobbing enough. “I got lucky,” Mark repeats. He puts his head on Jackson’s shoulder, losing the pretense of being fine when he starts to lean more into his boyfriend than the other way around. It takes Jackson only a second to notice, then he’s slowly pulling away.
“You got hurt,” he counters with a rough voice angrily blinking the tears out of his eyes. Mark groans when his pillow moves away, his current level of fatigue promising a headache. Adrenaline wore him out.
“I’m just a little bruised,” he says with the hint of a whine. For the first time, Jackson’s lips twitch in an almost-smile, the man once again bringing his hands up to hold Mark’s face, eyes documenting every inch. When they land back on Mark’s eyes, there’s a hidden vulnerability in his gaze.
“Promise me you’re okay,” Jackson begs softly. He’s close enough Mark thinks about leaning in to kiss him. He doesn’t, not when Jackson’s gaze has reached a new level of intensity and the other still looks a hairs-breath away from breaking down.
He nods instead, pressing a soft kiss to Jackson’s palm when the man’s hand lingers on his face. “I promise. I just really want to go home.”
Jackson looks conflicted. “The doctor cleared you?”
“Yes,” Mark murmurs, feeling his eyelids drooping as his knees progress to being wobbly. “I’m bruised but mostly just tired.”
“Okay,” Jackson breathes, steeling himself with a large breath. He tucks some of Mark’s black curls behind his ear. After a two second hesitation, he leans in to press a soft kiss to his lips. Mark falls into it with a small sigh, not even caring both their lips are chapped, only Jackson ends it quickly, pressing another kiss to Mark’s cheek before whispering. “Then let’s get you home.”
Which is all Mark wanted in the first place and he smiles. He’s not even noticing other people anymore, leaning into Jackson’s strong side as the other puts a steadying arm across his back. The ground is blurry in his half-lidded gaze, Mark only too happy to let Jackson take the lead and follow on semi-reliable legs. He drops his head on Jackson’s shoulder after two steps. The warm kiss that presses onto his hair mere seconds later helps him forget about his shoulder being weird and rigid and swollen. When they get outside, Jackson stopping them at the nearest taxi, the man shrugs out of the denim jacket and tucks the warm material around Mark with another soft kiss.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand it, but he got incredibly lucky, because Mark gets to go home to Jackson.
The morning after is never a good place to start, especially when the doctor warned him that he’d be sore and bruised across most of his chest. What the older man hadn’t known is that Mark has a literal angel for a boyfriend because Jackson already put Mark’s pain medication on the bedside table with a glass of water. There’s also Jackson’s old phone holding a note saying he’s gone to the store and to call him immediately if Mark needs anything.
Mark can’t help but send a quick message after he’s downed the meds, thinking he can always blame his intoxicated state during any future blackmail moments.
I only need you
He drops his head with a groan, not seeing any benefit in moving more than absolutely necessary when his shoulder seems convinced it may no longer be attached to his body. Before he knows it he’s dozing, sunlight warm behind their curtains and birdcalls filtering through softly. Spring is giving them another beautiful day, only made better when the familiar beeps of their door unlocking come from the hallway. He smiles in his sleep, blinking tired eyes as he glances at the cracked-open door next to the bed. As expected, Jackson pokes his head in moments later, face breaking into a gorgeous smile when he spots Mark.
Mark chuckles before he can help it, brain sleep-addled and drugged. He’ll never tire of being the one to bring out that smile. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice nothing but a croaky grumble from sleep. Jackson shakes his head at it, dipping the mattress as he sits down with a soft gaze.
“Morning, Markie,” he smiles. “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty damn perfect,” he sums up, sending Jackson a mock-glare for the nickname. It’s not that he minds, on the contrary, but it’s a little game they’ve got going for months now and Mark would hate to lose simply because he was in a car crash.
Jackson nods approvingly at the empty water glass. “I see you found the wonder meds.”
“Yeah,” Mark grins, trying but failing to make his eyes do anything but half-mast. He sighs, content. “I barely feel anything.”
His boyfriend leans closer with a pointed smile, eyes cunning. “Is that so?”
He’s captured Mark’s lips before he can protest, not that he would, but Mark still has morning breath, only Jackson doesn’t care. A hint of desperation seeps in and Jackson breaks away before Mark can address it, though he does level the younger with a glare. Jackson looks less than impressed.
“You look about as fearsome as a baby chipmunk,” Jackson tells him with a fond smile, ruffling Mark’s curls. Mark swats at the hand half-heartedly, then gives up.
“It’s the meds,” he grumbles when Jackson keeps giggling, the other standing up and plucking clothes from their open closet. They’re Mark’s favorite sweatpants-and-hoodie combination.
“I’ve woken up to your sleepy face for over four years now,” Jackson turns around with the pile of clothes, dropping them on the foot of the bed with a sassy smirk. “It really isn’t the meds.”
Mark grumbles some more, only making Jackson laugh, the sound going up in pitch. “Here, lemme help,” he giggles, but Mark swats at him again, determined to at least sit up without assistance. He’s once again ignored and Jackson crawls on the other side of the bed, helping Mark up. “I always forget how much you regress in age when you’re sick,” Jackson muses with a smile.
“I’m not sick,” Mark groans in a low voice, dragging the sweater to him. It’s cold now that the covers are no longer on his chest, Jackson having helped him yesterday with undressing to his boxers. It’s for that reason he declines Jackson’s offer to help again, head already through the matching hole and arm getting there. “I’m fine,” he grouches. “Go do whatever needs doing.”
His partner quite clearly disagrees with his assessment, but he jumps off the bed anyways, hiding another smile at Mark’s struggle with the sleeve. “I’ll be right back!” he yells over his shoulder as he shoots out the door.
Mark rolls his eyes. “For what, I wonder.” He once again leaves his left sleeve hanging, maneuvering his feet over the edge of the bed and burrowing his toes into the rug he bought specifically for this purpose. He snorts when there’s a loud clang from the kitchen, Jackson’s shout of ‘nothing broke!’ following right after.
Jackson Wang is a world-class goof and personal angel, and Mark still can’t quite believe Jackson’s his.
“You need a hand?” he can’t help but yell, even as he’s trying to get one foot into his sweatpants while sitting down and barely moving his upper body.
Something bangs again and Jackson screams back. “Nope! No need!”
Mark sniggers, hair falling into his eyes. Laughing pulls on his chest and shoulder but it’s not to the extend it’s unbearable. The sweatpants are another matter entirely, Mark eventually opting for throwing them on the floor and carefully sticking in his right foot, then his left, balancing on his bed with his right arm and slowly working the pants up with just his feet. By the time he’s done, having stood up in the end to pull them all the way up, Mark groans as he sinks back onto his bed, dragging himself up so he is sitting against the headboard. Getting dressed left his shoulder feeling tight, further movement cancelled indefinitely until he can start feeling like a human being again. The fact his hair keeps falling into his eyes isn’t helping with accomplishing that, Jackson promptly laughing the second he walks in and catches Mark glaring at his own bangs.
“Would you like me to get the scissors?”
“No,” he sighs, pointing at the closet, “just a hairband, please.”
Mark only has them because JB gave them to him, something about officially entering the long-hair group. They simply make his life easier without resorting to drastic measures.
“Just a sec,” Jackson tells him, unloading his arms onto the bed and Mark does a double take when he spots a tray with two plates of pancakes, two cups of coffee and a bowl of gummi-bears of all things. He turns suspicious eyes on his fruit-shakes-for-breakfast-lunch-and-dinner boyfriend, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind when Jackson turns around again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Jackson answers quickly, holding up the hairband with a large smile. “Found it!” He rushes Mark, almost as if to keep him from asking any other questions, combing his fingers through Mark’s hair to gather most of his bangs up on his head. “You should probably shower after breakfast,” he says matter-of-fact. Mark shrugs, closing his eyes and letting the other do as he pleases because 1) Jackson’s ministrations feel painfully amazing, and 2) Mark can’t quite put his hair up himself with only one hand.
“Let’s see how breakfast goes,” Mark answers once Jackson leans back to admire his handiwork. Mark can only guess he looks even less ‘fearsome’ now, but Jackson’s happiness means he doesn’t care. The younger quirks an eyebrow at him.
“You don’t want to do breakfast?” he wonders, a hint of fear in his voice at which Mark frowns.
“’Course I do, but I’m already tired from getting dressed-”
Jackson shoots up, brushing a hand over Mark’s forehead as if checking for a fever. “If you’re tired we don’t need to do this,” he rambles, face immediately concerned.
“Gaga, sit,” Mark orders, patting the bed. His stomach lets out a perfectly timed growl, the pancakes smelling buttery and delicious. He grins at Jackson’s shocked face. “Guess I’m really hungry.”
Jackson grumbles at him as he stalks to his side of the bed, plopping down with a huff. “You timed that too well,” he pouts, age suddenly cut in half.
Mark snorts at his cute boyfriend, hand shooting up when his shoulder protests the joy. “Ow, ow, Jackson,” he giggles, “don’t make me laugh.”
“It’s your own fault,” Jackson teases, his hand already coming up to pull the pillow behind Mark back into place. Then he goes back to the pancakes, fiddling with the cutlery as Mark sags against his pillow, taking slow breaths.
“You’re impossible,” Mark mumbles in a low voice. Jackson lets out a nervous high-pitched laugh, then reaches out a fork with pancake.
“I’ve been told,” he smiles, nodding to the pancake.
Mark gives him a cheeky grin, leaning forward with his mouth open and needing to stop his smile when Jackson rolls his eyes and stuffs the bite in Mark’s mouth.
“You’re impossible,” Jackson tells him with a snort.
Which Mark can’t even deny, nor does he want to try because the pancake is heaven on his tongue, not too sweet and the right amount of fluffy, meaning Mark simply moans and drops his head back, chewing with his eyes closed. When he opens them, Jackson is looking at him with faintly red cheeks, his boyfriend of six years still blushing when Mark makes ‘those noises’ out of context. It’s utterly Jackson and extremely adorable. Mark’s heart just about bursts with how much he needs this brilliant contradiction in his life.
“I love you,” he tells him, watching as a smile as soft as cotton candy spreads across Jackson’s cheeks, dimples and all. It’s a mystery how he can feel both miserable and full of joy at the same time, but part of him wants to freeze time, wants to sit on this bed with Jackson forever, trading compliments and bites of pancake with the person he’s wanted to spend his life with since his first year of college. He softens his look, needing Jackson to understand. “I love you so much more than you think, Gaga.”
Jackson freezes, eyes going wide and wet as he stares. But instead of his usual ‘right back at you’ or ‘I love you more’, Jackson’s face falls, eyes filling up as he croaks. “Oh, Mark.”
He’s done something wrong, only he doesn’t know what. Jackson ducks away to wipe at his face, shoulders shaking.
“Jack,” he panics, trying to grab Jackson’s arm but the other is hunched too far away. “Jack, what’s wrong-”
“Screw this,” Jackson mutters and Mark’s stomach falls, the whole mood ruined because of something he doesn’t even know he did.
“Ga-” Mark starts bewildered only the other is already stalking around the bed. For a heart stopping second Mark thinks the other is going to run out the door, but Jackson crouches next to Mark’s side of the bed, eyes wet and expression radiating so much love, Mark gets an instant lump in his throat. He loses the ability to talk when Jackson looks at him like that, all soft eyes and soft smile and too much care.
“I’m done waiting,” Jackson fills the silence, eyes staring unwavering at Mark. “I’m done waiting for the perfect time or the perfect place because I already found the perfect person and that’s you.”
Whatever’s happening, Mark doesn’t get it. Jackson slowly falls onto one knee, biting his lip as he reveals a small black box in his hand. The implication hits at the same time as Jackson opens it. A slim silver ring is nestled inside, Mark’s thoughts ceasing as he stares at it.
Jackson cracks a nervous, tightlipped smile. “I had all these grand ideas about inviting everyone over and holding a speech and making it all super embarrassing and romantic, but then I got that phone call yesterday-” Mark snaps his eyes up to look at Jackson, to look at his gorgeous, selfless, heart-on-his-sleeve boyfriend and tears prick his eyes within a second because Jackson looks so stunningly in love. His face falls when he keeps talking. “For a full hour after I hung up, all I could think about was not having you here. I kept imagining coming home without you, having to sit on this damn bed and know you’d never wake up next to me again.”
“Stop,” Mark whispers, only his voice is mostly gone and Jackson fiercely shakes his head.
“I need you to know, Mark. I need you to know I spent a full hour standing at the edge of a cliff, too terrified to look down because I was convinced you’d be lying at the bottom.”
They’re both crying now, Mark opening his mouth but no sounds coming out.
“I’ve had this ring for a month,” Jackson continues. “I’ve been waiting and plotting and thinking I needed to find the perfect time to ask you, only to realize I’m never going to find one that’s perfect enough.” He drags in a deep breath, tears rolling freely over his cheeks. “I’ve loved you for years, Mark, and yet I was too scared to ask you a simple question.” He smiles his tight-lipped, nervous smile. “Will you marry me?”
The word gets stuck in his throat, tears clogging it, before Mark can force it out in a rough voice. “Yes,” he tells Jackson’s wide eyes. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”
Jackson sags in his skin, his following smile so bright you could harvest it for energy. “Really?”
The fact the other even needs to ask that is appalling. “Come here and kiss me,” Mark tells him as an answer, yanking Jackson close the second the man’s neck is in reach, Jackson makes a sound of surprise as he topples forward, using his arms to make sure he doesn’t land on top of Mark. He ends up straddling him instead, a position Mark can’t argue with. After one too many seconds of tasting each other’s pancake, Mark pushes Jackson’s chest to break the kiss, balling his shirt in his fist. He glares at the other, panting, and loves this freshly-kissed, bewildered look on the younger.
“I suck with words, you know that,” he tells him, keeping their gazes locked. “But there isn’t a single person on this planet I need more than you, who I love more. So, you better understand, that the second I put that ring on, I’m not ever letting you go.” He chokes on his words because yesterday could’ve killed him but it didn’t, meaning today almost never happened but it did. Jackson’s still staring at him with those midnight-dark eyes and Mark’s never been surer or more scared of anything in his life. “I love you, Jackson Wang.”
The other regards him for a moment, then pushes back down, lips warm and hungry. “I’m keeping you to that promise,” he whispers against Mark’s skin, salty tears mingling with their kisses. Mark would have responded, but he’s too busy capturing Jackson’s lip between his teeth.
It never goes beyond kissing, heated as it may be, Mark too spent to take it any further. By the time they’re done their pancakes are cold, Jackson once again next to Mark in bed, head leaning onto Mark’s uninjured shoulder and their legs intertwined at the ankles. It’s comfortable and cozy, made that much better every time Mark glances down at his hand and catches the glint of the ring. It fits perfectly, because Jackson’s too damn perfect for anything else. There’s even an engraving on the inside: Markson or never. It had been their favorite saying throughout college, mostly Jackson yelling it in the faces of anyone stupid enough to try and flirt with Mark. All Mark usually needed to do was glare at the person stepping a bit too close to Jackson and they’d understand to back off or else.
The phrase is their relationship in a nutshell, now sitting snugly on the inside of Mark’s ring. He can’t get enough of it, fiddling with the band every other minute.
After a long moment of silence, Jackson suddenly pipes up, hand coming up to pluck at the ring, and Mark’s hand, himself. “Do you really not love anyone else more than me? I mean, what about your parents?”
Mark’s already embarrassed enough about everything he said. He rolls his eyes and hides his blush behind a mumble. “That’s different.”
“But think about it,” Jackson continues, clearly building up to a tangent. “What about your siblings or nieces or- or what about any future kids? Kids always come first right?”
The sudden image of Jackson lying on their bed with a sleepy toddler on his chest invades Mark’s thoughts, the air choking him for no reason and he wheezes. “Kids?”
Jackson glances at him, a caught look on his face, and he backtracks. “I mean, if you even want kids. Because we’ve never discussed it for real, just hypothetical, and maybe-”
“Jackson,” Mark cuts him off once he gets his breath back, smiling wide at the endearing rambling. He intertwines their fingers and leans in close, loving the feeling of Jackson’s soft hair against his cheek. “I want kids,” he whispers, “I want to have it all with you.”
Because Mark, despite not knowing why he deserves it, never got as lucky as he did when he got more time with Jackson Wang.