Chapter Text
In retrospect, he really should have seen this coming.
The moment wasn't extraordinary in any way. It was quiet, nearing dark. The sky outside the tiny window was painted in rich hues of pinks and oranges and would make for a sight worth gawking at, if Kunhang wasn't so busy doing so at the man in front of him.
He was just sitting there, marking printed-out articles, yellow hoodie stark against the white of the publication office. His face was scrunched in concentration, and the rhythmic scratching of his pencil and his exasperated sighs at a particularly apparent mistake were the only sounds that filled the room.
He wasn't doing anything special, but at that moment, Kunhang felt like he was gazing upon the most beautiful creature in this world and beyond.
He wasn't as gifted with words as Mark was. He much preferred the comfort of numbers and variables and syntaxes. But really, as he stares at Mark Lee slack-jawed and wide-eyed, he feels like he could write poems upon poems about just how irrevocably fond he was of this boy.
"Dude, you okay?"
He snaps himself out of his stupor. Shit.
"Great, fine," he says, blinking rapidly. "I'm good, thanks."
Mark stares at him. "You sure? Are you getting bored? You can go, you know. You don't have to keep me company."
Kunhang shakes his head. "It's fine. I was just spacing out. And I'm not leaving you, Mark. I'd really rather not think about you trying to go home alone."
"I can get home alone just fine, what are you talking about?"
It's Kunhang's turn to stare at him. "Mark. You can never remember which trains to take, and when you do, you fall asleep and end up missing your stop, then you'd probably try to take a shortcut and end up getting mugged."
Mark lobs an eraser at his head. "Asshole."
"You know I'm right."
"Don't you have work to do?"
Kunhang waves flippantly, grinning. "Finished it all 30 minutes ago. Catch up, Mister Editor-in-Chief."
Mark's cheeks flush. His glasses are slipping down his nose, and Kunhang just barely restrains himself from adjusting them for him. It wouldn't be out of character, but recent realizations have made even the mere thought of doing so too much for his poor, weak heart to handle.
"I told you not to call me that, Wong," Mark says, gaze returning to skimming the pages spread haphazardly in front of him. "It's embarrassing."
"It's cute! It suits you."
The crimson brushed across Mark's cheeks deepens. "Shut up."
Kunhang rolls his eyes and raises his hands in surrender. "Alright, just finish your work so we have time to grab some dinner before heading home. My treat."
Mark beams. "Dude, yes! Give me ten minutes. This is the last article, I promise. Goddamn sports writers and their technical terms, I swear…"
"Wow, you really just like me for my money."
"What can I say?" Mark says with a poorly attempted wink. "I'm a fucking college student."
Kunhang laughs, but inside he's screaming his metaphorical lungs out at how adorable Mark was.
Fuck.
---
Wong Kunhang first met Mark Lee at the little 7/11 across the street from the cluster of buildings that would make up his home for the next four years.
Kunhang shuffles nervously into the store. He needed food for dinner, but he was too busy to go grocery shopping. The convenience store was his only choice.
The bell chiming nearly makes him jump out of his skin. He must look like some kind of country bumpkin right now, not like someone who was born and raised at the heart of the Las Vegas of Asia. Fuck, why was this so scary?
Be confident, he reminds himself. Your Korean's fine. You have enough money in your pocket. All you have to do is grab the food and pay. Simple. Come on, Kunhang, you're better than this.
The little pep talk does nothing to calm his heart. It continues to race as he surveys the aisles, eyes roving over the product labels. It's mostly written in Korean, but there are tiny English letters that accompany it too.
He finds some noodles that look vaguely familiar, and shoves them into the obnoxiously green basket he's carrying. He grabs a ready-made meal from the little freezer too. Food, check. Now for the drinks.
There's practically no one in the store aside from a middle-aged woman and the disinterested cashier, so Kunhang takes his sweet time reading the unfamiliar characters. He tries to recall the proper honorifics one should use when talking to salespeople. Shit, was he supposed to use formal language? How was he supposed to refer to them again?
A blast of hot air distracts him from his spiraling thoughts. A boy around his age walks in, and he catches the tail-end of a conversation as the boy passes him. He makes for the snack aisle as he pockets his phone, and crouches to scan the selection of chips.
Kunhang turns back to the drinks, his train of thought banished to the back of his brain. He grabs two cans of Cola and a bottle labeled "Caramel Macchiato" and squares his shoulders. Time to pay. He can do this.
He strides toward the counter, belatedly shoves a can of mints into his basket, sets his purchases on the table, and promptly forgets every single word of Korean he knows.
His brain blanks. It doesn't register what the young woman behind the counter is saying, instead set on repeating a string of curses in Cantonese. When he opens his mouth what comes out is a confused, decidedly not Korean, but very English, "I don't understand."
The young woman can only stare at him. She tries to say something, but closes her mouth after a small, "You…"
They're stuck looking at each other helplessly, Kunhang mortified, the woman looking like she was desperately wracking her brain for an adequate English translation. Kunhang is close to leaving his purchases on the counter and high-tailing it back to his apartment and screaming when a voice behind him says, "She's asking if you want your meal heated up."
Kunhang turns to find the boy from earlier smiling at him, holding an armful of chips and a pack of beers.
"She's also saying that she's really sorry that her English is really bad." The boy continues in perfect, American-accented, English.
Kunhang sighs in relief and nods, "Yeah. I'd like to have it heated up. And I'm the one who should be sorry. I swear my Korean is better than this."
The boy smiles again and translates. The young woman nods happily and mutters an, "It's okay, it's okay," to Kunhang, who replies with a careful, "I'm sorry" in Korean.
"Thank you so much," he says to the boy, still embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, I really am much better at Korean than this. My brain just kinda blanked."
"Dude, it's okay. Don't worry," the boy replies. "I get it, I still stumble over my words and I've been living here since I was 14. Where are you from?"
"Macau."
"Cool! I've always wanted to visit. I'm from Canada. Vancouver."
The young woman returns with his purchases. She arranges them in a paper bag and punches the numbers into the register. This time, Kunhang understands what she's saying with no problem, handing her the correct amount of money.
He steps aside so the boy can pay.
"I'm Kunhang," he says. "Or Kwanhyung. In Korean. Kunhang is Cantonese."
Jesus, he berates himself. Just how much more awkward are you going to make this whole ordeal, Wong Kunhang?
"Mark," the boy replies. "Minhyung in Korean, but I still prefer to go by Mark."
"Thanks for saving me, Mark-ssi," he says, making a point to say it in Korean. He sheepishly bows his head the way he'd been taught. "I think I would've passed out from embarrassment if you hadn't."
"Ah come on, dude, I'm happy to help. And drop the honorifics. What year were you born?"
"1999."
Mark's eyes sparkle. Kunhang hadn't really noticed how attractive the other was until then, but wow. "Yo, we're the same age!"
Kunhang grins. Mark's enthusiasm and positivity was contagious.
"Are you going to college in the area, too?" Mark continues. A pointed cough from behind him bars Kunhang from replying. He turns to find the middle-aged woman glaring at them, and realizes that shit, they were still standing in front of the counter.
Mark's eyes widen, hastily thanking the cashier and collecting his purchases. The young woman chuckles beneath her breath and waves them along, and Mark and Kunhang scurry out of the convenience store like a pair of chastised kids.
"Yeah," he says.
Mark turns to him. "What?"
"I am going to college in the area. SMU, Class of '22. Computer Science and Engineering."
"No way," Mark exclaims. "I'm going to SMU too! Journalism. Dude, holy shit, we're going to be batchmates!"
Kunhang laughs in disbelief. What were the chances? He'd managed to embarrass himself on his fourth day in this foreign country, but also somehow managed to find a friend in a sweet, cute boy who also happened to go to the same school as him? Bullshit. Some guy up there was fucking with him. His luck was never this good.
"So we are," he says instead, shaking his head. He glances at his watch. It was nearing 5pm. The guys had wanted to meet at 7. He had to go now or he won't have enough time to get ready and find out how he was going to get to Kun's chosen restaurant.
"I have to go now, Mark," he says. "I'm meeting some friends for dinner. Thank you again for helping me out. I owe you big time."
"It was nice meeting you, Kunhang," Mark smiles. "And really, you don't owe me anything. But I hope we can be friends."
Kunhang smiles back. "Yeah. Friends."
Mark waves at him, and Kunhang turns to cross the street.
---
Kunhang is fucked. Well and truly, fucked.
Since the onset of his recent realizations, he's been noticing things about his friend that he hasn't really paid much attention to before. Like how the cheap fluorescent lights of the McDonald's they're sitting in don't do much to dim Mark's beauty. In fact, Kunhang would say they enhance it, in some twisted, pale way.
He watches Mark clasp his hands together, eyes fluttering shut as he mouths a prayer. Kunhang was never religious, but seeing Mark so devoted to his faith makes him feel particularly reverent. It doesn't help that when Mark's eyes turn to him, glasses set carefully in its case, they're glinting with the edge of a smile, sparkling the way they were on the day they first met.
He's so fucking screwed.
Kunhang forces himself to take a bite of his burger. He has to distract himself before he could say anything he'd regret. As much as he wanted to profess his affections right then and there, he doesn't want to risk the relationship he's built with Mark over the past three years. It was sort of like a difficult program, too many variables that could either make or break the code– it was better to play it safe and yield the best results.
"You're thinking a lot today," Mark says, shocking Kunhang out of his reverie. "You keep spacing out."
"It's nothing, don't worry," he replies. "Just thinking about next month's competition, we really have to start prepping soon."
"Hey, don't stress. You guys will do awesome! You've got a great team, and they've got a great pair of captains." Mark gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.
"Ha, sure. Thanks. And start eating, Minhyung, I didn't pay for this meal just for you to let the flies have it."
Mark rolls his eyes and picks up his fork, making a show of stabbing it into his (disgusting) spaghetti. It coaxes a chuckle out of Kunhang, and he ducks his head to take a sip of his Cola, desperate to hide his flaming cheeks.
The song on the radio changes, shifting from a fast-paced, 90s-sounding, hip-hop song to a slower, bell-like intro. It sounds vaguely familiar, like something he'd heard some time ago in a shop or something similar.
Mark seems to recognize it, though, as he starts mouthing along to the lyrics.
The other keeps his eyes on his spaghetti as he hums, focused on his meal. His lips pull upward ever so slightly.
Kunhang can't take it anymore.
He extracts his cellphone from his backpack and starts mindlessly scrolling through Instagram.
For a minute there, he'd lost himself. He'd allowed himself to imagine that Mark had been singing those words to him. That those words were for him.
Those thoughts were unwelcome. He knew better than to hope.
Mark has begun singing softly now, and slowly, tantalizingly, he brings his gaze to Kunhang's downturned head. He feels the weight of it, feels how the warmth in it battles the cool August breeze. Mark's song is quiet, and it's nearly lost to the din of the restaurant, but Kunhang still catches the words.
"In this big world, throughout this long time," the singer croons. "Among all these people, I only love you."
It's too much. His chair makes an abhorrent screeching noise as he excuses himself to the restroom.
He rests his palms on the sink, breathing harshly. Had Mark meant anything by that? No. He was just fond of doing that, meeting people's gaze when he was singing. Kunhang's seen it time and time again. This was nothing special.
Fuck. As much as he tries to reason with himself, it doesn't do anything to calm the jackrabbit beating of his heart. He surveys his reflection in the mirror, taking in the redness of his face. He looked like an idiot.
His heart is still hammering in his chest, and he still looks flushed as hell, but he schools his features into something a little more collected. This was fine, he could face Mark. He's seen Kunhang through every good and bad day he's had in the past three years, seen him attempt to flirt with people and fail miserably, seen him celebrate victories and mourn losses, seen him pull at his hair in stress and jump into the nearest person's arms in excitement.
And Mark knows him. He'd worry if he suddenly got all jittery and weird. He couldn't allow that.
So, damned as he was, he heads back to their table and faces his friend. He can see the concern on Mark's face, always such an open book. He stops the question before it can get past Mark's lips, mustering every bit of acting experience he has and bringing his hand to rest on Mark's, squeezing it reassuringly.
Mark understands, because he always does, and squeezes back.
They're fine. They're back to normal.
Kunhang intends to keep it that way.