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The evening is much colder than Johnny anticipated. He didn’t remember autumn in New York feeling like this when they were here last. He’s just glad that he had the foresight to wear his black Moncler jacket. He and Mark have been walking along Fifth Avenue for the last half hour now, their cameras held up to their faces while they chatted away, mostly remarking about how good it was to finally walk around New York—walk around anywhere, really—without having to mask up anymore.
“Yo, it feels noice to be back!” Mark says, giddy, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his fuzzy black North Face jacket while Johnny takes the reins with the camera this time, Mark’s own having died while they were filming their time at Pelicana, tucked away in the second floor of a food hall in Koreatown.
While they walk, they talk about the tour so far, about the shows they’ve had in the West coast and the South. It makes sense that he and Mark have been tasked to record a new vlog for their return to New York, considering that their last time here was together, too. An anniversary, of sorts.
That last thought makes Johnny’s cheeks warm just as they turn onto 42nd Street, the New York Public Library looming into view while tourists and locals alike crowd at the crosswalks. He’s been calling it an anniversary in his head in the weeks leading up to their tour kicking off. When they landed in JFK and stepped out into a screaming, jostling crowd, Johnny felt like he was fully, properly alive again.
But more than being able to see the fans, more than being able to tour and perform and guest on television shows and film things for Buzzfeed and Elle, what Johnny missed was this: how he felt, how he moved when he was on American soil, like the tension was allowed to leave him. Like he could feel most comfortable in his skin because even though he knows that he and Mark are being followed around by fans right now (and the camera crews that tail them as they walk toward Bryant Park), there’s always been a sort of calm and ease that has settled in his bones when he’s here.
“Dude, this place is so pretty,” Mark says, looking around at the stores that line either side of the walkways, big yellow lightbulbs strung along the tops of them now that the Winter Village has been set up. “Bet they have hot chocolate here!”
There are people spilling out of the stores, looking at trinkets and hand-made soaps and t-shirts for a cause. Johnny follows Mark into a store that has “Natural Olivewood” painted at the top of the entrance in white and red paint. He picks a wooden bowl up, and Johnny angles the camera to get a better shot of it.
“Think we could pull that off for a JCC?” Johnny asks, loud enough for the microphone to pick it up.
“I think you and I should maybe stay away from anything that involves sharp things or carving, man,” Mark laughs, not looking at the camera or Johnny, too engrossed in the details of the bowl he’s setting down.
“Yeah no, you’re right,” Johnny replies, deadpan, playing it up. “You’ve probably stab me, or yourself, and then I’d still get blamed for it anyway.”
Mark doesn’t reply to this, not really. He instead laughs again, and then punches Johnny in the shoulder, which Johnny takes as an opportunity to exaggeratedly say “Ow!” like an old script. Mark just rolls his eyes at him.
Mark’s been doing this a lot more, lately, and it’s been the kind of thing that’s been messing Johnny up for weeks. Months, if he’s really being honest with himself, which is another thing he’s been trying to exercise.
Somewhere between them walking around Central Park in November 2019, and then landing in New York City again in November 2023, Johnny Suh fell in love with Mark Lee. And the thing is, even if they’ve never talked about it, Johnny thinks that maybe, hopefully, Mark has fallen in love with him, too.
That’s his objective tonight, anyway. For them to talk. And somehow talking here, in a city that feels both at once welcoming and foreign to them, feels like the safest option. Something about being here makes Johnny feel like he could get away with anything, be anything, say anything.
It almost feels like he’s in one of those romantic movies where the protagonists fall in love over the course of one night after just talking for hours.
“Hey, you wanna grab crepes and maybe put this down for a sec?” Johnny asks, gesturing to the camera in his hand. They’ve been filming non-stop. They can get more footage later.
Mark finally moves away from the wall of handcrafted plates and looks at Johnny, his purple hair peeking out through his black beanie. Johnny takes a deep breath, telling himself that there isn’t anything to be nervous about.
“Yeah let’s go for it,” Mark says, and politely thanks the store-owner on his way out. Johnny always feels a little guilty when he walks into shops like these without buying anything, but Mark’s already several steps ahead of him and Johnny runs out of time to try and buy another souvenir he doesn’t actually need.
Mark’s speaking with the manager that’s been assigned to them, and he only catches the last snatch of his “—eat properly and then we can meet up again in like an hour maybe?”
Young-hoon-hyung has his own hands shoved in his pocket, his face buried under a massive grey scarf. Johnny chuckles. Their manager has never taken to the cold well. “You sure you don’t want to grab dinner at the grill?” he asks, nodding in the direction of the restaurant with the entryway that has a trellis filled to the brim with green foliage. There are people in both the outdoor and indoor seating, eating big plates of fancy-looking food.
“We’re good,” Johnny says, taking over and folding the camera screen back into place. “Here you go,” he says. “So they can charge.”
“And so can we,” Ji-hye says, taking both his and Mark’s cameras from them. Johnny’s glad that Ji-hye’s here with them. He much prefers her to his old manager before he left the company. “You two enjoy. If you’re starving just come over. We have the company credit card, after all.”
The entire camera crew goes with them, and Johnny and Mark are left blessedly alone for an hour, which is exactly what Johnny hoped for.
“C’mon, let’s get you those crepes and hot choc,” Johnny says, tugging Mark gently by the fur of his jacket, a few synthetic hairs getting yanked out in the process.
Mark follows along, and he’s pensive, but happy, judging by the content little smile on his face while they walk down the steps leading to a quieter portion of the Winter Village, less lit up by the festive bulbs everywhere. The first stall they arrive at has vegan hot chocolate, and Johnny pulls his credit card out before Mark can say anything. “We’ll have two of the hot chocos, please.”
The person who serves them has green hair that defies gravity, and the most bored expression on their face imaginable. “That’ll be fourteen-fifty,” they say, and only nod towards the iPad on its stand for him to tap his card.
Mark takes it gratefully, the large cup cradled in both his hands. “I almost expected you to ask for salt,” Mark says before taking a tentative sip.
Johnny smiles, remembering their time in the food hall when they filmed their last JCC there. When they celebrated their “anniversary”, and all Johnny could do was giggle before taking a sip of his drink.
“You remembered that?” Johnny asks, unable to keep his smile in check.
“Of course,” Mark says, walking ahead of him again, looking at the shops to their left. “I never forgot it, man. It’s so weird to do that but so good.”
Johnny forgets sometimes that Mark’s mind is a sieve for things that are particularly sentimental, and over the years, he’s shown a remarkable selective memory for things that involve Johnny, specifically.
Lately, his and Mark’s relationship has changed to something that is quieter, more comfortable. He thought it was probably the music they spent so much more time making, but that was only part of it. Mark has grown so much in terms of how he handles himself, how he carries his confidence like a second skin—sure, steady. Johnny has always thought him a lifeforce, but Mark has really come into his own. He really learned how to slow things down for himself, to take on projects that he genuinely cared more about than the things the company was throwing at him.
And the decision to slow down also meant, somehow, slowing down in Johnny’s presence. They move around each other easier, better able to communicate with each other wordlessly than they’ve ever been. There’s always been an easy camaraderie between him and Mark, their body language shifting to just this palpable ease and comfort.
Mark leads them to the crepe stand, and this time beats Johnny to the punch, pulling his own wallet out and pulling out twenties. “You want the strawberry and cream one?” Mark asks, just as Johnny was about to open his mouth to say exactly that. Mark catches it, and laughs. “I know you, dude. Alright, I gotchu.”
Johnny moves in closer to him, just a fraction. He tells himself it’s for warmth, but he knows that that’s only part of it.
Mark gets his change handed to him, and he stuffs the five dollars into the top jar before they move off to the side, and he resumes sipping from his hot choc. His cheeks are pink. Not for the first time, Johnny thinks about kissing him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a couple of phones pointed in their direction, but he can’t even muster up the annoyance that they’re being followed. On some level, he’s grateful that they’re keeping their distance. There don’t seem to be any DSLRs aimed at them. He waves, instead, allowing himself to be good-natured at the group of three fans who are huddled together. He nudges Mark for good measure, and Mark goes, “What?” before he looks at where Johnny’s looking, and waves. The girls shriek a little, and one of them says, “Johnny, I love you!” before waving and then hurrying away, dragging the other two with her.
Mark’s laughing while he bumps his elbow into Johnny’s side. “Must feel good to be back, huh.”
Johnny smirks, and straightens his back. “Look, I’ve never pretended to not like the attention.” Mark rolls his eyes just as his number gets called out. Johnny likes to think it’s grown more and more fond as the months have passed.
They take their food and find one of the green tables and two seats scattered around them, tucking into their crepes while they sit in a secluded area. It’s dark enough that he doesn’t think anyone will bother them, and they’re sitting close enough that he can finally bring up what he wants to bring up without worrying about anyone overhearing.
“How’s your food?” Johnny asks, feeling a glob of whipped cream start to trickle down his finger and trying to save it before it falls on his jeans. Mark’s chewing really ravenously, as if they hadn’t demolished twelve chicken wings each just a couple of hours prior. He’s so messy sometimes. Johnny hates that he’s endeared.
“—s’good but like—” Mark’s tongue peeks out to lick at the nutella that’s smeared in the corner of his lips. It’s actually kind of disgusting, but Johnny watches like he’s in an anime and Mark’s face is shimmering. Christ. Get a goddamn grip, Suh. “A little too sweet.”
“Right,” Johnny says. He knows he’s stalling, but he literally has one, no reason to, and two, a limited time to have this conversation. His heart races, but he takes a deep breath and goes for it.
“It’s nice right? Like, we’re here again,” Johnny starts. “Like—like our anniversary.” God, it’s like every eloquent thing he planned for tonight has completely gone to the shitter. “I mean—like the last time—”
He doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s trying to say anymore, but Mark’s eyes half-moon while he swallows and wipes his mouth with his bare hand, and says, “Yeah! Like Thanksgiving. Too fuckin’ long, man. Air’s different here. I can feel more like, I dunno. Myself? Like I can breathe? Like we belong here? Haha. Which doesn’t even make sense cos we’re not from here, but you get me?”
Johnny smiles. He always gets Mark, even when he pretends he doesn’t.
“Yeah, Mark, I do,” Johnny says. Here goes nothing. “It’s just… like. I feel like so much has changed since then. And now being here with you feels like coming home almost?”
Mark finally gets the folded paper towel and wipes his mouth off properly. “Yeah? You feel that too, huh?”
Johnny’s face warms. “Or I dunno. I feel like wherever I am with you kind of feels like that.”
Mark stills a little, his face contemplative, like he’s trying to figure out if Johnny’s pulling his leg. “So it’s me, not the city?”
Of course Mark would respond with something conceptually abstract like that. “It’s you, Mark.” Johnny rests his crepe on his own paper towel. “Look, I think this might freak you out. But I’ve been sorta feeling like, there’s something here. With us. Like, I like you. I like like you, and sometimes I feel like it might be the same for you but I—”
This goes against so much of how Johnny usually conducts himself. He’s the listener in the group. People like to come to him because he’s good at giving advice, and tends to accept everyone for every single thing they come to him with, even the things that he doesn’t agree with. He doesn’t often open up, or make the first move when it comes to baring his soul, but something about Mark compels him to, like it’s imperative that he says this now or risk losing Mark altogether.
“Dude,” Mark says, his voice dropping. “I think I’ve made it pretty obvious how I feel about you.”
Johnny gapes like a fish. “Which is, uh… how?”
Mark exhales through his nose loudly, and leans in. “I always look for you, I always hang out with you. I can barely keep your name outta my mouth whether it’s interviews or just talking to the other members, man. Like, I mean. You know?”
This is the most ridiculous confession he’s ever been subjected to, and this counts the time he was forced to tell Yoona that he liked her.
“So—”
“So I like like you too, dude,” Mark says finally, smiling. Johnny’s chest blooms like a helium balloon. “God, what are we? Twelve?”
Mark is a wonder to Johnny. He’s grown so much.
“I think I had more game than this when I was twelve, honestly,” Johnny intones, sipping from his hot chocolate which has started to go cold. “So does this mean we’re—”
“Dating?” Mark fills in. He leans back in the rickety green chair, the metal creaking when he shifts positions to cross his legs and lean in closer. “I mean, I’ve been calling you my boyfriend in my head since I was twenty-two, so I dunno yo, you tell me.”
Johnny’s laugh startles him, too. Mark’s candidness always somehow manages to take him by surprise, but he doesn’t see himself tiring of it anytime soon. “You just really say whatever, huh?”
“Dude, how long have we been dancing around each other?” Mark says, incredulous, flapping his arms out once before they land on his thighs with a soft thud. “Cos by my count I’m pretty sure I did most of the heavy lifting in like, 2020 both on and off cam. And then I started flirting with everyone else for fun and that’s when you started to notice me, and I kept waiting for you to say something but you never did.” Mark says this with a shrug. “Except that we did get closer, and I just kept waiting.”
Johnny groans a little bit, messing his hair up. He forgot that Mark could be fucking insufferable. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it’s fun,” Mark says matter-of-factly. “Because I already decided that it was gonna be you—the first to make the move, the first to say something, the last to stick around.”
“The la—Oh my God,” Johnny says. His heart’s still racing, but his fingers aren’t clammy anymore. “I don’t know how to be someone’s boyfriend,” he confesses. “Like, I’m not sure how—”
“What part of I’ve already been calling you my boyfriend in my head did you like, miss, dude?” Mark laughs, tugging his beanie off his head and ruffling his hair. The soft curls are out, after fluffing it but his bangs are still kind of matted down. Johnny keeps getting punched in the gut when Mark says the word boyfriend. “You don’t have to know how. You already are. Just like this.”
Johnny grew up on rom-coms and he’s seen enough to know that most big confessions don’t flow like this, but somehow it makes sense that this is how it goes for him and Mark—just two guys sitting in Bryant Park with their crepes and hot chocolates, talking about how they’re dating now. Mark is still calling him dude, except now it feels like there are brackets in his head with the word “romantic” attached to it.
“I think now is the time that I should tell you I wanna kiss you,” Johnny says, sure that his dimple is showing from how fucking ridiculous the words sound coming out of his mouth.
“Yo, sloooow down, loverboy,” Mark laughs, bringing his crepe to his mouth again and taking a small bite. “Though like, I do wanna kiss you, too. Obviously.” Mark says this with a mouthful of fucking banana. It’s so damn cute. “Hotel. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Johnny laughs, fully flabbergasted.
“I dunno, maybe I should be playing hard to get,” Mark shrugs, taking an even bigger bite.
“You’re my boyfriend now, there’s literally no point though?” Johnny hisses, kicking him under the table.
“Hey—do not kick me!” Mark says, kicking him back. His laugh is stupid and high-pitched and Johnny thinks he could actually say the four-letter word right now. “Can you stop being a dick for like, three seconds?”
“I haven’t been a dick all night, excuse me,” Johnny says. He feels like he’s running on air.
“You brought up my fucking farting again on camera earlier,” Mark says. “I am like, gonna delete that footage! It won’t make the cut!”
“It will, because the editors love making your life hell,” Johnny laughs.
“Hey, you think if I say happy anniversary on camera again, they’ll keep it?” Mark’s halfway done with his massive crepe.
“Oh, one hundred percent.”
It’s probably the most anticlimactic confession in the history of confessions, if Johnny thinks too hard about it, but he’s happy and he’s sitting with Mark Lee, who has been calling him his boyfriend in his head since he was twenty-two.
Around them, people move through the Winter Village and sit with each other and check out the little shops. Their managers and camera crew are enjoying a nice dinner in a too-expensive restaurant while he and Mark sit in a dark little spot and pretend that their lives don’t revolve around performances and singing and playing nice for the cameras. Johnny can’t quite reach over and take Mark’s hand, not here in public, but he would, if he could. Even if Mark did wipe his fucking mouth with it and then wipe it on his joggers. Johnny thinks he’d kiss that same dirty mouth anyway. Mark would probably still taste like chocolate.