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Here’s a little secret: Mark doesn’t actually know if everything’s going to work out.
On nights like these when he hasn’t tired himself out enough to fall asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, he even lets himself think about it. Extensively.
He hasn’t told anyone, and he obviously hasn’t let it show in his performance, but the niggling thought remains. It sits quiet and unassuming in one of the few dusty corners of his mind, a little like that flute his mom bought for him back in Coquitlam during a short-lived phase. The secret, too, lies mostly untouched until he stumbles upon it while searching for something else and becomes obsessed for some twenty-four hours. And then, of course, he forgets all about it again.
For those twenty-four hours though, it hurts—the unknown bits of himself embedded into the body of this secret. He runs his calloused hands over it, watching it shimmer and shine in the light, breathing in slow when he sticks a finger inside and feels the dust of untouched potential cling to his skin.
It’s just that he thinks back to his life before, sometimes, and he wonders.
In a lot of ways it’s pretty odd that he decided what direction his life was headed in and laid down the foundation in concrete a solid five years before he would’ve if he still lived in Canada. Thirteen isn’t for resume-building, it’s for being insecure about your nose and sulking about not getting invited to a birthday party. For Mark, though, it was a mix of both.
There’s no way to “get back to normal” once you do something like that, cut yourself out of the security blanket you’d been afforded your whole life. The stitches would always show. If he were the kind of guy to up and leave now, he’d spend the rest of his days playing catch-up, and that’s even less like him.
Not that it really matters anymore.
There are times Mark can’t remember what he used to be like before he was a trainee. It’s only been a year or so, but still. He’ll stare at the same ceiling he’s staring at now and try his best to conjure up memories of what he liked doing in his free time, his favourite book when he was ten, the first colour he got to pick out for his own room when he didn’t have to share with his brother anymore.
Maybe it’s not important—except, he’s sort of the sentimental type according to Johnny, so maybe it is.
His parents tell him all the time how proud they are of him, how much he’s changed, how he’s got so much GRIT and DETERMINATION and BELIEF. But he doesn’t even remember the crux of that evolution. People keep throwing these words down around him like they’re bricks, like it’s his job to keep them intact, to be the mortar everyone needs him to be. To not let that oh-so precious foundation waste away.
And he does because it’s his responsibility, but honestly, these days he’s just been trying to keep his head above water. If he’s learned to stand more sturdily on his own two feet, it’s only out of necessity.
What his parents don’t know is that he works as hard as he does to distract himself from the cracks in his be li e f. Making it big doesn’t seem attainable, not in this country he’s had to meticulously corkscrew his way into, not while making music in a way he never has before, not with people he can’t hold a civil conversation with. (Or—person.)
It’s a funny way to put it, anyway, “making it big”. Like Mark’s supposed to blindly cannonball into a career where nothing counts but the size of the splash, the spectacle. The higher it is, the better. No one thinks of the kid at the bottom of the lake. No one wonders if it hurts to hit the water that hard, if he’s okay sinking so low just to Make It Big.
At least he’s not alone down there, not that he’s glad about sharing the pressure, but some people… some people are easier to tolerate when he knows they don’t have life easy, either.
Lee Donghyuck is—interesting, to put it very, very nicely.
To put it truthfully, Mark’s lived in three different countries so far and Donghyuck is without a doubt the most frustrating person he’s ever had the displeasure of knowing.
It’s like, Mark is water—malleable, persistent, soothing—and Donghyuck is fire—unpredictable, intense, unforgiving.
Actually, no.
Mark is fire—rhythmic, warm, alive—and Donghyuck is sand—intrusive and stifling and only smooth on a surface-level.
No, hold on.
Mark is. Mark is something, and Donghyuck is always the inverse of that something—or the companion—no, the other.
Yeah. Mark is something, and Donghyuck is always something else. It’s why he spends nights like these checking for plane tickets to Vancouver on the cheap cellphone Johnny secretly bought him, why he’s been spending more and more time staring at his parents’ contacts, fingers dithering over the keyboard until his arms get too tired and he stows the phone away under the mattress again.
Mark isn’t one to up and leave, but when he closes his eyes he always comes to the same conclusion: he and Donghyuck were never meant to fit together in the first place.
(Until one day, they do.)
The last thing Mark remembers about the day before is pretending to be unconcerned about a red-faced Donghyuck hurling a balled-up shirt at his feet. Mark’s shirt, that he stole from Mark’s closet for an evaluation.
He’d noticed when they ran into each other in the halls and immediately confronted him about it, fed up with Donghyuck failing to respect his boundaries time and time again. But things had quickly spun out of control. Donghyuck’s eyes had hardened, his fists had clenched, and he’d started throwing out words like knives about Mark’s supposed allergy to sharing, pinning him down for his exoticism (because if there’s anything Donghyuck knows how to do, it’s push Mark’s buttons).
While Mark didn’t agree with anything coming out of Donghyuck’s mouth, he decided to take the high road, opting to do nothing but stare on as Donghyuck had his little temper tantrum. Unsurprisingly, this only made Donghyuck angrier, because everything makes Donghyuck angrier.
Honestly, he was like a little kid.
True to form, he stormed off soon enough and left Mark looking down at his hostage of a flannel sitting sad and traumatized at his feet.
He remembers thinking it was unfair how Donghyuck only ever seemed to want to bother him, and he remembers picking up the shirt, but after that… he’s not sure. No matter how hard he tries to reach for the memories, he can’t access them. Like last night was an episode of his life cut short, TV turned off for bedtime and plot left unresolved.
Logically, he knows he went to bed, because otherwise he wouldn’t have woken up, but he doesn’t quite remember how.
Either way, it’s too bright and early in the morning to use his brain, so he just chalks it up to stress-induced memory loss and blearily makes his way to the bathroom, bumping into walls here and there with his eyes barely open.
When he reaches the door, though, he stops in his tracks. In the bathroom, there’s a guy brushing his teeth who looks exactly like him.
Mark blinks once, then once again, but the guy is still there, sitting shirtless on the counter and scrolling through his phone with tired eyes. His shoulders are big and sharp, body clearly toned in a way that’s strange to witness. Mark has the barest suggestion of a toned stomach starting to form after all his time spent in the practice room, but he’s still practically all bones, so his most prominent descriptors tend to be ‘small’, ‘stick-like’, and ‘gangly’. This guy though, this guy who’s wearing Mark’s face better than he does, he’s armed with a healthy amount of muscle that doesn’t look like it’d vanish into thin air if he lazed around for a week.
Now that he’s not half-dead to the world, he can tell this isn’t the bathroom he’s familiar with either. How long was he asleep for, exactly?
Bewildered, he wordlessly watches the guy slide off the counter and tuck his phone into his pocket. He tenses up when the guy starts to turn, waiting to be noticed, but nothing happens. The guy’s eyes just seem to pass right through him before he spits into the sink, and Mark looks on in bafflement as who he can only assume is his older self calmly goes through the motions of a morning routine.
Old Mark drops his toothbrush into a cup next to another one, the side of his mouth quirking up when they cross to make a red and blue X.
Mark slaps a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t yell—he has a girlfriend???
Eyeing the mirror next, Old Mark tilts his head to the side and traces a shadowy jawline with his finger.
Mark slaps another hand overtop the first—he can grow a beard???
Old Mark considers the razor sitting on the countertop for all of two seconds before he looks away, grabbing a cloth instead to wipe the sink clean. Mark dazedly approves of both things, still so thrown that he forgets to move out of the way when Old Mark makes to leave—except it doesn’t seem to matter, because Old Mark just passes right through him.
Like he’s a ghost.
Like he doesn’t even exist.
Okay, he needs to lie down.
The universe must really love torturing him, though, because while attempting to stumble back to the room he woke up in, he’s stopped short by the sight of an all too familiar figure staring at something on the wall.
“No fucking way,” he mumbles with distant horror.
The figure’s head whips towards him, and sure enough, Donghyuck—not any older, not any younger—is looking right at him, eyes squinting in disbelief. He uncrosses his arms to raise a hesitant hand in a wave, as if testing the truth of what he sees, and Mark instantly crosses the space between them to smack it out of the air.
“What are you doing here?” He hisses, too disoriented to retain any sense of control. He couldn’t feign nonchalance right now even if he tried.
“First of all, ow,” Donghyuck says pointedly, eyes narrowing. “And second of all, do you even know what you’re doing here? Or what here even is?”
God, him and his smart fucking mouth. Mark could come up with a hundred different reasons for why he and Donghyuck should never debut in the same team, but if he had to pick just one it would be that. Donghyuck always has something to say and it always plucks at Mark’s nerves, rough and discordant and out of tune. It’s infuriating given how much pride Mark takes in being patient, usually largely unshakable amidst a pool of criticism.
The short bout of silence seems to satisfy Donghyuck, a smug smile forming on his face. “That’s what I thought.”
Jesus.
“I think we’re in the future. Take a look at this.” He tilts his head to the wall, stepping back to make some room as Mark warily draws closer.
It’s a row of mint-condition LPs proudly displayed by colour. There’s Frank Ocean and Bruno Mars, Michael Jackson and BoA, Adele and NSYNC, and even one that has a short message penned at the top, right before the album title swirls across the cover: Love, Yeri.
In their time, that would make no sense. But if Donghyuck is right, which he has the unfortunate habit of being, then it checks out.
He scans the row again and notices one of the Frank Ocean LPs isn’t one he recognizes, either. For a moment, the urge to reach out and check the songs on the back is overwhelming, if only for confirmation’s sake, but he flashes back to when Old Mark walked right through him and keeps his arms pinned to his side.
“I—saw me. Just now. Grown up,” Mark admits like it pains him to do so, still staring at Yeri’s album. For a split second, a pang of fear resonates inside of him at not having seen anything pointing to his own music career, but he jumps out of that particular train of thought before it’s even left the station.
“I think you have a roommate,” Donghyuck states, his voice far too close. Mark glances back and almost jumps at the lack of space between them, immediately taking a few steps to the side.
“Personal space, dude, seriously,” Mark reminds him for the nth time since they’ve known each other, wiping sweaty palms on his pants. A sour expression overtakes Donghyuck’s face but he quickly shakes it off, pointing somewhere behind him.
“Two rooms.”
Mark looks at the bathroom. “Two toothbrushes.”
“Who’d willingly choose to live with you?” Donghyuck snorts, leaning against the wall with his hands behind his back.
Mark nearly snaps back with a childish my girlfriend, maybe? but then thinks better of it. Two rooms could just mean he lives with a roommate, and being wrong about something in front of Donghyuck means never hearing the end of it for the rest of your life, so he keeps his mouth shut, takes in a deep breath, and mentally regroups.
“That’s not what's important. We need to figure out how we ended up here.”
“No, we need to figure out why we ended up here,” Donghyuck corrects obnoxiously. “Honestly, hyung, don’t you watch movies? We were obviously sent here to learn something.”
Mouth shut. Deep breath. Mouth shut. Deep breath. “You really think you know everything, don’t you?”
“If I thought that, then I wouldn’t say I think I know everything, I’d say I know I know everything, because then I really would know—wow, talk about no manners. Didn’t you lecture someone about walking away from a conversation two days ago?”
“Not a conversation if I’m being talked at,” Mark mutters, halfway down the hall.
He puts some space between them when Donghyuck falls into step beside him, feeling triumphant when Donghyuck seems to notice and clenches his jaw. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t say anything. Mark enjoys getting on his nerves from time to time as a form of payback, but right now, he’s not in the mood for yet another petty fight. He just wants to figure out what’s going on and go home.
When they enter the open space, they’re greeted by an empty living room on the left and an open-concept kitchen on the right. A fresh record player sings a foreign song from atop the island separating the two areas, and in the kitchen, Old Mark hums along, popping a coffee pod into the machine before leaning back against the counter.
Which is weird, Mark thinks, considering he’s never really liked coffee. But maybe it really is an acquired taste like his mom keeps telling him.
“You haven’t really changed,” Donghyuck notes, eyes raking over Old Mark before quickly doing the same to Mark. “Just taller. And stronger.”
Mark rolls his eyes, unconvinced. “He’s clearly, like, ten times more attractive than me. Look at his jaw, man.”
Donghyuck shrugs. “Maybe a little, but you’re still—I mean.” He pauses, scrutinizing Mark’s face for a second. “You don’t have a bad face. Right now.”
Mark flinches when Donghyuck’s hand floats up, thumb grazing his jaw.
“Ouch,” Donghyuck deadpans, expression weirdly muddy like he’s not sure why or how he ended up here before he snatches his hand back.
Mark frowns and looks away, rubbing his face like he can erase Donghyuck’s touch through willpower alone.
In the kitchen, Old Mark is holding his glasses up to the light. He reflexively tries to grab the hem of a shirt that’s not there, Mark assumes, before calling out to someone Mark hadn’t even realized was there, too absorbed in watching his older self.
“Let me borrow your shirt for a sec.”
“I didn’t even notice,” Donghyuck remarks, sounding genuinely surprised.
Mark follows his line of sight to the open refrigerator and sees a pair of feet sticking out from under the door which, despite his open-mindedness, he can’t really picture belonging to a girl. Is he a little disappointed about not having a girlfriend after all? Yes. But the intrigue over who his roommate is overpowers everything else, and he finds himself holding his breath as the mystery person slowly straightens up.
And then, like God’s pulling a fast one on him, Mark finds himself staring in horror for the second time that day at Lee Donghyuck.
Older, taller, and against all odds, quieter, but most certainly Donghyuck. He’s got the same set of moles, the same painful posture, and the same habit of never keeping his left wrist empty, a delicate, silver bracelet dangling in place of the chunky watch Mark’s familiar with.
It’s absolutely ridiculous. It would never work! They’d kill each other in the first half hour!
And yet.
“Now you know who’d wanna live with me,” Mays says faintly, hearing Donghyuck telling him to shut up but not really caring, all his focus on the incredulous scene playing out in front of them right now.
Old Donghyuck closes the door with his foot, a carton of juice in one hand and a fistful of something in the other. He walks over to the stove with none of that perpetual bounce Donghyuck has, all smooth, contained movements, and wordlessly cocks a hip in Old Mark’s direction.
“You’re so far, though,” Old Mark whines, stretching a little to tug on Old Donghyuck’s shirt as he unloads some kind of chopped vegetable into a mixing bowl.
Embarrassment colours in Mark’s ears at the tone his older self took, and he knows that he absolutely cannot look at Donghyuck from here on out. Thankfully, Donghyuck doesn’t seem to have any quips ready for fire, his attention on the kitchen.
“Maybe if you didn’t walk around half-naked all the time we wouldn’t be having this problem,” Old Donghyuck says, sliding the carton in Old Mark’s general direction as he mixes the contents of the bowl with chopsticks.
“But then you wouldn’t get to see my rockin’ bod,” Old Mark grins. Mark resists the urge to close his eyes, toes curling. How is his future self such a loser? And in front of Donghyuck, of all people. “And I wouldn’t get to do this.”
A particularly powerful tug finally unglues Old Donghyuck from his place, pulling him right in front of Old Mark.
“I can think of plenty of different contexts where both of those things can happen,” Old Donghyuck replies drily, and Mark almost says something about how Donghyuck hasn’t changed either, how he’s still got a smart mouth and still loves to tick Mark off, but he bites his tongue when he sees the small smile on Old Donghyuck’s face, when he realizes Old Mark isn’t arguing back. Instead, Old Mark just laughs lightly and ducks his head to clean his glasses with Old Donghyuck’s shirt.
Because this isn’t a real fight.
Huh.
They’re so close it’s almost kind of uncomfortable to watch, but Mark isn’t sure how to voice something like that when Donghyuck is so quiet and unmoving next to him. It’s always hard to figure out what Donghyuck’s thinking, but it becomes nearly impossible to tell when it’s clear Donghyuck doesn’t want anyone to know to begin with.
Old Donghyuck copies Old Mark, looking down until their hairlines bump. In a soft, playful voice, he says, “Interesting technique, professor.”
“Don’t backseat clean,” Old Mark replies, voice a little muffled. Old Donghyuck laughs, and the sound feels like a physical hit to the chest. Teetering, Mark takes a step back.
Something’s off. This can’t be his future. It can’t. They don’t—
He looks at Donghyuck, who’s picking at the skin around his thumb, a nervous tic. The rest of him is perfectly stable, perfectly solid, but his hands have always been the most expressive parts of him.
Mark doesn’t know when he started keeping track of little things like that.
Old Mark puts his glasses back on, gently lifting his head so Old Donghyuck doesn’t accidentally get a nose to the eye, and then they’re face-to-face, and he’s smiling at Old Donghyuck like—like Mark’s camera-shy mom smiles at his dad in pictures. Like Old Mark feels safe, and loved, and completely at home in himself.
With Old Donghyuck.
All at once, Mark doesn’t think they should be watching this.
“You didn’t shave,” Old Donghyuck murmurs, running the pad of his thumb over Old Mark’s stubble.
Mark touches his own jaw without thinking, eyes fluttering down to Donghyuck’s clenched fist.
“I know how much you love getting beard burn.”
Mark swallows, taking another step back.
“Beard is an ambitious term, hyung.”
Donghyuck doesn’t move.
“I’m an ambitious guy, Hyuck.”
Old Mark kisses—kisses—KISSES—Old Donghyuck on the cheek, eyes twinkling.
“Mm. Not ambitious enough,” Old Donghyuck says very seriously before pulling Old Mark in by the neck and—
Mark closes his eyes. When he opens them, Donghyuck has turned around and his staring at him with wide eyes, blocking the view.
“We… I…” he trails off, seemingly at a loss for words for what has to be the first damn time in his entire life.
Unfortunately, Mark can’t capitalize on the rare opportunity, finding he hasn’t got any words left, either. They look at each other for a few beats, still like they’re being watched by something bigger and hungrier than the both of them combined—and then Donghyuck’s eyes slip down to his mouth for a split second, and Mark does the only thing he can think of doing: he walks away.
In his room (their room?) he sinks to the ground, wraps his arms around his knees, and hopes Donghyuck has the good sense not to follow him this one time, at least not until he’s fully calmed down.
Here’s the thing.
The moment Mark stepped foot into the imposing four walls of SM, he told himself that if he really did end up becoming an idol, if he really did make that sparkling splash, life after was going to be different.
When he was twelve, he got exactly six months to contemplate what it meant that his palms got sweaty around his best friend when they sat knee-to-knee on the carpet, that he’d get this splattering star-struck feeling that was nearly impossible to scrape away when his best friend smiled at him while doing a presentation in class. He got six months to figure out the what, the why, and the how, and then at thirteen he stuffed all three of those things alongside his forgotten flute and flew to Korea to find (a more fitting version of) himself.
In the SM practice rooms, crushing on girls or boys didn’t mean anything at all. It couldn’t.
On the rare occasions he lets himself think about the future, he sticks to one path. The possibility of falling in love with a girl has always existed, so that’s what he pictures. Even now, dropped magically into the future, all understanding of what is and isn’t possible in life completely upturned, Mark still saw two toothbrushes and thought girlfriend. He’s experiencing time travel, and his brain still couldn’t fully imagine a future in which he might end up with a boy.
The fact that the boy is Donghyuck is a different can of worms entirely.
It’s insane. Everything and everyone in the entire world is just absolutely insane, and he’s the worst one. This would explain why it really does seem like—why it looks like he never built a career in music.
He just doesn’t understand why he would throw everything away like that for Donghyuck. Why the guy who undoes his shoelaces when they’re seated next to each other during an evaluation? Why the guy who trails after him everywhere like an anchor just waiting to drag him down? Across space and fucking time, apparently. Why the guy who takes almost nothing in life seriously? The guy who’s just so confusingly, maddeningly different from anyone he’s ever met? Why would Mark choose him?
And why would Donghyuck choose him back?
As a joke? That’s a lot of commitment for a bit, even for Donghyuck. Honestly, he’s probably already got a hurtful answer lined up, waiting for Mark to ask him. He’s probably just—well, he’s probably a little shocked, too. And scared, maybe, because he did just—get outed, in a way. So did Mark, but Mark had six months to sort through how he feels about his identity, he has no clue where Donghyuck’s at. Maybe he’s just overthinking this and it’s a dumb idea because he’s still a little frustrated at the life choices his future self decided to make, but he should maybe. Talk. To Donghyuck.
It's his responsibility as the elder, right?
As he gets up, though, he freezes at the sight of the posters on the wall.
They look like they’re for tours, if the list of cities on each one is anything to go by. Some are for a band called NCT 127, others for SuperM, NCT Dream, one for just NCT, which is a little confusing, and then there’s two for NEONA.
Every single one has his face somewhere on it, and the very last one has his name plastered in big, bold letters—Mark Lee: Golden Hour. His own world tour for his own music.
It’s… sort of unbelievable.
Mark has mapped out different iterations of his dreams before, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the sheer reach of them in reality. He stares at the glossy pieces of paper for what feels like an eternity, running his fingers over the faces, recognizing some, memorizing others, quietly laughing in disbelief at the rest. At NEONA he pauses, mind racing. It’s him and Donghyuck standing back-to-back, red rope strung around their heads enough times to completely cover their eyes. It’s funny how the only word that pops into his head is ‘trust’, loud and hard to ignore.
Their bodies fit together perfectly even backwards, not a hint of space in any of the places there should be.
(Old Mark’s adoring eyes, Old Donghyuck’s insistent hand, their bodies coming together like blind fingers to light switches in a family home. Natural, familiar—but only with time.)
Mark rips his gaze away, travelling back to the SuperM poster.
Was this really what the future held in store for him? Performing with legends? With the people he can barely hold eye contact with right now? He drifts down to his own poster and wonders if he was ever able to fill a stadium, how many people sang along to his songs, how many believed in him in the first place for him to end up on those stages, over and over and over again.
He can barely swallow past the emotions welling up inside of him. That’s what happens when you spend forever feeling like it has to be one thing or the other. But Old Mark is doing both, which can only mean Mark can do both, too.
But… with Donghyuck?
“I’m glad you, um, got to perform at home.”
Mark’s shoulders jerk upwards, neck nearly snapping trying to spot where the voice came from. Donghyuck’s standing in the doorway a good three feet away, fingers fiddling with the band of his watch while his eyes stay firmly affixed to the posters. He juts his chin at them and Mark follows with his eyes, scanning the cities. Vancouver shows up five times, and Toronto appears thrice.
He looks back at Donghyuck and doesn’t see a trace of insincerity on his face. Donghyuck finally meets his gaze but breaks away almost immediately, scuffing his shoe on the floors like he hasn’t got a care in the world. “What? I have a heart. Johnny hyung tells me sometimes how much you miss your family.”
There’s no precedent for how to interact with this Donghyuck, so Mark just kind of says oh and then says nothing at all. Looking at Donghyuck for too long is hard without feeling a phantom touch along his jaw, so he shifts his gaze elsewhere and silently rejoices when it lands on a trophy case in the corner of the room.
Clearing his throat awkwardly, he offers, “It’s good to know we actually make something out of ourselves.”
“It’s good to know we actually make money,” Donghyuck adds like it’s more important, looking around the tastefully decorated room approvingly. He can’t fool Mark, though, his eyes keep flickering back to the case, the posters.
Mark wonders what he thinks of the NEONA one.
“You’d never have gotten any of this if you’d left,” Donghyuck says, eyes somewhere far away. He’d shown up to Mark’s room one night to update him about the schedule the next day, door flinging open too fast for Mark to hide his phone in time. Donghyuck had snatched it right out of his hands, sly grin slowly falling when he realized what he was looking at.
“You won’t,” he’d said the way you dare someone to do something you know they’d never do just to get a truth out of them.
And Mark hadn’t replied, but he’d been thinking, No, probably not. But how are you so sure?
Donghyuck had left without a fight when Mark took his phone back and told him to go, and Mark had spent the rest of the night going back and forth picturing the outright concern on Johnny’s face when he’d first brought up quitting as a joke, and the knowing denial on Donghyuck’s when he’d seen concrete proof of its possibility.
Mark shakes his head to clear it. “I almost left because of you, stupid.”
“Yeah,” Donghyuck cedes, “but you didn’t actually, though.”
He pauses for a beat like he’s considering whether or not he should say more, and then in a rush he adds, “I would’ve followed you if you had.”
And that’s just. That’s just crazier than what they saw earlier in the kitchen, honestly.
Donghyuck is not serious about a lot of things, but he’s serious about music. He’s serious about debuting in a way that doesn’t suit him, because Mark doesn’t like thinking about how Donghyuck does have the capacity to be mature, he just never is around Mark. Because they’re not friends, they’re close in that they spend all their time together, but not because they want to, just because those are the circumstances they live under.
So for Donghyuck to say he’d leave SM where he’s considered a prodigy, where he’s treated like a golden-child, is insane. He can’t just say something like that and not elaborate, but that’s exactly what happens.
Mark catches his eye, and for a moment it’s like there’s a three hour long conversation holding its breath between them, getting whiplash from looking back and forth, wondering who’ll be the one to start it. But no one does.
So, feeling guilty for not reciprocating what is clearly an olive branch from Donghyuck, Mark says, “I’m—sorry. About the shirt thing. It was dumb, anyway.”
“No.”
Mark blinks, taken aback. “What?”
“If something matters to you, I want to know why, hyung,” Donghyuck explains, each word brimming with feeling. “I want you to get mad at me, I want you to yell and fight. I hate when you just stand there and pretend you’re too mature to get into it, because you’re not. And I don’t care that you’re not—I just want to—”
He scans Mark’s expression before continuing carefully, “I just want to understand you. I want us to be able to understand each other.”
“I—” A nervous laugh leaves Mark on instinct. He’s out of his element here, a fish in outer space. “There are better ways to do that than just picking little fights.”
“Not to me! That’s how I get close to people! You know that, I know you do,” Donghyuck insists, looking at Mark like he’s daring him to deny it. “You know me.”
It’s mostly because they’re forced to spend as much time together as they do, but the fact remains that it’s not not true. Like it or not, Mark does know Donghyuck, and knowing Donghyuck means knowing he plays rough. Breaking the ice can be a tedious process if you’re using a pocketknife, but a sledgehammer does wonders, and Donghyuck’s always understood that.
With most people, though, Donghyuck gets into a big fight once, twice, and then he’s made a friend for life. But with Mark, it’s just an endless cycle of butting heads. In retrospect, what Donghyuck said does make sense—you can’t resolve a fight if you never get past the accusation stage, and that’s exactly where Mark tends to shut down in an effort to de-escalate.
Weirdly enough, it may have been a counterproductive method all along.
“I know you,” Mark finally admits, a little awkwardly. “But you know me, too. You know I don’t like to fight. I can try to explain myself more, but you have to stop, like, riling me up so often.”
“Okay,” Donghyuck agrees. “If you let yourself feel what you feel, I’ll stop trying to force it out of you.”
Just like that, they’re no longer at war.
This time, Mark lets out a laugh for real. It’s all just so stupid, and the fact that they’re only having this conversation now because they’ve somehow gone and landed themselves smack dab in the middle of some sci-fi novel is just outright ridiculous. The second he makes eye contact with Donghyuck, they both start laughing, and it’s kind of incredible. Mark doesn’t remember ever having laughed with Donghyuck before, and not having a huge chip on his shoulder makes all the difference in seeing Donghyuck’s laugh for what it is: lively and carefree instead of deafening and irritating.
They laugh and laugh until it physically hurts to keep going, and then they just sit on the floor and soak in all of their achievements lined up neatly on a few shelves. Mark knows all is not fixed, one third of a conversation does not a friendship make, but when Donghyuck pops up with a genuine smile and suggests they explore the rest of the apartment, he lets himself be hopeful.
Donghyuck decides to busy himself with the other bedroom while Mark wanders outside again in hopes of the living room keeping him entertained.
Old Mark and Old Donghyuck are doing the dishes side by side, bickering without any real heat. Old Mark is saying Old Donghyuck doesn’t have any right to complain about wrist pains when he never does the exercises he’s supposed to do. Something about spending less time gaming, taking breaks from the piano, asking for help when he cooks.
It’s remarkable how much they haven’t changed, Mark muses as Old Donghyuck waves off Old Mark’s nagging with light reassurance that he’s fine, and it’s remarkable how much they have, he thinks as Old Mark grabs Old Donghyuck’s wrist, kisses the wet bone, and gently tells him to sit out the rest.
Their apartment is woven from both their lives, lines crossing and knotting and tangling together in every other corner. Their mugs sit on the coffee table, one with a coaster and one without, handles touching like they reflect the easy proximity of their owners. The couch is sunken in the middle like its opposite ends have never so much as been touched. The walls are littered with pictures collected over the span of who knows how many years, featuring them and their families and their friends.
Looking at it all, Mark can’t help but think that if he were told to erase all the memories he shares with Donghyuck, he’d only have a handful or so left.
He doesn’t like to admit it, but training with Donghyuck hasn’t been all bad. If he were to look at things objectively, the truth is that Donghyuck is a powerhouse of talent. To a lot of the trainees, his innate musicality is a threat, a weapon he wields with such skill the execs have all but guaranteed him a spot on the battlefield—but the thing is, that’s not why he’d make a good idol.
Things like that can be taught, but star power can’t, and if the rumours are true, Donghyuck was blinding way before he’d even considered entering the company.
Donghyuck’s good, and he knows he’s good, but that hasn’t ever stopped him from striving to be better. He’s cocky but hardworking, which is the only reason Mark tolerates him on some days.
It keeps him on his toes, too. Everyone knows they’re unspoken rivals, the pressure bites at his heels to go faster every time Donghyuck prematurely crosses a milestone. Even winded and with blistered feet, Mark can (extremely privately) admit that there’s a pinch of begrudging respect, too. He doesn’t know how Donghyuck feels, but personally, he’s never disliked Donghyuck for being talented, he’s disliked him for being so hard to figure out.
Donghyuck just makes him feel so out of control sometimes, like he’s trying to run on sand with flippers on, all clumsy and slow and stupid. He doesn’t know how to deal with the constant intrusions on his personal space, doesn’t know how to deal with the way Donghyuck eyes him during practices—like he’s someone worth evaluating, poring over.
It’s just. Too weird.
Combine that with a personality type Mark has historically never gotten along with and it makes sense that their relationship is as rocky as it is. It makes him wonder what ends up changing for them to wind up as they are now, all easy jokes and easier touches, so effortlessly dialed in to each other in a way that feels unfathomable to him for its vulnerability.
Mark refocuses on their conversation right as Old Mark turns the water off.
“I’m gonna shower first,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Good?”
Old Donghyuck frowns from his position on the counter, bouncing his heels against a cupboard. “Take me with you.”
“Our water bill was really high last month, Hyuck,” Old Mark warns, moving between Old Donghyuck’s legs. He squishes his cheeks with one hand and makes him nod. “So we’re gonna try to have some self-control, yeah?”
Mark grows stiff and awkward at the obvious implications. He’s fourteen, not stupid.
“I fo’got about’ tha’,” Old Donghyuck sighs with obvious disappointment, batting Old Mark’s hand away. “But I like it so much better when you wash my hair. My arms—”
“Get tired, I know.”
Okay, so maybe Mark is a little stupid. Somehow, picturing himself running soapy fingers through Donghyuck’s hair makes him flush more than the alternative. The fact that they can interact at all without looking obviously displeased, disinterested, or distraught is still hard to make himself understand. There’s something so fluid and synchronous about them in the future, like in a calm ocean sprinkled randomly with standalone boats, theirs are the only ones caught in a gentle whirlpool.
Old Donghyuck doesn’t even argue when Old Mark finally leaves to shower alone, busying himself with carefully taking his vinyl off the record player and sliding it back in its sleeve. There are no traces of leftover resentment. He supposes that’s what happens when the whole of a relationship agrees with you, you never feel the need to pick at something or force it down, it just goes.
Seconds later, Old Mark pops his head out the hallway with a small smile. “Are you coming, or what?”
Old Donghyuck beams like he knew this was going to happen, like he’s used to Old Mark giving in, and he follows him to the bathroom.
Mark smiles to himself, a little embarrassed.
None of the big things have changed. In the future, Donghyuck still doesn’t take criticism all that well, and Mark still doles it out all too easily—but qualities like that are hard to change for someone who’s spent the majority of his life being told he's the best, and for someone who’s worked so hard to be the best that he expects the same sort of wringing dedication from everyone else.
But small things here and there have completely transformed something between them.
They’re both better listeners, for one. Some of Donghyuck’s all-over-the-place energy has simmered down to something more concentrated, too. Mark has less of a stick up his ass, as Donghyuck would probably phrase it, and neither one of them is trying to win every single conversation anymore. They’re just sharing, fooling around, enjoying what the other person has to say.
They understand each other. In a way that takes time and effort and friction in order for things to be smooth sailing.
When he thinks about it that way, it’s not as hard to imagine them eventually getting along.
The rest of the day trickles by slowly, Mark starting to go a little insane wondering whether they’ll ever be able to get back to their own time. He doesn’t even know if they’ll remember any of this if they do. He doesn’t really know if he wants to.
Occasionally, he’ll catch Donghyuck in the same room as their older counterparts, just standing back and watching with a hard to place look in his eyes. Mark considers going up to him every time but it feels wrong to interrupt, and he’s not willing to test just how much weight their fragile bridge of peace can hold while the concrete is still setting, so he moves on.
On some level, he gets it. As embarrassing and hard to believe as it is watching their future selves, there’s something about it so arresting that you can’t look away.
Mark has found himself coming to a stop as well just to listen to them talk, no matter how mundane the topic is. Their schedule for the week, a new game Old Donghyuck just started playing, that TV show they watch together that Old Mark has definitely not seen the latest episode of without Old Donghyuck. Booking an anniversary dinner with family and friends, that one kid in Old Mark’s producing course he thinks is going places, what to get Old Donghyuck’s younger sister as a wedding gift.
It's all so boring, but because it’s so new, so strange to hear coming out of his own mouth, Mark lingers.
Even now, as the pair cuddle on the couch with their phones out, he’s been sitting on the floor for ten minutes cataloguing the way Old Mark runs his fingers through Old Donghyuck’s hair, the way Old Donghyuck smiles at something on his phone and shows Old Mark, grinning when Old Mark breaks out into a laugh.
He turns around when Old Mark presses an idle kiss to the top of Old Donghyuck’s head, switching his attention over to the CDs lined up under the TV. He doesn’t like the way his head spins at the casual affection.
“I wish we could play some of them,” a voice says suddenly, Donghyuck dropping down next to him. “I like thinking about how your music’s gonna change in the future.”
“What—why?” Mark asks, caught off guard both by his sudden appearance and confession. He thinks about his own music too, but he can’t imagine Donghyuck wasting a second of thought on him when he’s not around.
“What do you mean why?” Donghyuck replies, doing a terribly exaggerated impression of Mark that makes him want to groan and laugh at the same time. “Because I do. You’re just so textbook right now, I think it’ll be interesting when you’ve developed your own style and flair.”
It’s easy to forget sometimes how deeply Donghyuck cares about music. Objectively, it’s always been the thing that dominates the rest of his brain. Mark doesn’t know if it has to do with his parents or if he was just born like that, but Donghyuck is always talking about things no one else their age really talks about.
Long-term maintenance of the vocal chords, the story a dance is supposed to tell, identifying what makes a singer’s voice so distinctive from the rest. He still messes up when he tries to spell ‘delicious’ but in the practice rooms he regularly whips out musical jargon Mark has to separately ask Johnny to translate for him later on.
He’s got the eyes and ears of an artist, through and through. He’s exactly what Mark tries so hard to be. Maybe they’ve never been that different, after all.
“Why do we fight so much?” He blurts out on impulse.
Donghyuck takes the question in stride, thinking for a few seconds before answering. “Because we’re the same.”
Mark flashes back to Old Mark finishing Old Donghyuck’s sentence so seamlessly. How much of that was learned? And how much of it was already innate to them?
“We’re both too stubborn,” he continues, picking at the tassels lining the edge of the carpet, “but it’s because we have strong beliefs. We want the same things out of life—to do what we love and to do it for a long time—and I think we’re so afraid of being beaten out by each other on that path that we clash. But honestly, I think we could be better together.”
It’s a sentiment Mark has slowly been warming up to himself, but he refrains from voicing this, noticing the thoughtful way Donghyuck braids the tassels. He isn’t finished, but he takes a while to keep going.
“You make me work harder.” Donghyuck’s fingers stop moving for a moment, and then he runs the pads over the braid like he’s petting a scared animal, gentle and child-like. “I used to think the ultimate goal was to debut, but you want to do so much more than that. You’re always talking about breaking records and, like, changing things. Being trendsetters. I feel like you’ve made me want so much more than I thought I did.
“You’ve made me greedy, hyung.” He laughs shyly at himself, shaking his head. “I thought I just wanted to sing, but now I think I just want to sing with you.”
Mark feels like all the air has been knocked out of his chest. He’s stuck staring at Donghyuck’s fingers, overwhelmed by the sincerity that’s just been poured over him by someone who still bites his nails. Donghyuck’s always been too good of a speaker for his age, but Mark’s never been on the receiving end of his kindness. He hadn’t realized how overpowering it was.
Fighting with Donghyuck felt like being followed around by a leaky faucet where he was forced to change shirts after every drip, but getting complimented by him feels like standing under a waterfall after living in the desert.
‘I think I just want to sing with you.’ Jesus. Jesus.
“I—” Mark clears his throat, hurrying to say something in return when he notices how red Donghyuck’s ears have gotten. “Um. You help me too. I learn a lot about, like, not being so textbook, I guess, just from watching you. You force me to use more than just my head when I’m dancing or rapping. Or singing, too. So it’s not—it goes both ways, basically, is what I’m trying say. Basically.”
“Got it, basically,” Donghyuck teases quietly, the smile in his voice evident.
“Shut up,” Mark laughs, trying to shake off the nerves. He playfully shoves Donghyuck, feeling him swing right back into place when their shoulders touch. Mark doesn’t move away, and Donghyuck finally meets his eyes head on with a small smile.
“Let’s be friends, hyung. When we get back, I mean.”
Mark doesn’t ruin the moment by saying but what if we don’t remember any of this? Donghyuck’s probably thought of that, anyway.
Instead, he just nods. “When do you think we’ll go?”
“Soon. I think I learned what I needed to learn.” Donghyuck’s eyes flicker down to his mouth, and Mark realizes all of a sudden how close they are. He holds his breath when Donghyuck locks eyes with him again, the tops of his cheeks pink.
Slowly, Donghyuck’s thumb lands on his jaw, and Mark’s brain goes completely blank as he braces himself.
All he can see is Donghyuck, Donghyuck, Donghyuck.
And then, in less than a second, all he can see is Old Donghyuck.
Donghyuck retracts his hand after having turned Mark’s head towards the couch and stands up. “It’s your turn, now.”
Even after he’s left, Mark is left staring at a sleeping Old Donghyuck, now with a pillow under his head and a small table fan blowing towards him. Old Mark is nowhere to be found, so Mark tentatively scoots to the edge of the couch, jaw still tingling.
He’s never really thought about it before, but looking at Old Donghyuck close up like this, it’s clear he grows up to be attractive. He’s still got the soft, cute features he has now, but his face has properly grown into them. Still, not a lot has changed, except the way Mark is looking at him, maybe.
Old Donghyuck is all golden skin and round eyes and silky hair and heart-shaped lips, but more than all that what makes Mark’s heart race is that he’s here. He’s on their couch, in their apartment, years and years into knowing him—and he’s chosen to stay. His reliable anchor, keeping him steady and moored.
Mark doesn’t know how he ended up in the future or the ins and outs of what it has in store for them, but he does know that anything they’ve accomplished has only been possible because they’ve accomplished it together.
It’s fate.
His heart pumps hard remembering Donghyuck’s face a hair’s width away from his.
‘I think I just want to sing with you.’
Yeah, Mark doesn’t know a whole lot, but he’s starting to learn just how easy it can be to love Lee Donghyuck.
Mark doesn’t remember physically moving, but somehow, he ends up surrounded by the darkest dark he’s ever been in.
It feels like he’s standing on nothing, but his feet are definitely flat, and he can feel his own weight pushing down against something. Before he can crouch down to try and feel out his surroundings though, two pinpricks of light spark in his vision, slicing into the dark.
Like magic, they slowly get bigger in front of him, outlined by spitting sparks. The light is too bright to adjust to right away, so he squints for as long as he can until he has to finally shield his eyes, looking away as the entire world seems to pulse a hot white.
Once the light has died down, he carefully opens both his eyes and turns back to the circles.
Instead of plain white, though, Mark is presented with two different scenes playing out in each one.
On the left is what he remembers happening right before he woke up in the future. He’s on his way to the practice room for an evaluation, chewing on his lip distractedly while running through lyrics in his head. Someone passes by him in the halls while he silently moves his mouth, practicing pronunciation through tongue placement, and they turn back briefly to give him a strange look. Mark winces. He hadn’t even been aware of that person, too caught up in worrying about the evaluation.
He'll run into Donghyuck soon enough, who’ll be heading back to the dorms after his own performance.
On the right is what the in-between must’ve been, all the memories blacked out in his head suddenly held up to the light.
He tenses up watching himself completely blank half-way through his song, gut twisting at the harsh criticism that follows. Moments later, he’s crying in the bathroom hugging the shirt Donghyuck threw at his feet, trying his best to keep quiet with a hand over his mouth. There’s a quick glimpse of him walking into an office with heavy steps, the door closing with finality behind him. Mark’s heart drops when he sees himself curled up in bed next, staring numbly at the wall—his phone lies open behind him with a screen displaying confirmation details for a one-way flight from ICN to YVR.
Mark gets closer, reaching out instinctively, but the second his fingers touch the circle he feels a force pulling him in and has to quickly take three steps back. The other circle is frozen, Mark seconds away from running into Donghyuck. Just to test it out, he attempts poking at it with his pinky only to immediately pull away when that same gravity starts acting on him.
So it's up to him, then.
But how was that even possible? How could he be given a choice when he just saw the future with his own eyes? It’s supposed to be fate—SM, his music career, the apartment. Donghyuck.
Come to think of it though, there’s no real way to guarantee he didn’t leave and then eventually come back. It isn’t unheard of, and it’s not like he has nothing to offer. They’d take him back, wouldn’t they? Clearly he still debuted through SM.
And maybe leaving would do him some good. He’d get to see his family, his friends, maybe find some clarity and strength along the way. Fill in the gaps of his belief. Maybe he’d come back more mature, better prepared to handle Donghyuck.
But leaving would shatter everyone’s faith in him. It would change his relationship with all the people he’s close to, however temporarily. It would change his relationship with Donghyuck.
He thinks of how firmly he believed they’d never once left each other’s sides when he was watching Old Donghyuck sleep. He thinks of the pictures on the wall, how he could place them at different stages of their lives in them. He thinks of the quiet relief in Donghyuck’s voice when he’d said, “But you didn’t actually, though.”
It’s not a matter of whether or not Mark is choosing to leave. Donghyuck had been so terribly brave to look Mark in the eye and say you know me, braver still for insisting I know you, only Mark had heard, “You won’t.”
Even if it does affect the way the future plays out, he doesn’t want to hurt Donghyuck like that. Not even if it means being able to go home.
Taking a deep breath, he stands in front of the circle offering him a rewind. Closing his eyes, he steps forward.
He chooses Donghyuck.
“What—is that my shirt?”
The big smile that had been on Donghyuck’s face fades as soon as he makes eye contact with Mark. He must’ve done well in the evaluation, then. Great. Definitely no pressure there. Why do they always end up going after one another?
“Yeah, so?” Donghyuck’s fingers curl around the hem protectively, and his tone is already bordering on aggressive. Of course he thinks he deserves to be angry over this. There isn’t a single thing in the universe Donghyuck couldn’t be angry over. “You never wear it, anyway.”
That isn’t untrue, but it doesn’t mean Donghyuck’s allowed to just steal it. Mark’s definitely told him not to wear this one before; he shouldn’t have to explain himself! Donghyuck is thirteen years old, and if he doesn’t understand what boundaries are by now then maybe he’s not as smart as everyone’s always saying he is.
Mark tries to voice this, but when he parts his lips something else comes out entirely.
“It’s my brother’s shirt,” he’s saying, except he doesn’t feel like he has any control over his own tongue, the words escaping like someone’s pulled a string attached to his back. “I don’t like wearing it because I’m afraid I’ll ruin it. If you’re gonna take it, at least tell me. I looked for it for, like, an hour this morning because I missed him, and I got scared when I couldn’t find it.”
As soon as he’s done he slaps a hand over his mouth. That was one emotion too many. Especially in front of Donghyuck.
Donghyuck looks at him suspiciously, tilting his head like it might help him figure out what’s going on. When Mark doesn’t say anything else, he replies warily, “I came to your room before my evaluation but you weren’t there. I didn’t know it was your brother’s.”
“Why’d you need it in the first place?” Mark’s mouth manages to get out from under his palm, all low and muffled. Mark groans right after, eyes rolling. He couldn’t care less about Donghyuck’s reasoning, people should never just take things that don’t belong to—
“It’s my lucky charm.” This time, Donghyuck’s the one who looks stunned by his own words. His eyes widen, head swiveling like he doesn’t believe the words came out of his own mouth. “The last two times I wore it, I did really well.”
His hands fly up to cover his ears before he glares at the floor like he’s never regretted anything more than he regrets saying those two sentences. They stand in an immensely awkward silence for a minute, frozen like they’re waiting for one more person to come stand between them and cover their eyes so the three of them make a complete set.
Belatedly, Mark realizes that he actually has somewhere to be, and he quickly drops his hands, clenching his jaw just in case his body decides to betray him any further. Nothing seems to happen, so he hesitantly relaxes, sighing softly when nothing else incriminating pops out of him against his will.
“I’ve gotta go, so you just—just keep the shirt for now,” Mark says, mentally preparing himself for bad reviews. He’s not going to be in the right headspace to perform well now, he can already tell. “I’ll find you later and we can talk then.”
Donghyuck straightens up at this, arms falling and the surprise clear on his face. Mark can tell he wants to fiddle with the shirt by the way his fingers are twitching, but he manages to keep his hands to himself.
“You want us to talk?” He asks, sounding genuinely confused. “Like, actually?”
Mark pauses, attempting to re-evaluate with a clear head. Weirdly enough, the conclusion he comes to is yes. He’s not just suggesting it for the sake of suggesting it, he really does want to sit down and hear Donghyuck out—and he wants Donghyuck to hear him out as well.
There’s this weird pull in his gut that’s telling him this isn’t one of those issues that can be resolved in a matter of seconds, that none of their issues have ever had a magical instant fix like that. What they need most is to have a real conversation. It’s the only way to… understand each other.
He can’t pinpoint why but, suddenly, accomplishing that feels pivotal.
“I’ll meet you in your room in an hour,” Mark says, better committing to his promise. “Okay?”
He starts walking, stopping next to Donghyuck when he doesn’t reply.
“Hyuck,” he prompts again, the nickname materializing out of thin air, “okay?”
Something seems to unlock inside of Donghyuck, and his eyes go soft, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Mark privately notes how Donghyuck’s demeanour shifts the moment he’s thrown down his armour—this may be the first time Mark’s been able to break through the metal.
“Okay,” he confirms. “And, uh, good luck. I—I hope things work out alright.”
Mark looks down the hall where unforgiving clipboards and too-loud speakers and an in-depth criticism of every single one of his voice cracks awaits him, and then he looks back at Donghyuck, and something warm floods his chest. His jaw faintly tingles.
When he replies this time around, it’s all him:
“Don’t worry, I have a funny feeling they will.”