Chapter Text
My dearest reader,
What, may you ask, is the origin of this tale? Is it a mere work of fiction, conjured from the whims of an idle scholar? Or does it hold within its pages something more – something fated, something lost to time, yet never truly forgotten?
To begin, we must not look upon the woes of men, nor women, nor even the grand estates they inhabit. No, my gentle-hearted reader, our tale begins long before all of that – before love, before sorrow, before grief, and before the weight of duty that presses upon mortal flesh. Everything for us, begins with a stone.
Long ago, in the dawn of the beginning, the Goddess Nüwa, in her divine wisdom, set out to repair the rifts in the shredded sky. With her hands, she gathered great celestial stones that had risen from the Earth, refining them into bricks to patch the heavens above. Among these sacred stones, one had been left behind after the Goddess sealed over the last seam – small, unpolished, flawed. This stone was deemed unworthy and was discarded and left to the soil, witnessing as its brethren were risen to uphold the spiritual order of the sky.
Now I implore you, my dear reader, to imagine what shall happen to a forsaken stone when the heavens have no place for it to rest. Where would it go? Is its fate to wither among the dust, unnoticed and unloved? Or might it find another path, one woven carefully by the nimble fingers of fate, carrying itself to the realm of men, where sorrow and joy entwine in a ceaseless dance?
Years later, this stone, having undergone the melting and molding of a Goddess, possessed magic powers. It was able to move at will, grow or shrink, and most importantly, it could speak. Abandoned yet restless, the stone longed for the world below. It wished to know love, to weep, to burn with passion, to ache with longing. And when the heavens remained ignorant to the stone’s wishes, the stone called out to the wandering spirits of the Earth.
One day, a Buddhist monk and a Taoist priest came across the stone while traversing through the mountains. The stone, seeing wisdom in their eyes, stirred to life. As they sat on the ground and began to converse, the monk caught sight of the lustrous, translucent stone. Due to the shame and resentment, the stone now fit in the palm of his hand, and as the monk took it up, he addressed it with a smile.
“I see you have magical properties, but nothing to recommend you. I shall have to carve a few words into your face so that anyone seeing you may know that you are something special. After that, my little stone, I shall take you with me on a little adventure. What say you?” The stone was delighted.
“I have lain here for countless ages, unseen and untouched. My brothers were taken to mend the sky, yet all but I remain, bearing no purpose, no meaning. I long to be enlightened and walk among the realm of men,” the stone revealed, the monk gazing upon the stone with quiet understanding.
“All things are impermanent,” he said to the shimmering stone, “to enter the world of men is to embrace suffering. Is that what you truly desire?”
The Taoist priest, wise in the ways of nature, chuckled and said, “Even a stone seeks to dream. Very well then, we shall grant your wish, but first you must accompany us. Be warned, what is given must one day be taken back.”
“Where is this place I must accompany you to? I beg to be enlightened,” the stone requested, only for the monk and the priest to dance around the answer.
“Do not ask,” the monk replied with a laugh, “you will know when the time comes.” And with that he slipped the stone into his sleeve and the three of them set off at a great pace, but where they all went off to, I have no idea.
Eons passed and another traveler, Sicheng, stumbled along the path the stone sat idle on, in a quest to seek the secret to immortality, happened to pass along the same trail the monk and priest traveled along. He caught sight of a large stone standing there, on which the characters for a long-winded inscription were etched into its sides. Sicheng read through the inscriptions from beginning to end, learning that this once lifeless stone was found unworthy to repair the sky, but had magically transformed and was taken down into the world of the mortals where it had lived as a boy. The inscriptions went into considerable detail, noting the stone’s domestic life, youthful amours, and even the romantic verses it had written in that lifetime. On the back of the stone was a small message begging for someone to copy and publish his story. Realizing the stone was sentient, Sicheng addressed himself towards it.
“Stone, according to what you imply in these verses, this story of yours seems insufficient to publish. There is not enough interest to merit it be copied. There is no discoverable dynastic period, no examples of moral grandeur. In fact, all I can find in these inscriptions are a number of people only noted for their passions or folly. Even if I were to copy it, I cannot see that it would be a very remarkable read,” Sicheng explained to the stone.
The stone came to be, finally sensing the traveler, and spoke, which startled Sicheng momentarily. “Good sir, I have lived an extraordinary life, one filled with many meetings and partings, joys and sorrows. Come to your senses and see that all the romances ever written have an artificial setting. In refusing to include that stale detail, it seems I have actually given you more rather than deprived you of anything. I only ask that you write my story down and share it for those who walk the world below so they may learn from it.”
Sicheng scoffed at the celestial being, “And what is your story but another tale of romance? Love stories such as these are filled with corruption and obscenity. Their characters are mere archetypes – lovers too sentimental, women too frail, men too fickle. And worst of all, their authors only compose them not for wisdom’s sake, but as a frame to flaunt their poetry and cleverness.”
The stone, unshaken, replied, “You misunderstand me. My story is not simply romance, nor is it a tale woven for vanity’s sake. It is the truth of my life, exactly as it happened. If the world below must suffer its burdens, let my tale offer them an escape, a moment of respite. And if readers heed my warnings, perhaps they may awaken from their own illusions before it’s too late.”
Sicheng was silent for a long while, turning the words over in his head. Finally he sighed. “Very well. I shall write your story.” He subjected the stone to another, closer, reading. Once he saw that the main theme was, in fact, love, and there were no tendencies to deprave the youth in the retelling, he began to copy it all from beginning to end. “Just remember, what is recorded cannot be undone.”
The stone, ever so understanding, replied, “That, I have always understood.”
And so, gentle reader, what you now hold here is no mere fiction, nor a scholar’s idle fancy. This then, is a true account of how The Story of the Stone came to be written.
_______________
Now that The Story of the Stone has been made clear, the same cannot be said when it comes to the characters and the events of the story. Dearest reader, have patience! This is how the inscription begins…
On a warm and quiet evening in the district surrounding the city of Soochow, a man named Xiao Dejun, a scholar of moderate wealth and deep melancholy, sat alone in his study. By nature, Dejun was quiet and unambitious; he often opted to devote his time to his garden and the pleasures of wine paired with poetry. The world had long since dimmed beneath his window, and the flickering of his candlelight cast strange shadows along the walls. The book he was reading slipped from his loosened grasp, and his head softly dropped atop his desk, where he disappeared into a doze. While in his drowsy state he had wandered to an unfamiliar world, a strange and boundless place. In this realm of mist and illusion, where the sky was neither day nor night, and the soil was neither solid or void, a Buddhist monk and Taoist priest lazily walked before him. Between them the monk held a peculiar stone in his palm.
“Where do you intend to take that thing?” the priest asked.
“Don't worry about him,” replied the monk with a laugh, “There is a large gathering of lovesick souls awaiting incarnation into the mortal world below. I intend to take our travel companion and slip him amongst them so that he may have a chance to taste human life.”
“How did all of this start?” the priest asked, “where are the souls to be reborn?”
“You’ll laugh when I tell you,” said the monk. “This is no ordinary stone. Long ago when the Goddess Nüwa repaired the heavens, this stone was left unused by the Goddess. It found itself to be a loose end and took to wandering around the world. One day, its wanderings took it to the place where the Fairy of Disenchantment lives. This fairy could tell there was something unusual about this stone so she kept him here in her palace. Most of his time spent in her palace was spent near the Rock of Rebirth, where he found the beautiful Crimson Pearl Flower. He developed such an affection towards the flower and sought to water it every day with the sweet dew that collected on his surface, thereby giving the flower the gift of life.”
Dejun watched as the scene before him shifted as the monk continued his story, revealing a delicate crimson flower, vibrant and shimmering like a jewel, its petals trembling with life. He watched as the stone released its dew, nourishing the flower with quiet devotion.
“The Crimson Pearl’s soul was composed of the purest essences of the cosmos, meaning it was already divine in nature, but now thanks to the care of the stone, it was able to shed its state and live as a human. The flower then wandered around the realm, eating secret passion fruit when it was hungry, and drinking from the Pool of Sadness when it was thirsty. The consciousness the flower owed to the efforts of the stone began to plague its mind.
‘ I have no sweet dew to repay the stone with,’ the flower would say to itself. ‘The only way in which I could repay it would be with the tears shed throughout the whole of a mortal lifetime, only if we both were to ever be reborn in the human world.’
As a result of this strange affair, the Fairy of Disenchantment had gathered a group of young souls, of which the Crimson Pearl was one of, with the intention of sending them to the human world. It just happens that today is that day where our stone is fated to go into the world too.”
“How amusing,” the priest said, “I have never heard of a debt of tears before. Why don’t we ourselves take advantage of this opportunity and go down into the world to save a few souls ourselves?”
Dejun heard all of this conversation quite clearly and his curiosity urged him to step forward and greet the two gentlemen. They politely returned his greeting and asked what he wanted from them.
“It isn’t often that one has the opportunity to listen to a discussion of the interworking of karmic incarnation,” Dejun began, “Unfortunately, I am a man of limited understanding and wish to be enlightened to your conversation to a fuller account.”
“These are heavenly secrets and mysteries we are unable to divulge, but if you wish to escape from a worse fate, remember us when the time comes,” the Taoist answered, stroking his beard in the meantime.
Dejun knew it would be futile to continuously press them, but still he could not return to his world without some memorable experience. “Although heavenly mysteries cannot be revealed, could I, at the very least, inquire about the creature you carry with you.”
“As for that, it’s one of the few things we can show you,” the monk said as he reached back into his sleeve to pull the iridescent stone out and display him for Dejun. He took the object from the monk and saw it was a nearly translucent jade with an inscription on the side naming it “Magic Jade”. There were several smaller columns of etching on the back, but just as Dejun was going to examine them closer, the monk exclaimed they arrived at their destination, and snatched the stone from his hand.
Dejun glanced up to see a large stone archway with “The Land of Illusion” was written in large black characters, paired with a small couplet inscribed vertically on either side of the arch which read: Truth becomes fiction when the fiction’s true; Real becomes not-real where the unreal’s real. Dejun was about to follow them through the arch when suddenly a thunderous sound clapped above him, shaking the earth he stood on, making him cry out as the realm surrounding him withered away.
Days later, Dejun struggled with the remnants of his dream-like encounter with the monk and priest. He revisited the incident while cuddled with his infant daughter in front of their home, and was approached by a fellow young scholar, Kuanhang. Kuanhang was a poor student who lodged next door to Dejun, who came from the Jia family of scholars and bureaucrats, of which had fallen on hard times by the time he was born. The fortunes on his mother and father’s side had been spent and the members of his family gradually died off until only he was left. His goal was to settle in the capital and pass the civil service exam in search of fame and fortune like his extended family still had.
After a brief greeting the two of them set out to have drinks together. Kuanhang had drained his cup and sighed, “I dont believe its the alcohol speaking, but if it were only a question of having qualifications, I would stand as good a chance as anyone to get myself on the list of candidates for the civil service exam. The trouble is simply that I have no means of getting the money necessary for lodging and travel to the capital.”
“Why have you never said this before?” Dejun inquired, holding his head up with his arm propped on the table in front of them. I had been waiting for you to mention this because I had not wanted to broach the conversation and offend you. I shall take care of your expenses, but you must leave for the capital right away, the spring examination is a few months ahead.” Dejun gave the young man a few more instructions and packed him a parcel with taels of silver and enough winter clothes. Kuanhang accepted the silver and clothes with the smallest thanks as he continued to drink and laugh with his companion.
The following morning when Dejun woke he wrote a few introductory letters for Kuanhang to take with him, in order to aid in the arrangements of his travels. When Dejun sent one of his servants to invite Kuanhang over, the servant brought back a message from the temple instead.
“A monk says that Kuanhang left for the capital at dawn. He says he left a message for you, ‘a scholar must not concern himself with almanacs, but should act as the situation demands’, and with that he took off, with no time to say goodbye,” his servant reported. After that, Dejun was obliged to let the matter drop and pray he received letters updating him on Kuanhang’s progress.
Months later, Dejun received word that Kuanhang had passed the civil service exam and was heading back to their region. When he returned, he took a job as a private tutor of a young girl named Lin Daiyu.
_______________
“That is going to conclude our introduction to the first two frame storylines of The Dream of the Red Chamber,” Professor Qian’s voice resonates through the lecture hall, drawing the student’s away from the world of 18th century China and back to the present. Sunlight filters through the blinds on the wall of windows on the west side of the room, sending the class into a warm, golden haze. “Over the next week while all of you are on spring break, I expect each and every one of you to read the entirety of the scanned pages I have assigned and posted on Canvas. When we reconvene, we’ll delve into the central themes, including societal constraint, class consciousness, and the tragic dimensions of love.”
In the middle of the room, Mark Lee scribbles the assignment into his worn-out planner, suppressing a sigh. Other students are already flitting out the door, muttering quiet goodbyes to their East Asia Classical Literature professor, rushing to get back to their apartments and dorms to pack for their upcoming trips. Mark packs his bag slowly, since he doesn’t have some grand trip planned like the rest of his classmates, dragging his feet at the idea of spending his next 10 days off working or reading the 500 assigned pages focused on the love triangle in the story.
To him Cao Xueqin’s tale seems overwrought – a melodramatic portrayal of doomed romance and familial decline, not to mention the whole framework of multiple stories existing in one left him more confused than when he walked in. The original story was roughly 3000 pages, most of which Mark assumes is equally as boring as the stone and the flower section they discussed today. He doesn’t care for the intricate details and monotonous routines of 18th century aristocratic life, nor does he care for the protagonist’s, Jia Baoyu’s, distant and exaggerated emotional turmoil. Mark exits the class to see his friends Johnny and Jungwoo waiting for him outside.
“I don’t get why this story is held in such high regard,” he mutters, “the storylines are so cliché. I mean, can love really be that tragic?”
Johnny raises an eyebrow at him, “Maybe there’s more to it than your painfully single ass is aware of,” he laughs, nudging Mark with his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Jungwoo joins, “Maybe when you finally get a girlfriend you’ll understand.”
Mark shrugs, unconvinced. The prospect of spending his break immersed in a centuries-old narrative about a spoiled brat and a sick girl who are ill-fated lovers is the furthest thing from appealing. It almost makes Mark wish that Professor Qian had saved their reading of the Tale of Genji for this week instead – at least scorned and vengeful lover spirit was more action-packed than the slow-paced and idyllic life written for Baoyu and Daiyu. Unfortunately for Mark, it’s non-negotiable, and he resigns himself to the task ahead.
Later that evening, the shared apartment of Mark, Johnny, and Jungwoo buzzes with energy as the trio prepares for a night out. Johnny and Jungwoo move about, selecting outfits and parading around the apartment in them for Mark (who, of course, is the deciding vote). The living room becomes filled with laughter and music when their other friends arrive, each of them bringing their own personal preference of pregame booze. Mark finds himself shuffling around his kitchen, somewhat hiding behind Taeyong, stealing glances at the person who always seems to command his attention. Donghyuck’s laughter infects the room, his smile radiant as always – a magnetizing force that draws Mark in, even when he’s digging his fingernails into his palm to maintain his composure.
The two had met nearly three years ago during their Freshman year, unsurprisingly it was Donghyuck who approached him first. Of course it wasn’t for anything other than to exchange contact information for the assignments in their shared class, but either way Mark couldn’t swallow the pit that formed in his throat the first time they made eye contact. Mark was typically quiet and reserved, keeping most of his thoughts to himself, save for the painfully corny quips he produced, but Donghyuck was like a blinding light that forced his way past it all. During that first semester, Mark and Donghyuck grew as close as Mark would let them, and eventually each of their circles of friends morphed into one giant family.
“Mark, you good?” Johnny asks, breaking through his reverie.
The younger boy forces a smile, raising his beer bottle. “Yeah, just thinking about that stupid book again.” Johnny, surprisingly, believes his excuse, nodding in response as Jaehyun pulls him into a different conversation.
As the group make their way to a nearby bar, the city’s neon lights paint the streets in vibrant hues, and the bass of the DJ system inside ricochets along the aged brick buildings closeby. Inside the venue, music pulses through Mark’s legs, traveling until he can’t distinguish the beat of his heart from that of the song. Taeyong and Johnny take off for the dance floor before anyone can even blink, the two of them kick starting their tradition of dance battles. Mark stops by the bar to get himself a drink that’s strong enough to endure the rest of the night, something strong enough to keep his impulses and intrusive thoughts about Donghyuck at bay.
Donghyuck’s voice breaks through the music, beckoning Mark to turn his head to face him. Donghyuck sidles up on the bar stool beside him, their shoulders brushing momentarily. “Having fun?” he asks, his chestnut eyes gleaming under the strobe lights. Mark’s heart begins to race, but he’s sure it’s only because he ordered vodka redbull, no other reason, none at all.
“Yeah, it’s always fun with everyone around,” he replies, hoping his voice sounds more steady to Donghyuck than it did to him.
Donghyuck grins, leaning in closer towards Mark’s ear, the latter reasons that it’s only because the music is so loud. “We should go dance.” Suddenly, Mark is no longer sure if it’s the thrum of the bass in the bar or if it’s his heart that’s making all that noise.
He clears his throat and nods his head, afraid of the way his voice will sound if he tries to speak. On the dance floor, Mark finds himself in a constant battle – drawn to Donghyuck, yet terrified about what those feelings really mean. He forces himself to laugh at jokes, join in on the conversations, and dance with everyone – yes, even Donghyuck – all the while, masking his inner turmoil, leaving pale crescent moons on the skin of his palms when he thinks no one is looking. As the night begins to shift to early morning, Mark’s friends all part ways, save for a blackout Taeyong who is slumped over Mark’s couch with a blanket and a trash barrel next to him.
Back in his room, Mark lay awake in bed, half-drunk and half-asleep, his mind still swirling with conflict between his undeniable attraction towards Donghyuck, the fear of rejection, and the weight of his family and upbringing. Raised as a devout Christian, Mark had long been taught that such feelings were sinful, a path leading him straight to condemnation. The guilt gnaws at him as he finds himself staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars Donghyuck stuck to the ceiling when he first moved in last year.
Mark grunted as he set down yet another one of his boxes labeled “books”, pushing his damp hair from his forehead and cursing himself for having so many novels. The apartment was still fairly bare, Johnny and Jungwoo choosing minimalist over whatever the hell Mark decided on.
“This place has some potential,” Donghyuck mused, hands on his hips as he surveyed Mark’s room. “If you mess it up with your terrible interior design, I’m never coming over,” he laughed, earning a scoff-turned-smile from Mark.
“I’m going for maximalist,” Mark rolled his eyes.
“You mean ‘hoarder’,” Donghyuck snorted.
Mark laughed, shaking his head, “I’m going to grab the last few boxes from my car. Are you going to actually help or…?” he trailed off, throwing Donghyuck a knowing look.
“I’m always helping, Mark,” Donghyuck said, his voice dripping with faux-offense, shooing Mark out of the door.
Mark eyed him suspiciously but shrugged, leaving his apartment and taking the elevator back down to the ground floor. When he came back up, after locking his car, he found none other than Donghyuck standing on his half-assembled desk, peeling glow-in-the-dark stars off a sheet, and pressing them to the ceiling. His brown fringe was messily splayed across his forehead, tongue poked out in quiet concentration, and Mark lingered for a moment on the other side of the semi-closed door observing him, his heart skipping in his chest.
“What are you doing?” He asked, the door creaking as he pushed it open paired with his voice breaking through the silence, startling Donghyuck. He lost his balance and Mark spared no time as he saw him wobble before he crossed the room.
“Shit-” Donghyuck cursed, arms flailing wildly before he crashed into Mark, knocking both of them back onto the unmade bed. A soft groan left Mark as he landed on his back, Donghyuck sprawled over him, hands bracing at the other boy’s chest. For a moment, neither of them moved, but of course, Mark’s brain short-circuited.
Donghyuck was on top of him.
Lee Donghyuck was sprawled on top of him.
A man was on top of him.
And he didn't hate it.
Fuck.
Donghyuck, with his warm honey skin and his wide, startled eyes, so close Mark could count the flecks of gold in his irises and every one of his lashes. His weight pressed into Mark’s chest, and his breath fanned across his face in short puffs.
Mark’s heart slammed in his chest, ping ponging off his ribs in a silent chant. Panic and something warmer curled in his stomach. ‘Push him off’ his brain screamed, but his body didn’t listen, his hands still holding Donhyuck’s hips.
Donghyuck blinked, then grinned, oblivious. “Damn. Didn’t know you’d sweep me off my feet today Romeo.”
Mark swallowed thickly, turning his head away, face burning. “Shut up and get off,” he muttered.
Donghyuck laughed, shifting to push himself up, hovering over Mark, the movement making Mark’s breath hitch – too much, too close, way too fucking close. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to think of anything else, but all he could feel was Donghyuck’s warmth, the way his fingers briefly brushed against his collarbones.
It was too much.
“You okay?” Donghyuck asked, tilting his head.
Mark forced himself to nod. “Yeah. Just-” he exhaled, “You knocked the wind out of me,” he lied. But what else was new? Mark had spent every waking moment lying.
Donghyuck rolled onto the side of him instead, the two of them staring up at the ceiling. Then, as if remembering, Donghyuck sat up suddenly, “Surprise!”
Mark, still recovering from the incident, turned his head. “What?” Donghyuck pointed up, Mark following his gaze and blinked. The ceiling was covered in the stars, specifically into constellations Mark told Donghyuck he used to look for back in high school. Mark was too distracted to notice the full extent of them when he first entered the apartment. His chest ached.
“You always talk about missing how bright the stars shine at home,” Donghyuck said, his voice softer now, “I figured I’d bring them here for you.” It was such a Donghyuck thing to do – loud and chaotic one second, impossibly thoughtful the next. Mark lov- liked , he liked that about him. He had always liked that about him. Too much.
So instead, he swallowed the guilt back down and muttered, “They’re cool.”
Donghyuck just grinned, “Duh.”
And just like that the moment passed.
Mark closes his eyes. A year later, he’s still laying on his same bed, in the same spot, still feeling the ghost of Donghyuck’s warmth. Out of shame, or maybe conditioning, Mark recalls sermons warning against the very desires he’s reliving, the expectation to be a “proper” son upholding the family values weighing heavily on his shoulders. The dissonance between his true self, the one he keeps locked tightly in a cage in the deepest ridges of his heart, and the persona he presents to the world, is a chasm that seems insurmountable.
Tears well in his eyes as he whispers into the darkness, “Why can’t I be normal?” His room offers no answers beyond the soft hum of the city beyond his window. He glances once more at the Piscis Austrinus constellation, with the Fomalhaut star in the center of his ceiling, shining brightest. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything.
But the stars that remain on his ceiling tell a different story.
_______________
The scent of takeout fills the apartment, mixing itself with the low hum of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. Mark sits at the dining table with his roommates, and a few of their friends, digging through their takeout containers. The other five arrived a little over an hour ago and made themselves at home, per usual, transforming the space into something warmer, something more lively. Mark stays quieter than normal, pushing his food around, stealing desperate glances at Donghyuck. Their heads perk up at a knock on the door and Johnny nearly trips out of his chair on his way to open it, a bright smile plastered on his face. Johnny’s boyfriend Ten is at the door, a case of beer in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.
When Johnny greets him with a kiss that lingers a beat too long, Mark feels his intestines curl around themselves in an uncomfortable knot.
A while later, after taking what felt like forever to pick a movie to watch, everyone is splayed out on the couch or the floor in front of it watching the TV. Mark’s on the end of the couch, Donghyuck on the floor in front of him, resting his head on Mark’s knee. He grips his can of beer tighter while taking deep breaths through his mouth to calm his pathetic heart. Johnny and Ten are on the other end comfortably curling into one another, hands intertwined, sharing quiet jokes and soft smiles in the small world they create when they’re together. They’re so natural in their affection, so unbothered by the world beyond the four walls of the apartment. Mark tries not to stare, but he blames his lack of control on the liquor in his system, not the jealousy coiling tight in his stomach, suffocating him.
He wants that. He wants it so badly, to love freely, to have something even a fraction similar to what Johnny and Ten share. He wants to hold someone’s hand without thinking twice, to let himself be soft and vulnerable without the weight of shame pressing down on him.
But Mark knew better.
He forces his envious eyes away, thrusting his beer can to his lips yet again to distract himself from the warmth spreading through his leg from Donghyuck’s head. Below him he feels his head bobbing, laughing at some joke Yuta made that he didn’t hear, and the green monster inside of him grows larger. His breath hitches at the sound of Donghyuck’s laugh suppressing into a quiet giggle. He clenches his jaw and then his fist tightly, pressing crescent moons into his skin to stop himself from saying something stupid. The evil green monster in his soul wishes to get up and shout at Yuta, grab him by the collar and tell him that Donghyuck belongs to him.
But he doesn’t. And that gnaws at Mark’s insides, whispering things he refuses to acknowledge.
Mark spent the first year of their friendship convincing himself that whatever feelings he felt for Donghyuck was nothing more than gentle admiration, just deep friendship. But admiration doesn’t explain the way his skin burns whenever Donghyuck casually drapes himself over his shoulders. Friendship doesn’t make his heart clench whenever their hands brush.
It’s wrong.
It has to be wrong.
The night trudges along, most of the boys growing bored halfway through their second movie. Per Jungwoo’s suggestion, everyone sits in a loose circle on the floor, the coffee table cluttered with empty cans and shot glasses. Johnny, already buzzed, leans against Ten, whose fingers absently trace circles on his wrist. Mark’s eyes zero in on the intimacy and he swallows down his jealousy with another sip of his drink.
“Truth or dare?” Jungwoo asks, his words slurring.
“Dare,” Donghyuck answers without hesitation, eyes bright with mischief.
Jungwoo smirks. “Kiss the person you find cutest.”
Mark’s stomach falls into his ass.
Donghyuck barely thinks before turning to his left, towards Mark, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “I guess you’re the lucky winner, Markie.”
His breath catches in his throat. What???
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
It’s just a game. Just a stupid drinking game. It’s not like Jungwoo hasn’t ever grabbed his face to plant a sloppy kiss on him when he’s been drunk before. But suddenly, every muscle in Mark’s body locks up. Donghyuck leans in, close enough that Mark could smell the faint traces of vodka on his breath. His face is unreadable, no nervousness, no hesitation, just playful confidence, as if this is nothing.
Maybe for Donghyuck it’s nothing.
But for Mark… it’s everything .
His mind screams at him to move, to laugh it off, to play along like any other token straight guy would. But he can’t. His pulse is roaring in his ears, his lungs squeezing so tight it hurts to breathe. Donghyuck is so close to him. Too close. Too warm. Too real.
And Mark… wants this.
That’s the worst part. He wants this more than anything.
But wanting it means admitting it, and admitting it means breaking apart everything he’s spent years trying to hold together. Panic surges through him. He jerks his head away so violently that he bumps the table and nearly knocks several cans over. “I-no, uh, I… no I can’t,” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, face flushing violently.
Donghyuck’s grin falters, confusion flickering across his face. “Mark, I was just joking–”
But Mark isn’t listening. He’s already halfway down the hall, his heart slamming against his ribs in protest as he stumbles into his bedroom, slamming the door so hard it echoes. He presses his back to the door, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. Breathe in. Breathe. Fucking Breathe Mark.
He opens his eyes and looks down to see his hands shaking like he’s hypothermic. His chest aches with something raw, something ugly. He closes his eyes again and sucks in uneven breaths.
They’re all probably laughing about it already, brushing this off as Mark being weird again, as Mark not knowing how to take a joke. But it isn’t funny. None of this is funny. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as a familiar wave of disgust washes over him.
Why was he like this?
Why couldn’t he be normal ?
His parents raised him better than this. They’d be so disappointed to see him like this. They’ve been worried something like this might happen ever since he met Johnny in high school. “Don’t hang out with people like that , Mark,” they chastised him. As if being around someone gay was enough to turn him gay. In their eyes they’d see it like that. That is, if Mark ever stops forcing this feeling of shame down. Love is supposed to be between a man and a woman, it’s supposed to be pure . He had recited those words over and over, in and out of church, he had believed them.
So why does his heart betray him every time Donghyuck smiles in his direction?
Mark bangs his head on the door, willing the thoughts away. He can still hear the faint sound of laughter from the living room, the muffled voices of his friends carrying on as if nothing happened.
But for Mark, something did.
Something cracked, deep inside of him, and he isn’t sure if he can ever put himself back together.
He moves himself to the edge of his bed, throwing his head into his hands, still trying to steady his heartbeat. The room feels too small, the air too thick. He tries to tune out the sounds of Jungwoo teasing someone, Johnny’s deep chuckle, and Taeyong cutting through all the noise with ease.
He squeezes his eyes shut again, tears slipping past them and down his cheeks. He hates himself.
A soft knock at the door sends him into a frenzy. He jolts up, unanswering, hoping whoever it is would just leave.
“Mark, it’s me,” Doyoung’s voice is calm, steady. “Can I come in?”
Mark hesitates. He doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to be perceived, but if he ignores Doyoung, he knows he’ll just wait him out. Mark sighs, wiping the tears off his face.
“... It’s open,” he mumbles, just loud enough for Doyoung to hear.
The knob turns quietly and Doyoung steps inside, closing it softly behind him. He doesn’t say anything, taking in the sight of Mark curling in on himself on the edge of his bed.
“You okay?”
Mark scoffs, forcing out a dry laugh. “Yeah. I’m just drunk and tired.”
Doyoung doesn’t buy it for a second. “Mark,” he says sternly.
“I’m fine ,” he stresses, crossing his arms over his chest.
Doyoung sits down next to him, close but not too close. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry, he just waits silently. Mark catches the concern in his gaze and feels a wave of nausea in the pit of his stomach. His chest begins to ache again.
“I just– I don’t know,” Mark tries, voice strained. “I freaked out. It was stupid.”
Doyoung sighs. “Mark, you don’t have to lie to me.”
Mark swallows hard. “I’m not–”
“Do you really think I don’t see it?” he interrupts gently. “You think we don’t see it?”
Mark tenses. What does he mean “ we ”?
“We’ve known for a while,” Doyoung continues, “Not all of us – I can see the look on your face. Just Johnny, Ten, and well, me.” Mark’s shoulders relax infinitesimally. “We may not know exactly how you’re feeling but…” he trails off, choosing his next words carefully. “You don’t have to say it if you aren’t ready. But you don’t have to lie, either.”
Mark can feel his throat closing up.
Doyoung’s voice softens, his hand reaching to rest on Mark’s knee to give him a reassuring squeeze. “I know what it’s like.”
Mark shakes his head with a scoff. “No, you don’t.”
“My parents are just like yours – Johnny told me,” he says quietly, “strict, hyper-religious, traditional.”
Mark blinks at him, caught off guard. “But–”
“They accepted me anyway.”
Mark exhales shakily. Doyoung smiles, a twinge of sadness in his eyes. “I was terrified. I thought I’d be disappointing them. I thought I’d be ruining everything they wanted for me.” He looks down at his hands, fiddling with his fingers. “But I knew I couldn’t live like this forever. It wasn’t fair to Taeyong. And when I finally told them… it wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t the end of the world, either.”
Mark lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, my parents aren’t yours.”
“No,” Doyoung agrees, “But they’re still your parents.”
Mark clenches his fist for the umpteenth time. “I can’t,” he whispers, tears brimming his eyes again.
Doyoung sighs, “I know. And no one’s forcing you. But Mark…” He squeezes his knee gently, begging Mark to look him in the eyes. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Mark bites his lips, trying to hold everything in. A tear slips past his defences, then another, and Doyoung wipes them away with a soft smile. For a long moment they just sit there in silence.
Then, finally, Mark exhales, “Thanks.”
Doyoung nods, “Anytime…” he pauses, “For what it’s worth, I think Hyuck feels the same way.”
And for the first time that night, and maybe ever, Mark lets himself breathe.
_______________
Mark stares at the PDF Professor Qian emailed everyone in his class, his laptop feeling heavier than it had any right to be, the fans in his aging MacBook whirring like it’s preparing for takeoff. He glances at the date on his phone – two days left. He only had tonight and tomorrow, after being given a generous 10 days, before he had to see Professor Qian in class on Monday. Two days left and he still had 500 pages to get through, of a story he’s less than interested in at that. He groans, slumping further into his desk chair.
“Stupid,” he mutters, scrolling to the section he’d left off on. “Who assigns 500 pages over break ?”
With a resigned sigh, he dives in.
In the beginning, his reading is mechanical. His eyes scan over the pages, his mind half-focused, but as he follows Baoyu and Daiyu’s growing relationship, he can’t help but roll his eyes.
A love triangle? Really?
It’s not that Mark hates romance. It was just so predictable. Baoyu was obviously in love with Daiyu – well as in love as any teenager can really be – yet his family had long since been pushing the union between him and Baochai, because she was the right choice. Baochai was practical, respectful, and had a better backing with her familial ties. She was the only socially acceptable match in the eyes of the matriarch, Grandmother Jia.
Mark frowns, shifting in his seat. Not that I’d know anything about that . He thinks to himself.
Baoyu’s sense of duty to his family, his constant push-and-pull between what they wanted from him as the heir to the Jia’s, and what he actually wanted, hit a little too close to home. But Mark would never admit that. Grandmother Jia and Baoyu’s parents seem to dictate every important aspect in his life, while still letting him run wild until the time is right for him to marry. They controlled who he should love, who he should marry, who he should be .
Mark exhales sharply, pressing his fingers to his temples. This is just a book. Stop overthinking .
He keeps reading, but the words start blurring together the longer he stares at his screen. He hardly retains anything from Baoyu’s dream where he comes face to face with the Fairy of Disenchantment, nor could he tell anyone what happens when Baoyu and Daiyu have the biggest argument in her bed chamber. The dim glow of his desk lamp and his laptop feel like the only thing anchoring him to reality as the hours start slipping away. At some point, his eyes feel like sandbags are pulling them closed, exhaustion taking him. He fights it as long as he can, especially with the sun beginning to wake up in the window above him, but his head dips onto his desk, eyelids fluttering shut.
Mark wakes to the smooth sensation of silk beneath his fingers and the distant chime of wind bells. He blinks groggily, his vision unfocused. His body feels strangely heavy, as if he had sunk into the mattress below him.
Wait .
He sits up so fast he nearly makes himself dizzy. The first thing he notices is that his cramped three-bedroom college apartment is gone. Instead, he’s inside a lavish bedroom, draped in soft flowing curtains, the scent of sandalwood incense permeating the air. His hands run along the silk sheets, fisting them roughly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He could’ve swore he was at his desk. And he knows for a fact he doesn’t even own anything silk.
“What the fuck?” he whispers. What he really meant to say is: Did I get fucking kidnapped?
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, but even that felt weird. His clothes are different, the loose silk of a traditional robe pooling at his wrists. Then he catches his reflection in an ornate gold mirror across the room.
His stomach drops.
That is not his face.
Or rather, it is, was, he doesn't know. But his face is younger, softer, unfamiliar yet eerily familiar.
It hits him all at once.
“No way. No fucking way ,” he whines, hands reaching up to pull at the, now, waist length hair he’s sporting. He races to the mirror, pulling at his face, the face he had when he was in high school. He pulls the long black hair that’s not tied back, from behind his back and tries to yank it off like it were a wig. He studies the way his unfamiliar reflection moves when he commands it, scaring the shit out of himself when it mimics him perfectly. “This has to be a nightmare,” he says, pinching himself on the arm to wake himself up.
“Ow. Fuck,” he curses, pinching harder. Unfortunately the scene before him stays still, and he remains stuck in this unfamiliar place.
His breaths come out in short uneven bursts as he staggers back from the mirror. His hands fly to his chest, gripping the soft silken robe draping along his shoulders, smooth yet foreign, its embroidered patterns of clouds and stars far too intricate for anything he could’ve ever owned in his world. His modern clothes are gone. No hoodie, no jeans, no familiar weight of his phone in his pocket. In their place is a long, layered robe, the fabric far too tight, too luxurious, too real for his liking.
His fingers tremble as they trace over the sash cinching his narrow waist, the delicate hand-sewn pattern glinting under the golden light of a hanging lantern. His hair, way too long for his modern taste, is pulled into a half-up elegant topknot, held in place with a gold and jade ornament.
His pulse pounds in his ears.
The room around him is nothing like the cramped, shared, college apartment he shares. The bed he woke in is massive, draped in gauzy silk curtains embroidered with delicate plum blossoms. A polished redwood screen stands in the corner, carved with intricate images of cranes and pine trees, dividing the sleeping space and vanity table. The incense curls through the air, sweet yet musky, mingling with the aroma of fresh, untouched, tea that sits on a lacquered tray on the table beside the bed.
Everything is wrong. So wrong.
Or worse – everything is exactly as it should be in an ancient aristocratic home.
Mark forces himself to step forward, the cold surface of the floor pressing against his bare feet. His movement makes the robe shift, the weight of the sleeves unfamiliar. He turns wildly, trying to find something, anything, to anchor him back to reality. A painting of misty mountains adorns the wall across from him, beside an ornate wooden shelf filled with jade figurines, porcelain vases, and ancient scrolls. A large window, also framed with silk drapes, reveals a tranquil garden outside, paired with stone pathways that lead to wooden bridges that wind around manicured patches of peonies and willows, their drooping branches swaying gently in the breeze, along natural looking streams and ponds woven between everything else.
This is impossible.
His breathing grows more erratic. He rushes towards the door, heart hammering against his ribs. Just as he reaches for the handle, a soft knock sounds from the other side, startling him.
A male servant on the other side speaks. “Master, the young guest has arrived.”
Mark stares at the door blankly. “ What ?”
“Master Jia?” The voice is unfamiliar, but the title sends a jolt of terror down his spine.
Mark stumbles, trying to find his voice. “W-What?” His vision blurs as the realization begins to crash into him. He swallows hard, fingers tightening around the silk of his sleeve.
The servant opens the door and hesitates when he is face to face with Mark. “Grandmother Jia has sent for you in the East Gallery to meet your young guest. She wishes for you to have tea and greet them both properly.”
Marks heart pounds. Grandmother Jia ? Like Dream of the Red Chamber Jia? Oh my God. Oh my God !
“I’m Baoyu?” he asks out loud, the servant looking at him with bewilderment. He nods slowly and steps closer to Mark.
“Yes,” the servant hesitates, “Are you feeling well, Young Master?”
Mark reaches around his neck and finds exactly what he feared he would find. Baoyu’s jade is wrapped in a necklace hidden under his robes, the final nail in the casket. The realization dawns on Mark and he mentally curses every god, goddess, fairy, and human to ever exist. He’s Jia fucking Baoyu. He’s trapped inside of the goddamn story he loathes. And to make matters worse he has no clue how to get back to his reality.
“Young Master, we mustn’t keep the guest waiting.”
Mark couldn’t move.
He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t Baoyu. He isn’t supposed to be part of this story.
And yet—
The servant straightens, waiting expectantly. Mark’s throat is dry as he forces himself to nod.
“Right,” he murmurs, his voice hollow. “Lead the way. We shouldn’t keep Grandmother Jia waiting,” Mark resigns, sealing himself to this fate until he figures out the way home. His legs feel like lead as he follows the servant out into the grand corridors of the Jia residence.
Based on the conversation he had with his servant, Mark guesses he’s been placed into the scene where Daiyu and Baoyu are introduced for the first time since they were children. This is that scene, he hopes – the first meeting, the moment where Baoyu and Daiyu laid eyes on each other for the first time. The beginning of their tragedy starts here, at this moment. His guess is that he’ll have to play along in the role of Baoyu until the end, which he assumes will be easy. After all, Daiyu is a woman, it’s not like Mark hasn't ever pretended to be someone he’s not before.
Still in a daze, Mark allows the servant to guide him through the halls of the grand Jia estate. Everything feels surreal, from the carved wooden pillars, the scent of jasmine wafting in the air, the soft chatter of maids passing by, and not to mention the way everyone was dressed.
As they approach the East Gallery, Mark’s pulse begins to quicken. He knows what to expect, he had read at least this far into his assignment. Lin Daiyu was fragile and beautiful, her eyes brimming with intelligence and immeasurable sorrow. She would be the first person Baoyu ever truly loved.
Every step he takes deepens the sinking weight in his chest.
Because if this is truly Dream of the Red Chamber , then it means one thing.
Mark is trapped inside a tragedy.
Except…
When the servant gestures for Mark to enter, he steps inside and every fiber of his muscles freezes in place. Sitting primly on the cushioned seat, clad in flowing silk robes, is not Lin Daiyu.
It’s Donghyuck.
Mark’s breath catches in his throat and he feels the cruel twist in this universe poking fun at him. Donghyuck’s gaze lifts to meet his, sharp and assessing, dark eyes glittering beneath long lashes. His expression is unreadable, half amusement, half something else entirely.
Donghyuck’s hair, dark as ink, is pulled into a loose style, a few strands falling artfully around his face. A single pearl ornament nestled in the glossy waves, catching the light. His slender fingers rest lightly in his lap, the nails carefully shaped, the hands too elegant for someone so effortlessly dangerous.
Mark knows this face.
He spent countless nights avoiding the way he wanted to trace his fingers along the sharp curve of Donghyuck’s jaw, the way he imagined what it would be like if he could look at him the way Johnny looked at Ten.
But now—now Donghyuck is here, sitting in Daiyu’s place.
And Mark is looking at him like he had never seen him before. His pulse thunders in his ears. He needs to say something.
He should bow, should greet him like Baoyu had greeted Daiyu in the novel, should act like he isn’t unraveling at the seams.
But he can’t.
Because Donghyuck — no, Daiyu (?) — is looking at him like he knows something Mark doesn’t.
Like he had been expecting him.
Mark swallows, throat dry as dust.
“Young Master,” one of the servants says gently, urging him forward. “Come greet the new Young Master.”
Donghyuck’s lips quirk, dark eyes shimmering with mischief, much like his real self. Mark takes a step forward, his entire body buzzing with something between dread and longing.
He had fallen into a story where love was tragedy.
And Donghyuck is staring at him like he already knew how it would end. (Logically, Mark knows that’s not true, but then again, how often are people transported into novels?)
Mark feels the floor being ripped out from beneath him.
What the hell is happening?