Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The booth feels smaller when things don’t go right.

Donghyuck yanks off the headphones, breath fogging against the glass as he signals to cut. Again. The take’s off—he can hear it before the playback even starts. Something about the tone, the pacing, maybe the air in his chest. It’s not working. It’s not him.

Jaemin’s already packing up, jacket slung over one shoulder as he waves a lazy goodnight. “Don’t spiral too hard,” he calls before disappearing down the hall.

“Bite me,” Donghyuck mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Chenle gives a mock salute and leaves behind a half-finished iced Americano. Renjun lingers just long enough to offer a pat on the back and a sympathetic, “You’re overthinking it,” before slipping out.

The studio door clicks shut behind them. Just him now. Him and the buzzing silence and the blinking cursor on the vocal track.

And Mark.

He’s still in the corner, hoodie bunched up under his chin, legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles. Donghyuck hadn’t even realised he stayed.

“You don’t have to wait,” Donghyuck says, trying to keep his voice neutral. His throat’s tight. “I’m gonna be here all night.”

Mark shrugs. “I know.”

That’s it. No lecture. No sugar-coated “you sounded fine.” Just I know, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Donghyuck sinks onto the couch, jaw clenched. “It’s not landing. The chorus. I’m stuck in my own head.”

Mark glances at him, then at the screen. “It’s your tone on the second line, right?”

Donghyuck stares. “You were paying that much attention?”

“I always pay attention when it’s you.”

It’s said casually. Like a fact. Like saying the sky’s blue or Donghyuck’s voice cracks a little when he’s mad.

Donghyuck swallows. His gaze flicks away.

Mark sits up, elbows on his knees. “It’s not just this song. You make everything better, you know? Vocals, energy, vibe. There’s always this… warmth when it’s you.”

“Warmth,” Donghyuck repeats, a little flat.

“I mean it,” Mark says, looking at him now—really looking. “You bring something into the room. Like, people pay more attention when you talk. When you sing. Even if you don’t notice.”

Donghyuck scoffs lightly, hiding the way his ears feel hot. “You always say stuff like that.”

Mark tilts his head. “Because it’s true.”

Silence falls. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But thick. Like the air’s holding its breath.

“You’re, like,” Mark says slowly, “my favourite voice to write for. You make lyrics sound real. Like they mean something.”

Donghyuck’s throat works around the words he doesn’t say. Thank you. Stop talking before I do something stupid. Say it again.

Instead, he grumbles, “You’re such a sap.”

Mark laughs, soft and easy. “You say that every time I compliment you.”

“Because you do it weird,” Donghyuck mutters, but he doesn’t move away when Mark’s knee bumps into his. Doesn’t push him off when their shoulders touch.

He plays the chorus again. And this time, when he sings, it sounds a little more like him.

Mark doesn’t say anything when the chorus ends. He just nods once, slow. Like he knew it was there. Like he never doubted it.

Chapter Text

The flight is too long, the lights too dim, the air too dry. Donghyuck hates overnight flights.

He shifts in his seat again for the fifth time in three minutes, tugging his blanket higher and pushing his hood down lower. The armrest digs into his side no matter how he sits. His legs ache from rehearsal, his neck’s sore, and the guy in front of him just reclined all the way back like he’s in his own damn apartment.

He glares at the back of the seat, willing it to burst into flames.

Next to him, Mark is already half-asleep. Hoodie on, headphones in, chin tucked low. His mouth is parted just slightly, lashes brushing the top of his cheeks. His knee knocks against Donghyuck’s once, then settles.

Donghyuck doesn’t move it. He tells himself it’s because he’s tired. Not because it feels… weirdly comforting.

Outside the window, there’s only darkness and the blinking red of the winglight. He can’t sleep. Not with the engine noise, the stale cabin air, and definitely not with Mark radiating quiet heat two inches away.

Another shift. Another bump of Mark’s knee. This time, Mark stirs.

Donghyuck glances over, thinking he’s awake, but Mark doesn’t open his eyes. Just sighs and leans in closer, head tipping until it finds Donghyuck’s shoulder.

Donghyuck freezes.

Mark’s hair is soft against his neck. He smells like laundry and mint gum and a little leftover sweat. And then—like it’s nothing, like it’s natural—Mark’s hand drops, warm and loose, and lands over Donghyuck’s wrist. His fingers curl, feather-light, just enough to hold.

Donghyuck swears the pressure changes in the cabin. The air gets thinner. Or maybe that’s just him forgetting to breathe.

It’s not a grip. Not heavy. Just there. Casual, almost. Like it’s happened before. Like it’ll happen again.

He glances around. Jeno’s knocked out behind them. Renjun’s got an eye mask on. Jaemin is watching something on his iPad with his hood up and earbuds in.

Nobody’s looking.

Mark shifts again, inhaling deeply against Donghyuck’s hoodie, and his fingers tighten the barest bit.

Donghyuck should move. He should roll his eyes or push Mark off or say something sarcastic and safe.

Instead, he stares at their hands. At the way Mark’s thumb brushes just once—once—over the inside of his wrist like a reflex.

He leans back in his seat. Doesn’t speak.

Mark doesn’t let go.

When the cabin lights come on for descent, Mark’s still curled into him, hand still warm over his wrist like it never left.

Donghyuck pretends he’s annoyed. But his pulse stays steady under Mark’s fingers all the way down.

Chapter Text

It starts with a drink.

Not just any drink—Donghyuck’s seasonal favourite. The weird one with oat milk, double syrup, too much espresso, and a name too long for the sticker. It’s not on his Instagram. Not even in the group chat. He mentioned it once, offhandedly, while scrolling through menu options in the van.

And yet—here it is. Hand-delivered. Perfectly warm. Thrust into his arms without fanfare the second he walks into the practice room.

“Uh,” Donghyuck says, eloquent.

Mark just blinks at him, shoulders slightly hunched from the cold, hood drawn halfway up over his head. “Try not to spill it this time.”

Donghyuck frowns. “Did I ask for this?”

“Nope.”

“Then what if I don’t want it?”

“You definitely do,” Mark says, already turning away, like that’s the end of the conversation.

Donghyuck stands there for a second, cradling the cup like it’s made of glass. Suspicious, he peels the label off and reads it. Extra oat. Half sweet. Hot. Exactly right. He glances over at Mark, who’s stretching against the mirror and not paying him any attention.

Or pretending not to.

Donghyuck takes a sip. Closes his eyes. Swears under his breath. “Stupid Canadian psychic.”

He finishes the drink before warm-ups are done.

He tells himself it’s not a big deal. It’s not a gift. It’s just coffee. People bring each other coffee all the time. Donghyuck has done far more thoughtful things with far less internal crisis. It’s fine.

He forgets about it.

Until later that day, when he finds something weird and lumpy stuffed into the front pocket of his bag.

A plastic capsule. Bright orange, half-split open. Inside: a small, bobble-headed Charmander keychain.

Donghyuck blinks at it. Turns it over in his palm. It’s not even a high-quality one—probably from the vending machines at the convenience store. It rattles when he shakes it. The flame on its tail is comically oversized.

Still, it’s his favourite Pokémon. Always has been. He’s mentioned that maybe once—ages ago. To Jisung, probably. Not Mark.

…Right?

He glances around the room. No one else is paying attention. Chenle’s asleep on the couch, Jeno’s in a corner with his headphones on, and Mark is sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through his lyrics notebook like it owes him money.

He hasn’t looked over once. But Donghyuck has this weird, creeping suspicion crawling up his spine.

No way he remembered that.

The keychain sits in his hand for another minute. Then, without saying anything, he quietly slips it into his jacket pocket and zips it shut.

Not because it means anything. Not because he’s keeping it. He’s just… holding onto it. Temporarily.

Later that night, while brushing his teeth, he clips the Charmander to his phone case. No ceremony. No decision. It just sort of happens.

He doesn’t mention it. Neither does Mark.

But the next morning, when they’re lined up for hair and makeup, Donghyuck catches Mark looking. Briefly. Just a glance at his phone before their eyes meet.

Mark doesn’t say a word. Just raises a brow and smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Donghyuck rolls his eyes. But he doesn’t unclip the keychain.

Even when it gets tangled in his charger cord.

Even when the little flame tail digs into his palm at night.

He keeps it there. Right where Mark left it.

Chapter Text

The text isn’t meant to be serious.

Donghyuck sends it to the group chat around 11:40 p.m., sprawled on his bed with one sock on and a craving he’s too lazy to fix.

anyone wanna get ramen or are you all fake

He doesn’t expect an answer. Jaemin’s probably mid-face mask, Jeno’s already said goodnight, and Renjun’s been ghosting the chat ever since their schedule ended. It’s a shot in the dark. A bored, passive kind of invitation he can pretend was a joke if no one responds.

He gets a reply sixty seconds later.

Mark: omw

Donghyuck stares at the screen. Then again at the timestamp.

He re-reads the message five times like it might change.

They end up at the convenience store around the corner—one of the 24-hour ones with harsh fluorescent lighting and exactly two sad picnic benches out front. Donghyuck picks the instant ramen with the shiny black packaging. Mark doesn’t buy anything for himself.

“You’re not eating?” Donghyuck asks, ripping open the lid.

“I’m good,” Mark says, settling across from him. “I just wanted to come.”

Donghyuck blinks at him. “You didn’t have to.”

Mark shrugs. “Didn’t have anything better to do.”

It’s not true. Donghyuck knows for a fact Mark’s got three songs in progress and a half-written verse he’s been stewing over all week. But he doesn’t call him out. He just pokes at the noodles with his chopsticks, steam curling around his fingers.

They talk about nothing at first—trash TV, weird dreams, whether or not ramen counts as a balanced meal.

Then, after a pause long enough to settle into something quieter, Donghyuck says, “Do you ever think about quitting?”

Mark doesn’t laugh or dodge. Just thinks for a second, then says, “Sometimes. Not seriously. But… yeah.”

“Same,” Donghyuck mutters.

He doesn’t have to explain. The weight of it—the exhaustion, the pressure, the parts of himself he has to leave offstage—it hangs in the air between them. And Mark gets it. Of course he does.

“I think I’d still make music,” Mark says after a beat. “Even if no one listened.”

Donghyuck hums. “I think I’d open a bakery.”

Mark blinks. “Seriously?”

“No,” Donghyuck says. “But it sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

Mark smiles. “Yeah. It does.”

The steam fogs up Donghyuck’s phone screen when he checks the time. It’s past one in the morning. The store is quiet now, mostly empty, except for a cashier half-asleep behind the counter.

Mark doesn’t look like he wants to leave. Doesn’t glance at his phone. Doesn’t talk unless Donghyuck does.

It’s weird.

And kind of... nice.

They sit in that slow, quiet space a little longer. Until Donghyuck’s cup is empty and his fingers are cold and his body feels heavier than it did an hour ago.

“You wanna crash at mine?” he says, feigning casual. “Too late to go home.”

Mark nods without hesitation. “Sure.”

Donghyuck doesn’t remember falling asleep.

One minute he’s kicking off his shoes, and the next he’s waking up to sunlight leaking through the blinds and the scent of detergent and warm skin.

He’s curled up on the couch, a hoodie tugged over him—Mark’s, he realises, bleary-eyed and blinking—and Mark’s sitting on the floor beside him, scrolling quietly through his phone with his back against the coffee table.

“Morning,” Mark says without looking up.

Donghyuck doesn’t say it back. He just tucks his face deeper into the hoodie, heart weirdly full.

Mark stayed. Again.

Of course he did.

Chapter Text

The camera’s been rolling for twelve minutes and Donghyuck is two seconds away from setting the entire tent on fire.

“Hyuck, the pole goes through the loop, not the flap,” Jeno says, voice somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“There is no flap, you liar,” Donghyuck huffs, wrestling with a bent aluminium rod and what might actually be a mosquito net. “This thing is cursed. This whole trip is cursed.”

“Smile for the vlog,” Jaemin sings behind the camera.

“I hope the firewood explodes.”

They’ve been filming content all day. Hiking montages. Campfire games. Cooking challenges. It’s mostly been fun, until the sun dipped and the temperature dropped and Donghyuck realised: he’s tired. Like, bone-tired. The kind of tired that no amount of caffeine or camera-facing enthusiasm can fix.

He’s cold. His hands are stiff. He’s wearing the wrong hoodie and his back hurts and the camera light is too bright and—

He stands up abruptly. “Bathroom.”

Nobody stops him. He doesn’t go far—just behind the van, out of frame. He leans back against the side panel, exhales slowly, and closes his eyes.

He’s not going to cry. He’s not that dramatic. But for a second, the silence feels heavier than it should. He wants to scream, or maybe disappear.

And then—

The soft crunch of gravel. The quiet shuffling of footsteps. He opens his eyes and Mark is standing there.

Not saying anything. Just holding something out in both hands.

Donghyuck blinks down at it. A heat pack.

Mark shakes the heat pack once, like a peace offering. “For your pocket.”

Donghyuck takes it slowly. His fingers are freezing. The warmth seeps in immediately.

“I saw you rubbing your hands earlier,” Mark says, quiet. “Didn’t think you’d bring one.”

Donghyuck doesn’t respond. Not with words. Just closes his fingers tighter around the heat pack and breathes.

“And—okay, full disclosure, I tried to make you something.”

He holds out a foil-wrapped package that smells, well… questionable.

Donghyuck eyes it warily. “You cooked?”

“I grilled meat.”

“You’re banned from open flames.”

Mark shrugs. “Jaemin supervised.”

Donghyuck opens it. The meat is overcooked in places, slightly raw in others, and somehow still seasoned exactly the way he likes it.

It’s objectively terrible. But it’s his.

He takes a bite.

“...You tried.”

Mark grins. “I tried for you.”

And then he just… leaves. Walks back to camp like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just reset Donghyuck’s entire night with two quiet, perfect gestures.

Later, after the fire’s finally lit and the camera’s off, Donghyuck digs in his hoodie pocket for his lip balm and finds the heat pack still warm. Still tucked there.

He glances over the flames. Mark is helping Jaemin clean up, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something Jeno says.

He doesn’t look at Donghyuck once.

And Donghyuck realises—with the kind of clarity that makes his chest ache—Mark doesn’t need recognition.

He just does things. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Out of sight and unasked.

And somehow, it means more than all the words in the world.

Chapter Text

The fight isn’t huge.

Not at first.

It’s the kind of disagreement that starts with something small—misread text, snapped reply, tension that’s been building up in Donghyuck’s chest for weeks. Too many shared looks. Too many late nights. Too many things unspoken.

“You could’ve just said you didn’t want to hang out,” Donghyuck mutters, arms crossed tight as the dorm door clicks shut behind them.

Mark blinks. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say anything at all. That’s the problem.”

Mark frowns. “I was just tired. You’re the one making this a thing.”

Donghyuck’s mouth pulls into something sharp. “Right, because I’m always the dramatic one.”

Silence.

The tension stretches—taut and ugly.

Donghyuck huffs. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

Mark’s jaw works, but he doesn’t speak. And maybe that’s what finally breaks Donghyuck.

He throws his arms up. “Do you even care?!”

Mark flinches like he wasn’t expecting the volume.

“You act like you’re there for me but you never say anything!” Donghyuck’s voice shakes. “Not really. You don’t say how you feel. You just show up and expect me to—what—figure it out?”

Mark stares at him.

The silence that follows is loud. Empty. Then—

“I have been saying it,” Mark says, quiet but steady. “Every time. In every way I know how.”

“Then say it in a way I’ll understand,” Donghyuck snaps, chest heaving. “Say it in words.”

Mark doesn’t hesitate.

“I love you.”

Donghyuck’s heart stutters.

Mark’s eyes don’t leave his. “I love you,” he says again. “I’ve been loving you. Since before I knew what to call it.”

It’s not loud. It’s not a confession yelled across a stage or whispered in the dark. It’s clear. Honest. Real.

Donghyuck doesn’t know how to breathe.

“I—” he starts, and then stops. Looks at the floor. “You mean that?”

“I mean everything,” Mark says. “Every coffee. Every stupid plush keychain. Every heat pack. Every time I stayed when I could’ve gone home.”

Donghyuck laughs a little—unsteady, a crack of disbelief. “You’re so bad at this.”

“I know,” Mark says, smiling now. “But I’m not lying.”

Donghyuck steps forward, slow.

One beat.

Two.

Then he cups Mark’s face, lets his forehead press against his, and kisses him—soft, certain, no hesitation.

When they part, his voice is barely a breath.

“Say it again.”

Mark kisses him this time.

“I love you.”

Chapter Text

It’s raining the next time they get ramen.

Same convenience store. Same flickering light over the bench. Mark’s hoodie is too thin for the weather, and Donghyuck’s sleeves are damp from forgetting an umbrella.

They eat anyway, huddled under the little awning, steam rising into the cool night air.

Mark glances over as Donghyuck finishes slurping the last of his broth. “You’re quiet.”

Donghyuck shrugs, licking chilli paste off his chopsticks. “I’m just basking in the fact that you’re obsessed with me.”

Mark chokes on his water.

“Jesus—warn me next time,” he wheezes, thumping his chest.

Donghyuck grins. “What? I’m just saying. You confessed, you love me, you keep loving me, you bring me drinks and clip dumb keychains to my bag like a simp—”

“I never clipped it—”

“Semantics,” Donghyuck says, cutting him off, eyes glittering.

Mark shakes his head but he’s smiling, shoulders hunched like he can’t help it. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me anyway.”

Mark’s smile softens. “Yeah. I do.”

Donghyuck looks at him for a second. Lets the moment stretch. It’s easy now—being still beside Mark. Letting the words rise without fear of where they’ll land.

He bumps Mark’s knee with his own. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but sure. “I know.”

And then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world:

“I love you too.”

Mark’s still for a beat. Like maybe he thought he imagined it.

Donghyuck doesn’t look at him. Just sips the last of his drink and adds, “Even though your cooking sucks.”

Mark lets out a full laugh, startled and bright, hand reaching over to tug playfully at Donghyuck’s damp sleeve.

It’s cold. They’re damp. The food is average at best.

But Donghyuck’s never felt warmer.