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The clock says 3:42PM. Which means two hours and eighteen minutes until The Firstfruit is out in the world.
Mark’s in his living room, but he keeps pacing like it’s too small to hold all the air in his lungs. He’s showered already, done his vocal warm-ups, checked his phone eighty-seven times. The showcase isn’t until eight, but his nerves showed up around noon and refused to leave.
He picks up his guitar and puts it down again. He tries sitting on the couch, bouncing his leg, scrolling through Instagram with his jaw clenched tight. He’s liked about ten posts he didn’t actually register.
He knows it’s a good album. He knows he poured everything into it—wrote it like scripture, recorded it like prayer, handed over his entire chest and called it art.
But knowing doesn’t stop the weight pressing into his ribcage. Doesn’t stop the voice in the back of his head going: what if they don’t get it? what if it’s not enough? what if I’m not?
He’s about to spiral when the door unlocks with a soft click.
“Hyung?”
Mark freezes.
He didn’t text anyone to come over. But of course—of course—it’s Donghyuck.
Donghyuck steps inside like he belongs there, kicks off his shoes without looking, hoodie sleeves half covering his hands. He meets Mark’s eyes and blinks, slow. “I figured you’d be spiralling.”
Mark lets out a breath. “I’m not—spiralling.”
“You’re spiralling so hard,” Donghyuck says, already padding over to him. “I could feel it through the group chat.”
“I haven’t even said anything in the group chat,” Mark mutters.
“Exactly.” Donghyuck flops onto the couch and pats the spot next to him. “Come here before you melt into the floor.”
Mark hesitates. His hands feel clammy. His heart’s in his throat.
But he goes.
The moment he sits down, Donghyuck tugs him closer without asking, folding him in like a blanket. Mark doesn’t even realise how tense he is until he feels a hand on his thigh, grounding him.
They sit there for a second.
Then: “You wanna throw up a little?” Donghyuck asks, voice light.
Mark huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Kinda.”
Donghyuck squeezes his leg. “That means you care. That’s good. That’s human. You’d be a weirdo if you weren’t nervous.”
“I just—” Mark runs a hand through his hair. “It’s different this time. It’s me. It’s all me. And I—I know what I made, I know what it means to me, but… what if it doesn’t mean anything to anyone else?”
Donghyuck’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, softly, “You think you wrote this whole album just for you?”
Mark swallows. “No. I don’t know. Maybe. It started that way.”
“Yeah, and then you shared it. You made it for us. For the people who’ve been watching you do this since you were fifteen. For the kids who think they have to get everything right the first time. For everyone who’s scared of being known and trying anyway.”
Mark’s throat tightens.
“You gave us something real,” Donghyuck says. “That’s always gonna be enough.”
Mark looks down at his lap. “What if it’s not, though?”
Donghyuck nudges him. “Then we fight.”
Mark blinks. “What?”
“We fight them,” Donghyuck says firmly. “Anyone who says otherwise. Me and the members and your guitar and the word of God if we have to.”
Mark bursts out laughing. It bubbles up so unexpectedly, it almost startles him.
Donghyuck grins, proud. “There’s my boy.”
Mark leans into him, forehead brushing Donghyuck’s shoulder. “Thanks.”
Donghyuck hums, arms around him now. “You’re gonna kill it tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after that. This is just the beginning.”
Mark closes his eyes, lets the warmth settle in. “Stay until I have to leave?”
“I was planning on it,” Donghyuck murmurs. “I’ll even pick your outfit, if you promise not to fight me on the pants.”
Mark exhales. Smiles.
Two hours to go.
And somehow, it doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
The FB Theater in Seongsu-dong buzzed with anticipation. Fans filled every seat, their excitement palpable. Backstage, Mark took a deep breath, steadying himself. This was it—the culmination of years of hard work and passion.
It was 8PM sharp. The Firstfruit was officially out in the world. No more hiding. No more tweaking lines or second-guessing bridges. Every song was his now—his and theirs.
“Please welcome, Mark Lee!”
He stepped into the spotlight before he was ready. But maybe that was how this part always worked.
The cheers were deafening. Warm. Familiar. A few fans shouted his name like they’d been waiting years to do it. Maybe they had. He smiled automatically, adjusting the mic stand with careful hands.
“Thank you so much for being here tonight,” he said, voice steady despite the thudding in his chest. “This album means a lot to me. And tonight’s the first time I get to share it live, so… I hope you’ll stay with me. Let’s go.”
The first beat dropped with clarity, sharp and pulsing beneath his skin. Mark squared his shoulders and let the lyrics flow. His voice rode the rhythm cleanly, every line a release.
“I don't need to be righteous / But I try to be right, yeah.”
He kept his gaze steady, even when his hands started shaking. The crowd stayed quiet—listening, absorbing. That meant more than cheering ever could.
When the final note hit, the applause came loud and fast. He ducked his head, breath catching in his throat.
The host came out smiling. “What a powerful opening. Tell us about this song.”
Mark laughed, a little breathless. “This was the most difficult track to complete—‘Righteous.’ It was like therapy for me. It’s a conversation with myself. It's me confronting things, realizing I don’t have to be perfect. And I think we all go through that, right?”
The host nodded. “You really bared a lot of emotion.”
“Yeah,” Mark said, softer. “I had to learn how to write about things I usually avoid.”
He walked slowly back to the mic, already a little sweat-soaked but not tired. Not yet. He squinted out at the crowd. “Okay,” he said, “let’s take it to Vancouver for a second.”
A ripple of excited laughter.
“This one’s called ‘Raincouver,’ and if you’ve ever lived there… you’ll get it.”
The lights shifted to cool grey-blues as the intro began, slow and atmospheric. It wasn’t dramatic—it was subtle, reflective. Just like the city that inspired it.
“Rain on my window, same thoughts again / Tryna let go, but don’t know when.”
He remembered writing this while watching rain streak down the windows of his childhood bedroom. He let the memory wash over him, singing it like a confession. The silence afterward was thick, full of something tender.
When the lights rose again, the host returned. “You really captured a mood with that one.”
Mark smiled. “I get a little sentimental thinking about those years. ‘Raincouver’ came from me reflecting on my school days—when things felt overwhelming, but also simple in a way. I used to sit at the window and watch the rain and think everything.”
Laughter from the crowd.
When it came time to talk about ‘+82 Pressin”, he felt his shoulders finally start to relax.
“It’s a really special one for me,” he said. “Actually, I’ve been with Haechan for a long time. He’s also kinda the first Korean member I got close to after coming to Seoul.”
The crowd melted at that, a soft chorus of “aww” rippling through the seats.
Mark glanced toward the wings, subtle. Blink-and-you’d-miss-it.
And then he smiled—small, fond, like there was something only he and one other person knew.
“I thought it’d be nice to do a song with Haechan that could represent Seoul. Something that feels like here. Like us. That’s why I wrote +82 Pressin’."
The audience clapped, some cheering Haechan’s name, and Mark ducked his head with a grin.
“We’ve had this friendship for years, and it just… made sense. I wanted to capture that energy. So even though we’re not performing it tonight,”—he lifted a shoulder—“know that it’s got a lot of love in it.”
“This next track,” he said, stepping up again, “is probably the most fun I had making the whole album.”
Cheers started to swell.
“’1999’ is about my childhood—like, the little joys, you know? Like old cartoons and music I used to listen to with my brother. And snowball fights. Stuff like that.”
The beat kicked in and the whole theatre seemed to come alive with it. Mark grinned wide, singing with a bounce in his step.
“Back in '99, when I didn't know the world yet / Just a little dreamer with a tape deck.”
He could see fans mouthing the words, even though they’d only just heard it for the first time. That made something squeeze behind his ribs in the best way.
Backstage, the chant shook the walls.
“Lee Mark! Lee Mark! Lee Mark!”
It had started as soon as he stepped offstage. Unprompted. Unrehearsed. Just hundreds of voices refusing to let go.
Mark stood frozen in place, sweat drying on his temples, hands trembling slightly at his sides. It wasn’t the noise that stunned him. It was the weight behind it. Like every voice was reaching for him at once.
He wasn’t sure he could breathe.
“They don’t even know you’re coming back out,” Donghyuck said softly behind him. “They’re just yelling your name because they want more of you.”
Mark let out a breath that shook a little. “I didn’t think this would feel like this.”
Donghyuck didn’t say anything right away. Just stayed close—close enough to feel like a lifeline, not a crowd.
“I didn’t put Child on the album,” Mark said, eyes fixed somewhere past the curtain. “But it’s still… it’s the reason I’m even here.”
“I know,” Donghyuck said. “That’s why it’s perfect.”
Mark’s throat tightened.
He had felt emotional all night. Performing Righteous had cracked him open. Raincouver had filled his chest with memory. 1999 made him feel like a kid again. But this—this moment—
It was everything folding in on itself.
He looked down, blinked hard, and a tear spilled before he could catch it. He pressed the heel of his palm against his eye, but it didn’t stop the others. They kept coming—soft, surprised.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” he whispered.
Donghyuck stepped forward then, quiet and steady, and pulled him into a hug.
“You just let it happen,” he said. “You go back out there and let them love you. That’s all.”
Mark laughed into his shoulder, the sound small and wet. “That’s so much harder than it sounds.”
“I know,” Donghyuck said, holding him tighter. “But you already did the hard part. You wrote the songs. You told the truth. Now you just… sing.”
Mark nodded against him. Pulled back. Wiped his face again, his eyes still rimmed red but steady now.
He didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t need to.
The lights in the theatre hadn’t changed. No announcement. No cue. Just Mark stepping back into the spotlight.
The moment the crowd saw him, they screamed—but he didn’t say a word.
He walked to the center of the stage, a single mic in his hand, and stood still until the room began to quiet.
No introduction.
No preamble.
Just—
“I’m a child / I can’t be the person you want.”
A ripple moved through the crowd—surprise, recognition, emotion all at once.
He sang it like a memory. Like an echo of something he’d carried with him for years. No guitar. No production. Just his voice—clear, a little raw, honest in a way that only comes from surviving it.
Each line landed softly but left something behind.
“I’m a child / I can’t be the hero you want.”
By the time he reached the final verse, some people were crying. Others stood frozen in reverent silence, afraid to move.
He didn’t bow when it ended.
He just stood there for a second, breathing, heart full to the brim.
Then he smiled. Small. Real.
And walked offstage—for real this time.
Backstage buzzed around him, crew members and staff offering praise, pats on the back, water bottles, towels. But it all blurred in his ears.
And then—
“Hyung.”
Mark turned, and there he was. Donghyuck. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy, eyes warm.
“You were amazing,” he said, voice low enough to cut through everything else.
Mark swallowed. “I was so nervous.”
Donghyuck snorted. “Yeah, I could see that. But no one else could.”
Mark laughed, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders.
“Seriously,” Donghyuck said. “You didn’t just perform. You spoke. And people listened. That’s what matters.”
Mark leaned in, resting his forehead on Donghyuck’s shoulder, not caring who could see.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmured.
Donghyuck wrapped an arm around him, casual and firm all at once. “Like I’d ever miss this.”
Mark let himself close his eyes. Just for a second. The lights, the pressure, the adrenaline—it could wait.
Right now, he was exactly where he needed to be.
The door to Mark's apartment clicked shut behind them, sealing out the cool Seoul night. The quiet hum of the city was replaced by the even quieter hum of their own breathing.
Mark tossed his keys onto the entryway table, the metallic jingle oddly grounding. He turned to find Donghyuck leaning against the door, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.
"So," Donghyuck began, eyes glinting with mischief, "I'm just a 'friend' now, huh?"
Mark blinked, momentarily confused. Then it hit him—the part of the showcase where he'd introduced +82 Pressin' and referred to Donghyuck as the first Korean member he became close with. He felt a flush creep up his neck.
"I mean," Mark started, rubbing the back of his neck, "it's not like I could say—"
Donghyuck pushed off the door, closing the distance between them in a few strides. He reached up, gently tugging Mark's hand away from his neck.
"Relax, hyung," Donghyuck said, voice softer now. "I'm just messing with you."
Mark let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Donghyuck's teasing was familiar, comforting even.
"You were incredible tonight," Donghyuck continued, sincerity lacing his tone. "Watching you up there, sharing your music, your heart... I'm proud of you."
Mark met Donghyuck's gaze, the weight of the evening settling over him. The nerves, the adrenaline, the overwhelming support from fans—it all culminated in this moment.
"Couldn't have done it without you," Mark admitted.
Donghyuck's eyes softened. "I'm always here. You know that."
They stood there for a moment, the unspoken understanding between them saying more than words ever could.
"Come on," Donghyuck finally said, breaking the silence. "Let's get you out of these clothes and into something comfortable."
"Yeah, that sounds good," Mark said, voice low, soft with the kind of exhaustion that only came after giving everything away.
Donghyuck gave him a look—half fond, half teasing—but didn’t say anything. He just slipped his hand into Mark’s and led him down the short hallway to the bedroom.
It smelled faintly like laundry detergent and lemon-scented candles. The bed was unmade, pillows askew, the kind of mess that comes from not having time to breathe, let alone clean. Donghyuck didn’t seem to mind.
Mark peeled off his jacket and let it fall to the floor. He stood there for a second in just his undershirt, looking a little out of place in his own space, eyes still slightly glassy from the weight of the night.
“You okay?” Donghyuck asked, voice quieter now, gentler.
Mark nodded, but he didn’t speak. He reached for Donghyuck instead, fingers curling lightly into the front of his hoodie.
Donghyuck came willingly, stepping into the space between them like he’d always been meant to fill it. Mark’s hands slid up, one resting at Donghyuck’s neck, the other against the curve of his jaw.
“I meant what I said,” Mark murmured. “About the song. About you.”
Donghyuck’s mouth twitched. “You mean the part where I’m your friend?”
Mark groaned into his shoulder, laughing a little. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Donghyuck said, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “if you’re gonna write songs about me and call it ‘us,’ maybe you could upgrade my title next time.”
Mark looked up at him, heart full and aching and so unbelievably open.
“I could call you everything,” he said. “And it still wouldn’t cover it.”
For a moment, they just stood there. Breathing each other in. Letting the quiet settle.
Then Mark leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. Just slow and sure, like something unfolding—like a promise written in heat and skin. Donghyuck responded instantly, fingers slipping under the hem of Mark’s shirt, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned.
Every movement felt like trust. Like coming home.
Mark’s hands slid down Donghyuck’s back as they kissed, long and unhurried, like they had all night. And maybe they did. There were no fans watching now. No lights. No pressure.
Just them.
“You’ve always been everything,” Mark murmured. “Even when I didn’t have the words.”
Donghyuck blinked at him, teasing wiped clean from his face.
For a second, it was just the two of them, standing there barefoot and breathless in the dim light of Mark’s room. The air between them charged, not with urgency, but with the kind of intensity that simmers. Familiar. Steady. Real.
Mark leaned in first, a hand resting against Donghyuck’s jaw as he kissed him slow. Donghyuck’s fingers curled into the hem of Mark’s shirt, pulling him close until their chests touched, until there was no more room for space.
The kiss deepened, but never lost its gentleness. They moved like they’d done this before—like they knew each other’s rhythms and wanted to relearn them anyway.
Somewhere between breaths, Mark murmured, “Stay.”
Donghyuck didn’t answer, just kissed him again—yes written in every part of his body.
Mark’s hands found skin, lifting Donghyuck’s hoodie just enough to trace the warmth underneath. Donghyuck made a sound against his mouth, soft and caught between a laugh and a sigh.
They tumbled back onto the bed, not rushed, not careful, but with the ease of two people who knew what the other needed.
It was quiet. No dramatic declarations. No bright lights.
Just hands, and mouths, and warmth—clothes falling away slowly, whispered jokes and gasped laughter and the kind of kisses that made time fold in on itself.
Mark’s voice broke when he whispered Donghyuck’s name.
And Donghyuck kissed it back into him. Like a promise.
They moved like they were still on stage—choreographed by trust, by memory, by everything unsaid but deeply understood.
And when they finally stilled—wrapped around each other, skin to skin, breath mingling between shared pillows—Mark’s heart felt like it had finally caught up with him.
Donghyuck pressed a kiss to his shoulder, lazy and unhurried. “For the record,” he mumbled, “I’ve never been just your friend.”
Mark’s fingers threaded into his hair.
“I know,” he said. “You’ve always been the part I didn’t know how to name.”