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the morning always starts quiet.
the house isn’t big, but it echoes like a cathedral. pale light presses against the sheer curtains like it’s afraid to enter. everything is too neat, too quiet, like the furniture is holding its breath. the dining table still has a faint white ring from where jaehyun once spilled holy water, trying to convince mark that their father wouldn’t notice. he noticed. jaehyun got grounded for a week. mark laughed too hard at the time, said it was worth it. now he just keeps wiping at the spot, even though it won’t fade.
mark wakes up before his parents. he always does. the house feels less sharp then, before their voices fill the air with disappointment and scripture. before the weight of expectations stitches itself back into his shoulders. the early silence belongs to him, and he moves through it carefully, like he’s trespassing.
he brushes his teeth. combs his hair back with his fingers. studies his face in the mirror like it’s a map to something he still doesn’t understand. it’s the same face that’s been praised in sunday school, loved by teachers, complimented by aunts and strangers. clean-cut. respectful. good boy. obedient. it means nothing to him.
he wears his school uniform with the collar perfectly ironed. ties his shoelaces double tight. carries his books like he’s going to war. mark lee: student council president. valedictorian candidate. leader of the choir. future doctor. son of a father who thinks love is discipline and a mother who thinks silence is faith. son of a ghost, really. because no matter how often they speak, he never feels heard.
there’s a photo in the hallway. jaehyun, holding a guitar, laughing. mark is beside him, barely thirteen, grinning with all his teeth. their parents don’t talk about him anymore. not after he died. cancer, the kind that chews through your bones and leaves only pain behind. jaehyun gave mark his guitar before he left. gave him the keys to the garage too. told him to keep playing. told him he’d understand the world better through chords than through sermons.
jaehyun was wrong about a lot of things. but not that.
the garage is still his. after school, when no one’s home, mark sneaks out there. keeps the keys hidden in a pair of socks under his mattress. the place smells like rust and wood and old dreams. there’s a speaker, a loop pedal, a mic stand too tall for him still. and the guitar, always the guitar, waiting like a secret only he knows how to keep. he sings low, soft. writes lyrics he’d never let anyone read. he’s not brave like jaehyun was. he’s careful. he’s scared.
but he sings anyway.
⸻
“lee mark. principal wants to see you.”
his name echoes in the middle of calculus. mrs. han barely looks up from her attendance sheet. she says it like a fact, not a punishment.
he gathers his things neatly. the classroom watches him with the detached curiosity you give someone like him, someone who never gets in trouble. someone who wins awards and hands in papers on time. perfect boy, with perfect manners, perfect grades.
his legs carry him down the hallway like they’ve memorized the pattern of the tiles. the office is cold, fluorescent-lit. the receptionist waves him in. he knocks twice before stepping through.
and that’s when he sees him.
sitting in the chair across from the principal’s desk like he owns the place, legs spread, slouched back, one eyebrow raised like the whole world is boring. his uniform is unbuttoned. red streaks coil through his dark hair like fire. his lip is split. he’s chewing gum. he looks seventeen but somehow older, like life already handed him a few beatings and he learned how to smile through them.
donghyuck.
mark doesn’t know that name yet. doesn’t know the shape it’ll carve into his chest. right now, he just stares.
“lee mark,” principal cho says. “thank you for coming.”
mark nods. he doesn’t sit yet.
“this is lee donghyuck. he’s transferring here from sinchon high. he's a pretty smart guy, however we’ve had… several reports of behavioral concerns.” the principal glances at the file on his desk like it personally offended him. “however, since you’ve proven yourself as a reliable leader, we’re assigning you as his peer advisor.”
mark’s throat tightens. “what does that mean?”
“it means,” principal cho says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you’ll be responsible for helping him adjust. show him around. make sure he stays out of trouble. i trust you understand the responsibility.”
donghyuck snorts. mark looks over.
“you got assigned babysitter duty, huh?” donghyuck says, voice thick with mockery. “lucky you.”
mark doesn’t answer. his fingers curl around the strap of his backpack.
“you’re dismissed,” the principal says.
they walk out together. mark doesn’t say a word.
“so, what’s your name?” donghyuck asks as they reach the hallway.
“mark.”
“of course it is.”
he says it like he already figured mark out and found him boring.
mark clenches his jaw. he hates the way donghyuck walks, like he owns every square inch of the corridor. hates the way he’s chewing his gum, obnoxious and loud. hates the grin that keeps pulling at the corner of his mouth, like he’s having fun in a place where everyone else is surviving.
“you gonna tell me where my class is or do i gotta guess?”
mark doesn’t want to. but he’s mark. he follows rules. he leads the way.
⸻
that’s how it starts.
the first time donghyuck gets into a fight, it’s because someone called his mother a whore. mark isn’t there, but he gets summoned to the office anyway.
“you were supposed to keep an eye on him,” principal cho says. “if you’re going to let him spiral, what’s the point?”
mark doesn’t answer. his face burns. he wants to yell that it’s not his fault. he doesn’t even know the guy. he was just assigned. he didn’t ask for this.
but he doesn’t yell. he bows. says he’s sorry. walks out of the office with his fists clenched and his heart pounding.
he finds donghyuck leaning against the lockers, bruised knuckles, bleeding nose, looking like a painting of defiance.
“what?” donghyuck says when he notices him. “principal told you i’m a lost cause already?”
mark doesn’t answer. he walks past him.
“what, no lecture?” donghyuck calls out. “no bible verse? no ‘violence isn’t the answer, donghyuck’?”
mark stops. turns slowly.
“you’re making my life harder.”
donghyuck’s grin sharpens. “that’s kinda the point.”
⸻
every time donghyuck skips class, mark gets an email. every time he gets caught smoking, mark is brought into the conversation. every time a teacher complains, every time he vanishes during break, every time he mouths off, mark is held accountable.
and every time, donghyuck seems amused.
“how’s it feel, golden boy?” he asks once, while they’re both in the hallway after detention. “getting dragged into the mud with me?”
mark doesn’t say anything. his mouth is a thin line.
donghyuck leans closer. there’s dried blood on his lip. he smells like smoke and cinnamon gum. “you ever think maybe you deserve it?”
mark doesn’t flinch. he’s learned not to give him the satisfaction.
but he thinks about it that night. in the garage. with the guitar heavy on his lap. his fingers clumsy on the frets.
does he deserve this?
maybe.
⸻
mark’s father finds a lighter in his backpack.
he slaps him hard enough to make his vision blur.
mark doesn’t cry.
he tells the truth. says someone must’ve slipped it in. says he doesn’t know anything about it. and he didn't. it was donghyuck's. he confiscated it today because he found him smoking. the sting across his cheek says his father doesn’t believe him.
mark keeps the pain inside. folds it neatly like his school uniform. buries it under his mattress, next to the keys. he doesn’t go to the garage that night.
instead, he dreams of red hair and a crooked smile. of fists and blood. of a laugh that sounds too loud in the silence of a chapel.
he dreams of donghyuck.
and wakes up afraid.
—
donghyuck wakes up to the sound of a bottle rolling across the floor.
not an alarm. not a voice. not a warm “get up, baby.” just glass, half-full, clinking against chipped tile. the smell of last night still clings to the curtains: cheap beer, cheaper perfume. his mother didn’t make it to her bedroom. again.
he sits up slowly. his neck hurts. he fell asleep with his headphones on.
the rest of the house is gray, washed out, like a memory left out in the rain. the floor creaks under his steps. the walls are yellowing, stained in places where moisture’s been trying to escape for years. the kitchen smells like something rotted in the sink. the fridge hums too loudly, but he doesn’t touch it. there’s nothing inside he wants.
his mother is passed out on the couch. mascara streaked down one cheek. cigarette burn on the armrest. she’s wearing the same dress from last night. the television’s on mute, looping through static and old dramas. her mouth hangs open, like she’s mid-sentence in a conversation no one else stayed for.
he doesn’t look at her for long. it doesn’t hurt anymore, not really. it’s just… background noise now. like the fridge. like the walls.
he makes it to his room and closes the door.
and breathes.
his room is the only place that feels real.
posters cover every inch of the wall: nirvana, queen, joy division, muse, soundgarden. ripped corners, unevenly hung, layers of tape underneath. there’s a cracked lava lamp in the corner that only works if you hit it first. a dusty bookshelf with old yearbooks he never opens. vinyls stacked on top of each other in no particular order, some borrowed, some stolen, some saved up for like treasure. his player sits next to the speaker on his desk, black, dented, but still working. it’s old, but the kind that’s built to last. he carries it with him everywhere.
his bed isn’t made. his window doesn’t close all the way. there’s a hole in the ceiling from when the rain leaked in last winter. but it smells like cinnamon gum and incense sticks and music. his music. and it’s the only place he doesn’t feel like screaming.
his phone (almost dead palm pre, he saved money to buy it) is half-charged. he throws on his uniform. doesn’t bother with the tie. runs his fingers through his hair, leaves it messy on purpose. the red streaks are fading, but not enough to hide them. his mother used to cry about them. now she doesn’t even notice.
he leaves the house without saying goodbye.
⸻
he walks to school with music in one ear and the wind in the other. november’s colder than he expected. he forgot to grab a jacket. or maybe he didn’t. maybe he just didn’t care enough to go back.
school is the same as always. fluorescent lights, chipped lockers, everyone pretending they’re not just waiting for the bell to ring so they can go back to being miserable somewhere else.
teachers already don’t like him. it makes things easier.
he skips first period. hides behind the gym, chewing gum and listening to music. a cigarette tucked behind his ear. he’s not in the mood yet. maybe later.
second period he shows up just to make a scene. someone talks too loud near him and he tells them to shut the fuck up. teacher threatens detention. he grins. says he’s already booked all week. people laugh. he doesn’t.
lunch is when it happens.
some asshole from class B snickers loud enough for the whole table to hear. says something like, “heard your mom’s doing a discount now.”
donghyuck hears it. loud and clear. his brain stops for a second. like someone pulled the plug.
then he moves.
fist to jaw. knee to ribs. the guy’s on the floor before anyone can blink. teachers rush in. someone screams. someone laughs. donghyuck’s knuckles split open.
it’s not the first time.
won’t be the last.
⸻
he expects to be called in immediately. but instead, he gets told to wait in the hallway. bruised, smirking, blood on his sleeve. he leans against the lockers and hums under his breath. five minutes pass. then ten. then the door opens.
and mark walks out.
not him. mark. pristine uniform. perfect posture. swollen cheek. donghyuck stares. mark doesn’t look at him. just keeps walking, fast, stiff. like if he stops, he might break.
donghyuck laughs.
he doesn’t mean to, but it’s so fucking funny. mark, golden boy, bible boy, rule-follower, getting dragged into the dirt again. all because of him.
he wipes his bloody knuckle on his shirt.
“poor baby,” he mutters. “hope daddy gives you a gold star for this one.”
⸻
he finds him later.
school’s almost over. the sky’s gone gray, but not dark. there’s a stretch of concrete behind the gym no one ever goes to, too cold, too quiet, too forgotten. that’s where donghyuck hides when he wants to smoke without getting caught.
he turns the corner, lighter already out, cigarette between his lips.
and there he is.
mark.
sitting on the low wall with his backpack still on. staring at the ground like it did something to him. his uniform’s wrinkled. there’s a shadow under his eyes. he looks exhausted. like the kind of tired that doesn’t go away after sleep.
donghyuck watches for a moment. doesn’t say anything. then he lights his cigarette. the flame snaps. smoke rises. mark doesn’t move. donghyuck takes a drag, leans against the wall beside him.
“didn’t think you were the skipping type,” he says.
mark says nothing.
“rough day?”
still nothing.
donghyuck glances over. mark’s fingers are trembling. just barely. he pulls the cigarette from his lips, holds it out between two fingers.
“want one?”
mark blinks. turns. stares at it like it’s something alive. for a second, donghyuck’s sure he’ll say no. but then, without a word, mark takes it.
his fingers brush against donghyuck’s. cold. too clean.
donghyuck’s heart stutters. just a little. mark inhales. coughs once. badly. tries again. smoother.
donghyuck grins, crooked and sharp.
“look at you,” he says. “one sin at a time.”
mark glares at him.
“fuck you.”
“later,” donghyuck says.
mark doesn’t even flinch.
they smoke in silence. the wind bites at their fingers. the smoke drifts up toward the cloudy sky.
donghyuck watches mark from the corner of his eye. watches the way he holds the cigarette like he’s holding a knife. the way his jaw stays tight. the way his shoulders refuse to relax.
there’s something breaking in him. not loud. not obvious. but slow, like rust.
donghyuck doesn’t ask.
doesn’t care.
at least, that’s what he tells himself.
⸻
later, he’s back home.
his mother’s still on the couch. different bottle, same dress. her eyes open when he slams the door.
“where the fuck you been?” she slurs.
“school.”
“you hit someone again?”
he shrugs. “they deserved it.”
she laughs. then hiccups. then rolls over. he stares at her for a long time. his hands ache. his lip stings.
he goes to his room. shuts the door. turns the volume up until the walls shake.
and breathes.
⸻
there’s something about mark that bothered him that day.
not the perfect grades. not the bible quotes. not the way everyone seems to love him.
the parts that don’t line up.
the way he showed up behind the gym like he had nowhere else to go. the way he didn’t flinch when donghyuck teased him. the way he took the cigarette like it was an apology.
—
the first time mark buys cigarettes, he feels like a criminal.
he chooses a shop three blocks away from school. doesn’t make eye contact. speaks low. doesn’t breathe until he’s out the door with the carton in his bag, like it might burn through the fabric. like someone might stop him and ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing.
he smokes one behind the gym that afternoon. it tastes bitter, clings to the roof of his mouth, scratches down his throat. he coughs, but not as hard as the first time. not like that day donghyuck handed it to him with that look, half dare, half knowing.
he hasn’t forgotten the way donghyuck looked at him when he took it. like he’d just cracked open something he didn’t even know was locked.
he hated that look.
he still thinks about it.
⸻
they start meeting more often after that.
not planned. never scheduled. but somehow, at least three times a week, mark finds himself behind the gym after school, standing in the cold while donghyuck flicks a lighter and lights two cigarettes, one for himself, one for mark.
no one else goes there. maybe it’s too hidden, too quiet, too far from the safe cliques and empty drama. maybe they just started to ruin the place for anyone else.
mark tells himself it’s not a routine. it just happens. like gravity.
they smoke in silence. sometimes for minutes. sometimes for the whole duration of a cigarette. then donghyuck says something, sharp, snide, sideways.
“you’re getting better at this,” he says once, exhaling a ribbon of smoke. “almost like you’re actually cool.”
mark rolls his eyes.
“you gonna thank me?”
“for what?”
“your corruption.”
mark laughs, dry, unwilling. “you’re so full of yourself.”
“i’m full of a lot of things,” donghyuck says. “just not shame.”
they fall quiet again.
mark likes the silence with him more than he wants to admit. it’s not the kind of silence his parents wield: heavy, cold, weaponized. with donghyuck, it’s different. comfortable. honest.
annoying.
but honest.
⸻
one day, it rains.
mark still goes to the gym wall.
he tells himself he just needs air. space. a minute to breathe before he goes home to recite everything he’s done that day like a confessional.
but donghyuck’s already there, hood up, lighter flickering against the drizzle. he’s humming under his breath. something low and slow. something not quite a melody.
“didn’t peg you for a romantic,” donghyuck says without looking.
mark shoves his hands into his pockets. “didn’t peg you for the waiting type.”
donghyuck snorts. “i’m not waiting. i just like the rain. keeps people away.”
“you’re people.”
“not really.”
mark sits beside him. the stone’s wet. he doesn’t care.
donghyuck offers him a cigarette. mark pulls out his own this time.
donghyuck raises an eyebrow. “oh? got your big boy pants on now?”
“thought i’d stop stealing yours.”
“cute.”
mark lights up. rain mists through the smoke. it curls and dies fast in the cold. they sit like that for a while. no rush. no plans.
then donghyuck says, almost too casual, “you ever think about running away?”
mark doesn’t answer right away. he’s not sure what that means. from school? from home? from who he is?
“no,” he lies.
“figured,” donghyuck mutters. “you’re the type to stay and rot out of duty.”
mark stiffens. “you don’t know me.”
donghyuck turns to look at him then. really look.
“don’t need to. you look guilt-trapped every second.”
mark doesn’t look back. they skip the third period together. talking about everything and nothing.
⸻
his father finds the cigarettes the next week.
he doesn’t say anything at first. just holds them up. mark stands there, still in uniform, backpack still on, hands clenched at his sides. he doesn’t speak.
“these yours?”
mark nods. he doesn’t lie, because it's pointless. his father stares at him. like he’s seeing something dirty on the floor. then he moves. fast. the slap is louder than it is painful. but it’s not just a slap this time. it’s two. then three. mark hits the floor. he doesn’t cry. his cheek stings. his shoulder hits the cabinet on the way down.
his mother doesn’t come in. she never does.
his father doesn’t yell. just says, quietly, “you’re throwing it all away.”
and leaves the room.
mark doesn’t move for a while. he doesn’t go to the garage. he goes to bed with the taste of blood behind his teeth.
⸻
the next day, he shows up to school with a bruise half-hidden under his collar. donghyuck notices immediately. he always notices everything. they meet behind the gym again. mid-afternoon. no rain, just gray skies and the smell of winter coming. mark lights his cigarette first. doesn’t offer one. just lights his and leans back against the wall. donghyuck watches him for a few seconds.
then says, “was it your dad?”
mark freezes.
doesn’t say anything.
“don’t lie,” donghyuck says, softer than usual.
mark exhales smoke through his nose. clenches his jaw.
“does it matter?”
“yeah,” donghyuck says. “it does.”
mark flicks ash off the tip of his cigarette. doesn’t meet his eyes.
“what gave it away?” he asks eventually.
“the way you flinch when someone raises their voice,” donghyuck says. “or when i get too close.”
mark goes still.
“also,” donghyuck adds, “you talk about your dad like he’s god and the devil at once.”
mark almost smiles. but doesn’t.
instead, he says, “you gonna pity me now?”
donghyuck snorts. “fuck no.”
“then what?”
“just means you’re not the only one.”
mark blinks. looks over. donghyuck takes a long drag. exhales into the wind.
“your turn to ask next time.”
and that’s all he says. they smoke the rest of the cigarette in silence. not because they have nothing to say.
because for once, there’s nothing they have to.
⸻
a week passes like fog.
they don’t talk about that day again. not directly.
but donghyuck brings his old player sometimes, plays songs mark’s heard and never heard before, gritty guitar, gravel voices, things that sound like heartbreak and fists and joy all wrapped together.
“this one reminds me of you,” he says once, playing something jagged and beautiful.
“why?”
“you singed during that show your talent shit like you were choking on your own heart.”
mark pretends not to be affected.
pretends he’s not thinking about singing in the garage. about the song he never finished. about the lyrics he wrote and never showed anyone.
pretends that donghyuck’s voice isn’t sticking to the inside of his ribs like tar.
⸻
november gets colder.
they both stop pretending they’re not waiting for each other behind the gym after school. they still don’t talk about why. and mark still doesn’t know what it is he’s feeling. he just knows that every time he sees donghyuck now, something in his chest loosens. and then tightens. he knows it’s dangerous.
he smokes anyway.
⸻
december hit like a bruised sky.
everything turned grey. the kind of grey that settled into bones, into sidewalks, into the corners of mouths that had forgotten how to smile. mornings were slow to rise, nights came too early. breath turned visible. heaters hissed like warnings in classrooms too bright, too quiet, too cold.
donghyuck had started wearing layers. plaid flannel over a faded band tee, hoodies that smelled faintly of tobacco and rain. sometimes he wore rings, sometimes he didn’t. the red in his hair had dulled. he still sat at the back of the classroom like he was allergic to attention, even though his presence always dragged it in.
they hadn’t said much that day. they rarely planned it, but somehow ended up there again, the spot behind the gym building, where the frost lingered and the grass looked tired. the schoolyard’s forgotten lung. their place, unofficially.
mark showed up first, hands in the pockets of his too-clean coat. shoes scuffed now, though. he never scuffed them before donghyuck.
donghyuck arrived with a lazy stride, his breath blooming out like smoke before the cigarette even came out of his pocket. he lit it in silence. mark didn’t say anything. not at first. just took it when donghyuck passed it over. like always now.
they shared one between them. like some fucked up communion.
donghyuck looked out over the chain-link fence. “i had a dream last night,” he said.
mark hummed, cautious. “what about?”
“i was flying,” donghyuck said. “but every time i got close to the clouds, someone dragged me down. like hooked fingers in my spine. yanked me back.”
he said it too lightly, like it didn’t mean anything. mark didn’t answer. didn’t know how.
“you ever dream?” donghyuck asked. tilted his head, squinting.
mark blew out a slow breath. “sometimes.”
“what about?”
“my brother,” mark said. surprised himself with it.
donghyuck blinked. “the dead one?”
mark flinched. “yeah.”
“sorry,” donghyuck said, but not like he meant it. “was he older than you?”
“yeah. jaehyun.”
“what was he like?”
mark shifted. shrugged. “better than me.”
donghyuck made a face. “wow. can’t imagine someone better than mark lee.”
“shut up.”
“i mean it. you’re like. the blueprint. school’s golden boy. family’s pride. student council messiah. never makes a mistake, well, except me.”
mark took the cigarette again. held it too tightly between his fingers.
“you’re not a mistake,” he said.
donghyuck laughed. sharp and fast. “don’t let your dad hear you say that.”
“fuck off.”
“language, mr. president.”
silence again. the wind was mean that day, slipping under their collars. then donghyuck said it. just like that.
“i like guys, by the way.”
mark blinked. “what?”
“i said,” donghyuck repeated, bored, “i like guys. sometimes girls. mostly guys. thought you should know.”
“that’s not funny.”
“i’m not joking.”
mark stared at him. “you’re serious.”
“deadly.”
“…it’s a sin.”
donghyuck’s smile died fast. he laughed again, but it was colder now. “of course it is.”
“it is,” mark repeated. “you can’t — you shouldn’t—”
“you shouldn’t tell someone that, you know.” donghyuck raised a brow, not curios, just unbelievable.
“it’s just the truth.”
“your truth.”
“god’s truth.”
donghyuck rolled his eyes. “you think god cares about who i fuck?”
“donghyuck—”
“you think god’s sitting up there, pointing his holy finger at me while my mom drinks herself into a coma every other night?”
“that’s not—”
“you think he gave a shit when i was ten and she forgot my birthday because she was blackout drunk on the kitchen floor? or when i came home with a black eye and she didn’t even ask why?”
mark said nothing.
“you think,” donghyuck said, voice sharper now, “you think being queer is what’s gonna send me to hell?”
he was shaking. not much. just a little. like a wire strung too tight.
“you don’t know what you’re talking about,” mark said, fists clenched.
donghyuck took a step forward. “and you do? you think quoting a book makes you better than me? you think hiding in your goddamn garage pretending you’re someone else makes you holy?”
“shut up.”
“you think if you pray hard enough it’ll go away?”
“i said shut up.”
“fuck you,” donghyuck snapped. “fuck you and your sermons and your perfect little mask. you’re just scared.”
mark moved.
it wasn’t planned. it wasn’t even clean. he shoved donghyuck first. donghyuck stumbled back, then lunged. fists, not words, this time. but even then. they both held back. a punch to the shoulder, not the face. a shove to the chest, not the ribs. no one was trying to win. just trying to not lose.
mark pushed him again. “why do you have to ruin everything?”
“because everything’s already ruined,” donghyuck spat.
they stood there, panting. the cigarette long gone. breath fogging up between them.
donghyuck’s voice cracked. just a little. “i shouldn’t’ve told you.”
mark looked away. donghyuck turned. walked off. but before he left, he threw one last thing over his shoulder.
“don’t worry, your holiness. you’re not my type anyway.”
—
he got home and slammed the door hard enough to shake the walls.
his mother was on the couch, tv blaring, bottle half-empty on the floor. she didn’t look up. he stared at her. stared and stared. something curled inside him. something ancient and ugly. he picked up the chair from the kitchen and hurled it into the wall.
it splintered. she flinched. barely.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?” he screamed.
she didn’t answer. just blinked at the tv.
“i hate you,” he said.
nothing.
“i fucking hate you.”
still nothing.
he left.
—
mark didn’t show up the next day. or the day after. donghyuck smoked alone. didn’t go to class. didn’t talk. mark was still around — he just wasn’t there.
and maybe that hurt more. maybe it was easier when mark was yelling about rules and god and grades. at least that way, he was still looking. but now? now he was just gone. like the sun in december. like the warmth.
donghyuck didn’t cry. he just sat behind the gym building, waiting for someone who wasn’t coming. and told himself it didn’t matter. even though it did.
⸻
the first day back after christmas break, donghyuck got into another fight.
mark found out before he even saw him. whispers in the hallway, fragments of sentences, something about blood, something about teeth, someone said it was over a lighter. someone else said it was over a girl. they were both wrong.
mark didn’t look for him. didn’t want to. his stomach was already tight with the return of it all, the classrooms, the eyes, the pressure. he didn’t have room to carry donghyuck again. didn’t have the strength, not after december, not after everything they didn’t say.
he sat through first period in silence. second. then got called to the principal’s office during third. his stomach sank the way it always did now when someone said his name.
he walked down the hallway slowly. knocked once.
“come in.”
the principal barely looked up. “mark. thank you for coming.”
he stood stiff near the desk.
“it’s lee donghyuck again.”
no surprise there. he nodded. said nothing.
“he broke another student’s nose.”
“what?”
“there was a fight,” the principal said. “i’ll spare you the details. the other boy started it, but donghyuck… escalated it. again.”
mark swallowed. felt heat rise behind his eyes. not from shame. from something bitterer.
“and?” he asked.
“and,” the principal sighed, “you’ve been involved in the past. i’m not saying it’s your fault. but i know he listens to you. sometimes.”
mark said nothing.
“just… keep an eye on him. will you?”
he nodded. left the office. clenched his jaw all the way back to class.
—
he found donghyuck later, behind the science building this time. cigarette already lit, blood still dried on his knuckles.
“you got called in?” donghyuck asked. casual. like it was weather.
“yeah.”
“sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound sorry.
mark stared at him. “why?”
“why what?”
“why do you keep doing this?”
donghyuck shrugged. “guy said something.”
“so you broke his nose?”
“he said something about you.”
mark blinked. “what?”
“called you a—” donghyuck stopped himself. looked away. “i don’t know. it was stupid.”
“you beat someone up for me?”
“don’t flatter yourself.”
mark laughed, dry. “jesus.”
“he was being an asshole.”
“you’re always being an asshole.”
“you’re welcome,” donghyuck said, sarcastic.
mark snapped.
“do you even care what this does to me?” he said, voice low. “i keep getting pulled into your messes. the teachers look at me like i’m your fucking babysitter. like i’m supposed to fix you.”
“maybe you are,” donghyuck said, sharp.
“i’m not.”
“then stop acting like it.”
they were close now. too close. mark hated how his heart sped up.
“you’re not my problem,” he said.
donghyuck scoffed. “right. because i never asked you to care, did i?”
“no,” mark said. “you didn’t. you just ruin everything and expect me to follow.”
donghyuck’s eyes flashed. “then don’t follow.”
“maybe i won’t.”
they stared at each other. both breathing too fast. too loud. mark wanted to hit something. maybe donghyuck. maybe himself. donghyuck looked away first.
“forget it,” he said. “go back to being perfect.”
he turned. but mark grabbed his sleeve. not hard. not soft, either.
“wait.”
donghyuck didn’t move.
mark said, quietly, “i don’t want to stop.”
donghyuck didn’t answer. just let mark keep holding on.
—
the garage was cold and smelled like oil and old wood. but it had insulation and a little heater and a keyboard shoved between toolboxes. mark led him in like a secret.
“this is where i write,” he said.
donghyuck looked around. touched everything. picked up a guitar pick. flicked it at mark’s head.
“you write songs in here?”
“sometimes.”
“play something.”
mark hesitated.
“come on. don’t be shy.”
“you’re annoying.”
“you like it.”
mark sat at the keyboard. played a few notes. a soft progression in minor. something he hadn’t finished yet. donghyuck sat on the workbench. legs swinging.
“that’s sad,” he said.
“so?”
“so, i like it.”
mark kept playing. didn’t look up. donghyuck started humming. low at first. then clearer. the melody bent around his voice like it was made for it. mark glanced at him.
“do you want to… write something?”
donghyuck shrugged. “sure.”
they did. three hours passed like nothing. by the end of it, the song wasn’t finished, but it was alive. messy lyrics scribbled on napkins, half a melody recorded into mark’s old phone.
donghyuck leaned back. “we’re geniuses.”
“you didn’t even rhyme that last line.”
“art isn’t about rhyming, mark.”
“it is when the rhyme is terrible.”
“shut up.”
but they were smiling. both of them. mark walked him to the door. before he left, donghyuck looked at him sideways.
“you ever think about running away?”
mark blinked. didn't lie this time. “sometimes.”
“yeah,” donghyuck said. “me too.”
—
the next time, mark went to his house.
it was small. cramped. music posters covering cracked walls. smells of ash and old food. his mother was asleep on the couch. or drunk. maybe both. donghyuck didn’t explain. just led him to his room. there were records stacked along one wall. a busted player. a tiny desk covered in scraps of lyrics and burnt-out lighters. mark sat on the floor. donghyuck flopped onto the bed.
“you ever bring anyone else here?” mark asked.
“nah.”
“why me?”
donghyuck didn’t answer right away.
then: “you don’t pretend like it’s normal.”
mark looked at him.
donghyuck added, “and you’re the only one who never pities me.”
that sat heavy between them. mark looked away. they just sat in the same room, breathing, listening to music, being alive.
—
when mark brought him home again, his mother looked up from the sink. father glanced from the hallway.
“this is donghyuck,” mark said.
“hello,” donghyuck said, polite enough.
his mother smiled thinly. “nice to meet you.”
his father said nothing. they went to the garage again. mark could feel the silence that followed them.
“they think i’m a bad influence?” donghyuck said later, half-laughing.
“you kind of are.”
“true.”
but mark didn’t stop inviting him.
—
they finished the song late one night. it was snowing outside, light and soft. the heater hummed beside them. mark played the final chord. donghyuck sat still for a second.
then whispered, “we made something good.”
mark nodded. “yeah.”
they looked at each other. too long. too quiet. everything hovered. mark’s heart was a drum.
donghyuck said, “you’re looking at me like you want to kiss me.”
mark swallowed.
“do you?” donghyuck asked, too gentle.
mark looked away.
“it’s a sin,” he said. voice thin.
donghyuck didn’t answer. just picked up the napkin with the lyrics. folded it twice. tucked it in his pocket.
“see you tomorrow, choirboy.”
he left. mark stayed there, fingers on the keys, shaking. not from cold. he didn’t pray that night. he didn’t know what he’d say.
⸻
donghyuck walked into the garage like it was neutral ground, but the air tasted wrong. he needed his phone charger. he’d left it there a few hours before, during their rehearsal‑turned‑writing‑session. the garage smelled like burnt giggle‑juice and sawdust, the heater humming low in the corner. marks’ unfinished song lay scattered across the worktable: scraps of napkin and paper, usb memory drive blinking on the desk. he should’ve been relieved. instead, his chest caved in.
he paused at the door. upstairs, voices: quiet, polite, clinical, filtered through the thin floorboards. father’s voice, low and cold. mother’s voice softer but sharper, like acid under honey.
he hesitated. but he stayed. he knew this. from down the steps they came. mark, toes tapping the wood. his parents flanking him. they paused on the stairs, three silhouettes frozen between worlds.
“we don't like him, mark,” his mother was saying. polite, adult. dangerous. “he’s polite enough, but he keeps your attention away.”
mark’s voice: muffled, steady. “yes, mother.”
mother: “he’s got problems. rumors about his mother. rumors that aren’t just rumors.” she sighed. “a prostitute. an alcoholic. the kind of kid who’ll drag you under, who carries you into fights, who looks, frankly, like a faggot.”
donghyuck’s blood froze. the chandelier of warmth he’d dreamed about, dead.
father’s voice joined: “we just don’t want him interfering with your future.”
mark: “i agree.”
“good,” mother said. “because you have a future. and he… isn’t part of that.”
they turned, heading away. sounds of coats brushing the stairwell. door closing. donghyuck stayed silent. frozen. he hadn’t even started down yet. silent tears gathered behind his eyes. punched-out rage mixed with grief and disbelief. how could mark agree?
he didn’t give a shit about being acceptable. not to parents. not to society. but this, this cut into him. deeper than any bruise. he backed away. left the charger on the desk, untouched. didn’t bother touching the guitar pick or napkin. he didn’t consider touching anything in this place that’d seen them close, laughing, writing. memory now coated in betrayal.
he slipped out the door before they noticed.
⸻
he didn’t go to school the next day. not intentionally. he just… stayed out of it. skipped first classes and second. he wandered the streets, rain misting a chill that felt like absolution.
mark texted. once: “charger?” stared placid on his phone screen. twice: “why didn’t you get it?” third: “can we talk?”
he read them. didn't answer.
by afternoon, he returned. not to the garage. to the back courtyard, their spot. cracked concrete, dead grass. cold, neglected. home. mark was there already, sitting with shoulders rounded, hands curled around nothing. he stood, breathing in the air of absence.
mark’s voice came scattered: “you came.”
donghyuck leaned against the rail. “you told me i wasn’t welcome.”
mark flinched. “I didn’t—”
“stop lying,” donghyuck said. “i heard.” voice quiet. smooth as glass.
mark swallowed. “i’m sorry.”
“are you?” donghyuck asked, eyes on the gray sky. “because i really don’t know.”
they were silent. tongues turned to ash.
mark finally spoke, slow. “i didn’t know how to fight them.”
“did you try?”
“yes.”
“you agree with them.”
mark looked away. eyes unreadable.
donghyuck nodded, quiet. “okay.”
then he turned and walked off, leaving mark frozen.
⸻
the next morning, mark didn’t approach him either. days passed. they avoided each other in hallways; whispers fluttered like sparks in their wake, questions unanswered, assumptions cruel.
donghyuck smoked alone behind the gym. school resumed normally, teachers busy, students busy. but he moved through them with the weight of that confession. of mark’s agreement. of everything he heard. he hated silence until it became kind of armor, until people gave him space and that made him lonelier.
one afternoon, after school, mark appeared. cautious. ragged. clutching two cigarettes. one for donghyuck if he wanted it.
mark offered it wordlessly. hands shaking. he lit his own, exhaled hard.
donghyuck looked at him. ashes falling.
mark said, quiet, “i’m sorry.”
donghyuck flicked ash off. “worthless apology.”
mark closed his eyes. held breath. flicked ash. “i think i like you.”
those words were a thing dropping in a well, echoing.
donghyuck turned, stepped closer. “you’re stupid,” he said. “you’re fucking stupid.”
“i like you,” mark repeated softly. as if confessing it to himself too. finally.
donghyuck felt something in his chest snap between two states: want and war.
he said, “fuck you.”
but then the wind dropped. gray light lay broken around them. donghyuck inhaled, turned, exhaled against the air. something moved between them, trembled. not spoken. electric. raw. mark’s lips brushed his shoulder. breath hot on cold skin. donghyuck’s gut twisted and melted. he wanted to punch him. kiss him. push him away and pull him closer in the same breath.
he whispered, “i fucking hate you.”
mark’s voice cracked: “i like you.”
that was all they needed. he kissed him faster than he thought. tongue sharp, broken. breaking rules. mark froze at first, then tilted into it. surrendered. gave everything. they tore apart and assembled in one kiss. perfect wrongness. after. air shock‑sharp.
mark gasped, “i like you.”
donghyuck’s head spun. world spun. he stepped back. looked into mark’s eyes, edges softened by confession.
“we should stop,” donghyuck said. voice ragged. “this’ll kill you.”
mark shook head. donghyuck shook uncontrollably too. he kissed mark again. softer. angry. desperate.
then pulled away. stepped back. “i like you too, but I'm not your fucking experiment to test things out.”
he walked off before mark could catch him.
⸻
it’s not even the sound of the slap that sticks with him. it’s the pause before it. that suspended second, where his father’s jaw tensed like he was holding the whole world between his teeth.
the photo was printed out, like something for the fridge. cheap ink bleeding at the edges, grainy with the night-light glow of a streetlamp. you could almost pretend it was innocent. two boys in the cold. hands in pockets. but if you looked too long you saw it, donghyuck’s fingers in his collar.
mark’s eyes half-shut. the shadow between their mouths.
it was his father’s friend who handed it over. said something about “catching it early” like it was a pest problem. mark had been upstairs, pretending to be asleep, when he heard the front door open. his name, said low. a chair scrape. and then that tone his father used when he thought god was listening. disappointment dressed as righteousness.
he didn’t get to see his mother’s face. she didn’t come in. maybe she didn’t want to be part of it. maybe she already knew.
the first hit was open-handed, sharp across his cheek. the second landed on his jaw. by the third he stopped counting, because numbers made it feel like a competition he was losing.
there were words, too. every one of them like a nail in his ribs. about sin. about shame. about the way the neighbours talked. the way god saw him.
he kept thinking of donghyuck’s mouth, how it had tasted like smoke and winter. how he’d laughed after, a sound that didn’t belong to someone who could be ruined by a picture. mark bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron.
he didn’t give them the tears.
later, when the house was quiet, his father stood in the doorway. didn’t step in. just leaned there, blocking the hall light. said there was a camp. a place where they could fix him. called it help, like help was something you could pack in a suitcase.
mark lay on his side, facing the wall. he thought about school tomorrow, then remembered there wouldn’t be one. not for him. his father had already called in. “sick,” he’d said. mark almost laughed.
he touched his cheek where it still burned, wondering if donghyuck would notice when he saw him again. wondering if he’d ever get to see him again. the thought curled up in his chest like something wounded.
⸻
it was supposed to be an ordinary saturday. or whatever passed for ordinary in donghyuck’s house.
the kitchen smelled like beer even though it was barely past noon. the living room was a wreck, the ashtray spilling over with cigarette butts. his mother was slumped on the couch in her old robe, half-watching the tv with the volume low, her eyes glassy in that way that meant she’d already started.
he was looking for his headphones, rifling through the drawers, when his fingers hit something stiff, an envelope. then another. and another.
he frowned. there were four of them, tucked under a stack of yellowed newspapers, all with his name written in different, clumsy handwriting. he opened one.
happy birthday, son. sorry i couldn’t be there this year. here’s something for your music.
inside was nothing.
he opened the next one. and the next.
and by the fourth, when he realized the bills were gone, just the stale scent of paper, the ink faded where someone’s hand had pressed too hard. donghyuck stood very still.
“mom,” he said, voice low.
she didn’t answer.
“mom.”
this time she turned her head, squinting at him like he was interrupting something important.
“where’d you get these?” he held up the envelopes. his hands were shaking, but not from cold.
“ah,” she waved a hand, dismissive, “those? he sent them years ago. didn’t seem important.”
“didn’t seem important?” the words tore out of him before he could stop them. “they’re from dad.”
“and? what good is he? he ran off. left me with you. never sent anything useful except a few bills.”
“you took them.”
she sighed, slow and irritated. “i needed them. you think this place runs on air? i had to—”
“for drinks.”
she didn’t deny it.
his vision swam, hot and sharp, like something had snapped. “you didn’t even tell me. you just—” he cut himself off before he said something worse.
she turned back to the tv. “you wouldn’t understand.”
and that was it.
he didn’t even realize he was leaving until the door slammed behind him, the envelopes crumpled in his fist. he walked fast, no real destination, just moving before he drowned in the walls of that house.
the wind bit through his jacket. it was colder than he thought, early march cold, the kind that stung the inside of your nose. his breath came in clouds, it was still cold.
he’d find his dad. it wasn’t logical, but nothing about this was. maybe the man was still in town. maybe he had answers. maybe he’d care.
donghyuck cut across streets, hands deep in his pockets, his brain looping through every possible opening line. hey, remember me? i’m the kid you left behind?
the sun was already low, blinding in the distance. traffic moved slow through the main road. he stepped off the curb, not seeing the car until it was too close
the screech of brakes, the sound too loud, too fast. impact was a white flash, then nothing.
⸻
the hospital lights were too bright. voices came and went, muffled. somewhere, someone was saying his name over and over.
the doctors worked fast. tubes, machines, a frantic rhythm of commands.
but the injuries were too deep. ribs crushed. bleeding they couldn’t stop.
and in the quiet that followed, the room seemed to shrink.
by the time they covered him, the envelopes were still in his jacket pocket, wrinkled and unopened again.
⸻
mark didn’t think he’d ever see his own house again.
the camp smelled like pine needles and bleach, its walls painted the same pale blue as hospital ceilings. they called it a retreat, but the doors locked at night and the windows had alarms. there were group sessions about “correcting impulses” and one-on-one talks with a man who wore too much cologne and asked him to repeat phrases like this is not who i am. they confiscated his music player after he played a song with two male voices singing about love.
in may, they decided he was “ready.” really, it meant he learned to keep his face still when the counselors said sin, and to nod when they spoke about the “family you could have one day.”
he practiced it in the car home, the polite smiles, the yes-sir-no-sir voice. his parents beamed at him like they’d gotten their boy back.
he didn’t tell them the truth. the truth was the camp hadn’t healed him. it had only confirmed it: he liked boys. he liked donghyuck.
but pretending was safer.
the first night back, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about what he’d say to him. maybe he’d even laugh about it, make a joke about how they tried to wash him clean and failed. maybe they’d write another song together.
the next morning, he walked to school ready to find him.
except—
donghyuck wasn’t there.
neither was he the next day. or the day after.
by the fourth day, mark asked around. someone looked at him strangely and said, “you didn’t hear?”
it felt like the floor dropped from under him.
donghyuck had been hit by a truck. a few days after mark left. searching for someone, his dad, maybe, though no one was sure. the doctors tried, they said. but the injuries...
mark didn’t remember walking home.
he locked his bedroom door and curled up on the floor. for hours, he didn’t move.
and then he cried.
he cried like his body had been waiting for it for months, ugly, shaking sobs that made his chest ache. it wasn’t just grief, it was rage. at his parents. at the camp. at the world for making this boy’s life so sharp-edged and brief. at himself, for not being there.
he didn’t stop until his throat hurt and his eyes were raw.
that night, he told his parents he was leaving. he didn’t say where. they didn’t believe him until he was gone. he worked odd jobs, stayed with people who didn’t ask too many questions, kept his head down. the only constant was music. months later, he took out a folded piece of paper from his backpack, creased and worn from being read too many times.
it was the song. their song.
mark recorded it in a friend’s basement, the sound rough and imperfect, his voice breaking in places. he didn’t expect anyone to care.
but when he uploaded it online, it spread. suddenly, there were messages from strangers saying it made them cry. a label called.
now, he was on a stage, lights blinding, a crowd humming below. his hands trembled as he held the mic.
“this one’s… for someone i lost,” he said, voice catching.
the first chord rang out. and for a moment, just one, he swore he could feel donghyuck there. leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand, smirking like he always did, like he’d just said something smart and mean.
mark sang every word like it was the last thing he’d ever say.