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Mark doesn’t knock.
He just punches in the code he knows as well as the one to his own place, a few floors up.
It’s almost midnight, the July heat still clinging to his back like a second skin, and his bag slips off his shoulder before the door clicks shut behind him.
He toes off his sneakers with more force than necessary, then shuffles into the dark hallway, phone still buzzing in his pocket from unread messages, staff reminders, schedule's alerts for the next days.
Donghyuck is in the kitchen, barefoot, hair still damp from a recent shower.
He glances over his shoulder with a faint smirk, mug in hand. He looks just as tired as Mark feels.
“You look like shit, hyung.” he says lightly.
Mark hums. “You always say the nicest things.” But he doesn’t stop moving.
He crosses the kitchen in two long strides, wraps his arms around Donghyuck’s waist from behind, forehead pressing into the curve of his neck. Donghyuck sighs, but it’s not exasperation. He sags a bit against Mark.
He sets the mug down and lets Mark hold him, one hand settling over Mark's and the other going up to Mark's hair, damaged from bleach and dye, already too long at the nape. But he looks good anyways, as always.
There’s no desperation tonight— not like the studio dressing room or bathroom stalls over the past weeks.
Just stillness. Just the unbearable, aching need to be close.
“You didn’t text,” Donghyuck murmurs after a beat, voice quieter now. His fingers are still at Mark's head.
“I knew you’d be here,” Mark breathes. “Didn't want to use my phone, and you wouldn't answer the text before I got here anyways, so.”
"Have you eaten?"
"Yeah, at the company."
Donghyuck’s fingers curl around Mark’s forearm where it’s locked across his stomach. “Come on, you take quick shower and then we can crash.” he says, already tugging Mark back down the dark hallway.
Mark barely notices when Donghyuck bends quickly to get Mark's abandoned bag, already following him the rest of the way.
Donghyuck hadn’t needed to say much after. His hands had curled around Mark’s wrist softly, through the hallway and into the door to his bedroom and then to the bathroom.
The apartment is dimly lit by the time Mark comes out of the bathroom to Donghyuck's bedroom, a pair of soft shorts and a sleeping shirt set for him on bed.
Donghyuck is on his side of bed, lazily scrolling through the phone, but he puts it away as soon as Mark puts on the clothes and climbs in bed, already reaching for him.
When they curl into each other, it's the kind of closeness that feels like both a reward and a surrender.
For once, it's Mark’s whose head is tucked under Donghyuck’s chin, the younger’s fingers carding gently through his hair, no rhythm to it, just movement for the sake of it.
Donghyuck is warm under the duvet, the aircon cranked up to a temperature that isn't too cold, but cool enough, better than the damp weather.
Donghyuck is warm, and solid and real, and the shape of his body against Mark's is so familiar it feels like an extension of himself.
Mark wishes he could say something. He should. Donghyuck is just as tired as he is. More, recording and practicing for his album, his solo debut.
Mark should say something.
But everything’s too much, too fast, and his tongue is thick in his mouth, heavy with everything he can’t put words to, so he breathes instead, even if guilt is heavy on his stomach.
Breathes in Donghyuck, in the scent of clean skin and his shampoo and body wash and something softer, sleepier, like the hours they missed stretched between them.
It’s been weeks like this.
Seeing him in every schedule, hearing his voice through tinny earpieces, catching the familiar tilt of his smile in the reflection of mirrored practice rooms. Everywhere, and yet never here. Never like this.
And it's not getting any better soon.
Mark feels like his chest could cave in.
He feels stupid and selfish, and so tired.
“You’re too quiet,” Donghyuck whispers eventually, voice low and raspy against the crown of Mark’s head. It's still drips like honey to Mark's ears.
Mark hums, doesn’t lift his head. He can’t. His body is heavy, leaden with everything he’s been holding in.
“I’m just— here,” he mumbles, useless.
Donghyuck exhales, and it sounds almost like he knows. Of course he does. Mark doesn’t need to say it.
Still, Mark’s breath stutters when Donghyuck shifts slightly, making Mark face him, their faces close, hand cupping his jaw with a tenderness that undoes him. His thumb brushes over Mark’s cheek, and then his lips press there, soft and grounding, and aching, exactly over one of Mark's moles.
“Love,” Donghyuck murmurs. “You’re here now.”
The word hits Mark like a bruise. Love. The way Donghyuck says it— not sweet, not playful, but absolute. Like it belongs to him, as much as Mark does.
Mark clenches his fists in the fabric of Donghyuck’s shirt, breath catching sharp in his throat.
He wants to cry. Not from sadness, but from the relief of being seen, truly seen, in the places that feel the ugliest— desperate, twisted, too much.
Donghyuck knows. Always has. It’s terrifying, how easily Mark could fall apart in this moment, how much he wants to. How it's isn't scary at the same time.
Because he’s been holding on for too long, through months of too many schedules, and cameras, and fanservice smiles, and now that Donghyuck is here, warm around him, soft with affection Mark doesn’t feel like he deserves, he’s crumbling.
“Hey,” Donghyuck murmurs again, arms tightening around him, his voice gentle in that way other people rarely see, like he can feel the storm brewing in Mark’s chest. “I’ve got you.”
Mark shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to,” he croaks. Donghyuck is exhausted too. Stretched thin and overworked.
Donghyuck doesn’t let go though.
He breathes a laugh, low and wicked, but not unkind, not mocking, the sound curling around Mark’s heart like smoke.
“Oh, come on,” he teases, voice sharper now, brighter. “You’re mine, hyung. This is what we do, remember?”
Mine. It’s not just a claim, it’s a fact. It's not the first time Donghyuck has said it. Mark had too, of course.
Mark knows it, bone-deep. It’s always been like this, or at least, for way too long for Mark to pinpoint when.
Since they were essentially kids chasing impossible dreams in practice rooms too cold and too bright, since the world first demanded they become perfect and profitable before they’d even figured out who they were.
No one else could understand this— the closeness, the codependency, yes, the way they fit in all their jagged edges.
And maybe the world thinks they know. Thinks they can separate them, name them Mark and Haechan, the individuals they are, sure.
But Mark doesn’t mind when they’re mentioned in the same breath. Doesn’t mind when his name is tethered to Haechan's, to Donghyuck’s, again and again.
Because the truth is, he wants it that way.
When everything is too much, he thinks about how, if he could, he’d never be apart. He’d be by Donghyuck always. Not just on stage. Not just in interviews. But everywhere, always. It's too much. People would call it obsessive.
He presses closer, hides his face in the warm curve of Donghyuck’s neck, and breathes him in like he can freeze time, just for a little longer.
Donghyuck holds him tighter. “You’re mine,” Donghyuck whispers again, lips brushing his temple, “and I’m yours, right?” and Mark can hear in Donghyuck's voice the same need of his own.
Mark swallows thickly, and for the first time that night, he lets himself say it aloud, voice cracking open, fingers gripping Donghyuck's waist. “Yes. Always.”
Donghyuck kisses his cheek again, hands gentle, voice like velvet in the dark. “Good. Then sleep, hyung. I’m not going anywhere.”
And Mark lets go of the weight, at least for the night.
He doesn't thank Donghyuck because there's no need for that, but he tilts his face to kiss him once, twice, on the lips and over one of his cheek moles, nuzzling in and burning to his brain the little hum of contentment he gets from Donghyuck, before letting sleep take him.
Tangled with the one person he would always run home to.