Chapter Text
What's it feel like?
Do you feel your chest?
'Cause I think I do
Being in the spotlight comes with a lot of perks. Money, influence, designer gifts, and the kind of wild, over-the-top gifts only rich, slightly unhinged fans can come up with. Mark definitely enjoys that part. Who wouldn’t? The fame, the attention, the VIP treatment, it’s addictive.
But what he doesn’t love is having his business dragged through the internet. Having his personal life picked apart every time he flirts a little or has a one-night stand. That part sucks.
And to be fair, it’s not like he’s still sleeping around like he did when he first blew up. Back then, yeah, he was wild. But these days? He’s chilled out a lot. He’s not the same guy he was when he first blew up, hopping from hookup to hookup like it was a sport.
Still, that doesn’t stop the media from turning every single person he interacts with into his “new fling.” It’s annoying as hell. Every time a blurry photo of him with someone surfaces, he has to log in and do PR damage control, writing some boring-ass clarification, and posting it just to shut people up.
Like today. Right now, actually. He’s typing out:
“Guys, I’m not dating and I don’t have anything going on with the person in that picture. That’s my choreographer. Literally just my choreographer.”
to slap on his Instagram story.
And it’s true. She is his choreographer. Did they hook up once upon a time? Sure. But that was ancient history. He hasn’t touched anyone in ages and there’s a very specific reason for that.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to tuck your damn shirt in?” Donghyuck's voice cuts through the room, followed by the kind of sigh that sounds like it’s holding back a scream. “It ruins my entire day when you do this.”
Mark looks up from his phone just in time to see Donghyuck storming across the room, hips swaying like he’s on a runway but with the fury of someone five seconds away from homicide. His face is set in that specific brand of annoyed he reserves exclusively for Mark. And that, somehow, makes him even hotter.
“It’s just a shirt tucked in,” Mark mumbles, watching as Donghyuck immediately yanks the fabric out of his pants.
“No, it’s you ruining my job, Mark,” Donghyuck snaps, not even looking at him as he fixes the outfit. “One day, I swear, I’m just gonna quit.”
“Oh no, baby, don’t do that. You’re so sexy.”
“Stop quoting Twitter memes at me,” Donghyuck deadpans.
“So boring,” Mark sighs dramatically, jutting out his bottom lip. “Can’t you smile for me a little, Donghyuck?”
That earns him a glare so intense it could probably melt steel.
“Don’t call me that,” Donghyuck says instantly, brushing invisible lint off Mark’s shirt. “You don’t get to call me that. For you, I’m Haechan. Your stylist. Now get your ass out of this hotel and go to that damn Ralph Lauren event.”
And that right there is the real reason Mark’s been staying celibate like a monk lately. Because the boy he used to daydream about in high school works for him now, and he is still making his heart feel like it’s about to explode in pink glitter and dumb teenage crush energy.
“Seongho’s waiting outside. Move your ass before your manager has a mental breakdown,” Donghyuck sighs, barely looking up from the chaos of clothes spread out across the bed.
“No good luck for me?” Mark asks, hopeful like he always is, even though he knows better by now.
“I hope you trip on your way out,” Donghyuck says with a smile so tight it could cut glass. Then he turns back to the clothes on top of Mark’s hotel bed, already tuning Mark out like he’s just background noise.
Mark thinks about giving one more sarcastic comment, something flirty or dumb, just to get a reaction. But he doesn’t. Not today. So he just nods, lets the usual weight settle on his chest and walks out of the room, heart heavy dragging behind him in that now-familiar way.
The truth is, their story isn’t sweet or quirky or ususl slow-burn enemies-to-lovers. It’s ugly. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s entirely Mark’s fault.
There’s no “we were frenemies” narrative to romanticize. No playful banter that hinted at something more. Mark was just a dick. A teenage boy-sized mess of internalized homophobia, confusion, and the worst group of idiot friends imaginable. And Donghyuck was everything Mark couldn’t handle. Kind, smart, beautiful in a way that made Mark's stomach hurt, with this energy that lit up every room he stepped into. He was sunshine. Pure and soft and warm.
Mark had no idea how to handle that. So he didn’t. Instead, he pushed Donghyuck away, hard. Made jokes at his expense. Laughed with his loser friends when Donghyuck got quiet. Like Donghyuck didn’t matter. All for the cheap high of validation from people who aren’t even in his life anymore.
He was cruel, not because Donghyuck deserved it, but because Mark didn’t understand what he was feeling and hated himself for it.
By the time he figured it out, by the time he realized that what he felt was real, that he’d been in love with Donghyuck since day one, it was already too late.
Now he gets moments like this. A clipped goodbye. A cold smile. A hundred pounds of regret packed into a hotel hallway. And it still hurts like hell. Every day.
“Did he break your heart again?” Seongho asks the moment Mark drags himself to the elevator, voice laced with way too much amusement for someone who’s supposed to be on his side.
He doesn’t even look up, just keeps scrolling on his phone, looking like the definition of unbothered. He’s thirty, sarcastic as hell, with shoulder-length black hair and a mouth that never knows when to quit. Amazing at keeping Mark’s career afloat. Absolutely useless at offering emotional support.
“Shut up, please,” Mark mumbles, stepping into the elevator with the kind of defeated energy that says don’t push me right now.
Seongho just smirks. “So that’s a yes.”
“Shut up.”
“Told you, we can change your stylist again if you feel like it,” Seongho says with a lazy shrug.
“No. I’m fine.”
But he’s not. And both of them know it.
The thing with Donghyuck being his stylist is that they were never supposed to cross paths again. Not after high school. Not after the shitstorm Mark left behind. Mark blew up when he was eighteen, got famous overnight, took off in one direction while Donghyuck, bright and beautiful and far too good for him, went off in another.
Their worlds weren’t supposed to touch again.
But life, being the chaotic mess it is, decided otherwise. Two years ago, Mark’s longtime stylist quit the industry completely, said she was tired, wanted peace, maybe a few plants and a dog. And somehow, her replacement ended up being him. Donghyuck. Now going by Haechan, the golden boy of the styling world. Young, in-demand, and annoyingly good at what he does.
And just like that, Mark found himself twenty-six and spiraling into emotional hell for the last 730 days straight.
At first, it felt like a jump scare. Then it turned into this weird, constant confusion. Because Donghyuck has every reason in the world to hate Mark’s guts. He could’ve come forward with the truth, exposed all the awful things teenage-Mark said and did. Could’ve dropped the bullying receipts and watched Mark’s career burn to the ground. But he didn’t. Not once.
And he didn’t have to take the job either. He’s a big name now. He could’ve worked with anyone but Mark. Yet here he is. Showing up to fittings, adjusting Mark’s collar with a blank face, handing him shoes like they’re strangers. Every single day.
And Mark’s never understood why.
Not that he gets to ask.
In two whole years, Donghyuck’s kept their conversations locked tight to professional topics. Fabrics. Colors. Event schedules. And every time Mark even inches toward something personal, Donghyuck shuts it down like he’s slamming a door in his face.
Mark’s just quietly losing his mind.
💽
The event is exactly as dull as Mark expected: fancy venue, overpriced suits, a bunch of people pretending to like each other while trying to one-up everyone in the room. The food’s decent, and the drinks aren’t bad either, which is the only reason he doesn’t fully lose his mind. But small talk with people who’d probably forget his name if he weren’t famous? Yeah, not his thing.
So by the time he and Seongho finally head back to the hotel, Mark’s practically vibrating with relief.
Seongho, being Seongho, immediately starts texting the team to rally at the hotel bar for a few drinks and some much-needed downtime.
Mark lives for these post-event hangouts. Not because he’s big on alcohol or partying, he’s actually kind of a lightweight, but he likes it because this is the only time Donghyuck lets the icy professionalism melt a little. It's the one window where Mark gets to see him laugh like he used to, talk freely, loosen up. And yeah, it messes him up every time.
Donghyuck always sticks close to Rina, his makeup artist. The two of them bounce off each other like siblings, whispering dumb jokes and bursting into laughter that makes Mark’s chest ache in the most irritating way. He watches from his corner of the booth, clutching his drink, wishing it was him sitting next to Donghyuck. Wishing it was him making him laugh like that.
“Fill up his cup,” Seongho mutters, nudging Mark with a smirk like the devil on his shoulder.
“Stop inciting me to do dumb shit,” Mark grumbles, lifting his beer and taking a slow sip, but his eyes don’t leave Donghyuck for a second.
His cheeks are flushed, hair ruffled, a tiny bit tipsy, and he looks like a dream.
Donghyuck, of course, catches him staring. He always does.
They stare at each other for a long, charged moment, until Rina nudges Donghyuck with her elbow and says something, making him break the eye contact.
Mark downs the rest of his drink.
“Come on,” Seongho drawls, leaning back in his seat, “just one drink won’t kill him. And it might loosen him up enough to actually speak to you without the ‘I hate your guts’ eyes.”
Mark shoots him a look over the rim of his glass. “That’s the worst thing you could ever tell me.”
“I’m trying to make you do something.”
“You’re trying to make me get yelled at.”
“Still something,” Seongho grins, raising his own glass in a mock toast.
Mark rolls his eyes but lets the moment pass.
The lights in the bar are dim and gold, casting a soft glow on Donghyuck’s skin, catching on the tiny hoop in his ear, the gloss on his lips. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s just spent the entire day micromanaging Mark’s wardrobe.
“Seriously, you’re staring again,” Seongho says, not even looking up from his phone. “It’s getting pathetic.”
Mark kicks him under the table. Seongho doesn’t flinch. “God,” he mutters, slouching in his seat. “Why does he still make me feel like I’m fifteen again?”
Seongho snorts. “Because you’ve been emotionally stunted since you were fifteen.”
Mark flips him off without even looking.
A while later, Mark's on his third beer, feeling warm and light and a lot like an idiot. He’s warm, soft around the edges, and dangerously close to slipping into the delusional part of drunk. Because unless he’s fully imagining it, Donghyuck is walking toward him.
“I’m going back to your room,” Donghyuck says, stopping at Mark’s side. His voice is calm but sharp enough to slice through Mark’s buzz. “And I hope you don’t show up drunk.”
Mark blinks up at him, dazed, eyes lingering on the cut of his jaw and the way the light hits his cheekbones. “Wait, do we have a date I’m not aware of?” he jokes weakly, trying to mask the way Donghyuck’s cologne is doing unspeakable things to his nervous system. He smells sweet and spicy, dangerous. It’s borderline criminal how fast it makes him want to lean in, sink his teeth into skin.
Donghyuck gives him a flat look. “I still need to decide what you’re wearing tomorrow, you imbecile,” he snaps, the word rolling off his tongue dipped in venom and habit.
Mark is used to it by now.
“Don’t get there too late,” Donghyuck adds, eyes narrowing, “or too drunk. I want to sleep early.”
And then he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Mark in his beer-fueled daze.
He just watches Donghyuck’s back as he disappears into the elevator hallway, sharp black boots clicking against the floor.
It takes Mark one more beer and a pep talk in his own head before he finally peels himself off the booth and heads upstairs. Just another late-night session of Donghyuck’s cold, business-only wardrobe decisions. Nothing new. Nothing personal. Nothing that’ll ever scratch the itch under Mark’s skin.
The elevator moves like it's powered by his regrets, slow and agonizing. He watches the floor numbers blink by with a dull throb behind his eyes and wonders, not for the first time, if he’s about to embarrass himself.
When he walks into the room, it’s exactly what he expects: chaos. Controlled chaos, but still chaos. There’s a ridiculous mountain of designer clothes scattered across the bed, all in varying shades and textures, like a fashion hurricane passed through.
Mark stares. “I still don’t get why you need to bring this much.”
Donghyuck doesn’t look up. He’s hunched over the bed like he’s building a shrine out of linen and silk, completely focused. “Exactly why I’m the stylist and you’re the dumbass who wears what I tell him to.”
Mark sighs, but mostly he just wants to say something that’ll keep Donghyuck talking to him. He starts peeling off his clothes—shoes, belt, shirt—letting them drop where they may. Then he flops down onto the one square of mattress that isn’t covered in fabric, sitting at the edge and just watching.
Donghyuck’s in his element. Focused, graceful, completely unaware of the way Mark’s eyes trace every movement he makes. The soft slope of his neck. The flex of his fingers as he folds and unfolds a blazer. The slight furrow in his brows when something doesn’t match the vision in his head.
Mark’s fingers itch to touch.
“What do you think about blue?” Donghyuck murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. He doesn’t even glance over, just lifts a sky-colored shirt and smooths it flat.
Mark tilts his head, frowning. “I think I look weird in blue.”
Donghyuck finally looks at him, just a quick flick of his eyes. “You look great in blue,” he says matter-of-factly, then steps closer and holds the shirt up against Mark’s bare chest like he’s testing it. “You look weird in yellow,” he adds.
“I like yellow,” Mark mutters, just to be difficult. Just to keep him standing there a little longer.
“Still look weird in it,” Donghyuck says flatly, not missing a beat. Then he gives him a quick motion with his hand. “Up. I need to see it on.”
He stands, slowly, like maybe dragging it out will make Donghyuck insult him. But no.
Donghyuck just steps back a little, arms crossed now, head tilted the tiniest bit like he’s studying a mannequin.
He slips the blue shirt over his arms while Donghyuck watches with that sharp, stylist stare. Head tilted, lips pursed, eyes scanning every inch of fabric like it’s a puzzle he’s solving in real-time.
Mark buttons it up clumsily, fingers fumbling more than they should. Donghyuck steps in again before he finishes, muttering a quiet, “Let me,” as he closes the distance.
His eyes don’t leave the fabric, but Mark can feel the heat radiating off him. He smells like lavender and something sweet underneath.
Donghyuck reaches out, smooths the fabric over Mark’s chest, then tugs slightly at the hem, adjusting it. Mark wonders if he knows what this does to him.
“This is the one,” Donghyuck says finally, smoothing the shirt down with both palms over Mark’s shoulders, like sealing the decision into his skin.
“You sure?” Mark asks, voice a little rough. “I still feel like I look weird.”
Donghyuck steps back, folds his arms, and gives him a look. The kind that says I’m too tired to explain why you’re being stupid. “Try this to finish the look.”
He hands Mark a few more pieces, pants, a jacket, something silk-looking, and Mark just nods and takes them because, at this point, what else can he do?
He strips off his pants without an ounce of shame. Two years into this twisted little arrangement and Mark getting mostly naked in front of Donghyuck has become as normal as breathing. Not in the way he wants it to be, but routine all the same.
He slips into the new outfit piece by piece, moving as Donghyuck instructs with the ease of a puppet following its strings. Put this on. No, not that one. Take that off. Roll the sleeves. Button that again. Spin. Stop moving. Shut up. Stand still.
Mark obeys without complaint, without flirtation, without asking for more. This is the most touching he gets these days, Donghyuck’s smart fingers tugging at fabric, not flesh.
Donghyuck steps back after the final adjustment and hums, satisfied. “Okay. That’s it. Take it off. I’ll straighten everything.”
Mark peels it off and drops it carefully, climbing back into his old pants and sitting on the edge of the bed like a kid waiting to be picked up from school. No shirt on, his hair slightly tousled, watching Donghyuck work like he’s watching something forbidden.
Donghyuck grabs the steamer, and Mark watches the steam curl into the air. He chews on the inside of his cheek. Tries to wrestle his thoughts into something less humiliating, something less honest, but fails.
So instead of asking the big questions like “ Why are you here?” or “ Why do you still make me look good when I made you feel like shit?”, he says:
“You could’ve picked anyone else, you know.”
Donghyuck doesn’t answer right away. But Mark sees it. The way his hands still mid-steam, just for a heartbeat. Then he keeps working, like nothing happened.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I could’ve.”
“Then why didn’t you?” Mark asks, voice low but insistent.
Maybe it’s the alcohol still humming in his system, maybe it’s the exhaustion from spinning around in emotional circles that always land him back in the same goddamn spot. Maybe he’s just tired of pretending it’s fine when it’s very much not.
Donghyuck doesn’t answer. He just keeps steaming the clothes like Mark didn’t speak at all. “Should we decide the third-day look too?” he asks instead.
“Why did you say yes to working with me?” Mark asks, not letting up.
“Because I needed a job,” Donghyuck replies flatly.
Mark narrows his eyes. “Why me?”
“I said I needed a job,” Donghyuck repeats, sharper this time, voice edged with bitterness.
“It makes no sense.”
“Business is business,” Donghyuck shrugs like he couldn’t care less.
“Donghyuck, please.”
The stylist clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Haechan,” he snaps. “How many times do I have to tell you this? It’s Haechan for you. You don’t get to call me by my name. You don’t get to act like we’re close. You have to earn that shit first.”
Mark stands up, fists clenched at his sides, not in anger, just helplessness. “Then what the fuck do I do to earn it? Huh? Tell me. Because I’ve tried. I’ve been trying. But this punishment feels eternal.”
Donghyuck unplugs the steamer with one swift tug, then turns, eyes dark, jaw set.
“You don’t want to dive deeper into this conversation, Mark.”
“I think I do.”
“I could punish you forever,” Donghyuck says, voice low, shaking slightly. “You deserve all of it. Every bit. You were cruel to me, Mark.”
Mark’s chest tightens, his throat burns. “I know. And I’m sorry,” he says, for what feels like the thousandth time. “I’ve told you a hundred times, I’ll say it a hundred more if I have to. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Donghyuck scoffs, the sound dry and hollow. “And what do you think that sorry does for us now, huh?”
“I don’t know. It just…” Mark swallows, trying to hold together all the messy pieces of himself, “gives me something. A little bit of peace.”
“Well, it doesn’t give me shit,” Donghyuck says, voice low and rough, his mouth twisting into a bitter half-smile. “You don’t get to be the broken one when I’m the one who’s been bleeding this whole fucking time.”
“And how do I stop the bleeding? That’s all I’ve ever been trying to do,” Mark steps forward, barely a foot of space between them now, voice soft and wrecked. “I swear to God.”
“You don’t,” Donghyuck snaps. “You let go. That’s it. You stop chasing something you burned down with your own hands. There’s nothing left. It’s fucking ashes. You move the fuck on and let me breathe.”
“I don’t get it,” Mark mumbles, shaking his head.
“It’s not for you to get,” Donghyuck bites out, voice cracking at the edges. “You don’t get to demand closure when you’re the reason I needed it in the first place. You just have to stop.”
And then, just for a moment, his eyes shine, not with anger, but something that looks a hell of a lot like pain. The kind that settles into your bones and makes a home there. He turns his face away like the sight of Mark is too much to bear.
“Don’t ask about it,” he says, voice dropping again. “Don’t talk it. Don’t fucking push me. You have zero rights in this story.”
Then Donghyuck stuffs the rest of the clothes into his oversized suitcase like he's shoving down the rest of their conversation. Quick, careless, like it doesn’t matter. He walks out without another glance. No look back.
And just like always, Mark’s left behind. Standing in the silence he never quite gets used to. Confused. Hurt. Still clinging to the same apology he’s said a million times. Still desperate for forgiveness that never seems to come, the urge to fix things he doesn’t even know how to fix anymore.
It’s what leads him right back downstairs, straight to the hotel bar, where he drinks like his body needs it more than water. Beer, whiskey, whatever’s handed to him, he doesn’t even taste it anymore. Just wants to shut his head up.
It happened too many times the past two years.
By the time the night ends, he’s slumped over a table and full of regret, and it greets him loud and clear the next morning, with soft but persistent slaps to his cheeks.
“Wake up, Mark.”
The voice is familiar, too much so. Gentle and pissed off at the same time.
Mark groans, eyes blinking open like they weigh a hundred pounds. His vision is fuzzy, but there’s no mistaking the blurry outline of Donghyuck’s face hovering above him.
“Imbecile,” Donghyuck says, slapping his cheek again. “Get up. You need to get ready.”
Mark hums, throat dry, voice scratchy. “Am I late?”
“Not yet. But you will be if you don’t get your ass moving. Rina is still wasted, Seongho’s passed out too, so I’m stuck cleaning up this mess.”
Mark sits up halfway, then immediately drops back with a dramatic groan, clutching his head. It feels like a jackhammer’s going off inside his skull.
He vaguely remembers a girl, lipstick, a blur of perfume and skin.
“Where’s the—uh…”
“I kicked her out,” Donghyuck says flatly. “She was about two seconds away from running off with naked pictures of you.”
“Shit.”
“Oh, and in case you were wondering,” Donghyuck adds, crossing his arms, “pictures of you hooking up with her? Yeah. All over the internet. So congrats on that too.”
Mark lets out a long, miserable groan. “I think I’m gonna puke.”
“Oh, please do. All over your fancy shoes,” Donghyuck mutters. “Then maybe you’ll learn.”
Later that day, things don’t exactly improve. Mark somehow pulls it together enough to step outside for the second day of the event looking completely composed, clean white sweater hugging his frame just right, hair pushed back like he’s some angel that’s never known chaos. He answers all the uncomfortable questions about last night’s photos with that perfect blend of boyish charm and media-trained ease. Smiles for the cameras, plays up the cuteness, sells the perfect image of the unbothered golden boy.
“I’m aware of the current pictures,” he says smoothly, voice light. “It was a long night, we all make mistakes. I’m just glad my team was around to take care of me.”
He nails the public part. But underneath it, he's falling apart.
When night falls, he repeats the same self-sabotaging pattern, too much alcohol, not enough self-control. Just like the night before, maybe worse. No random hookups this time, no mysterious girl in his bed. Just him, a gut full of guilt, and the weight of everything he’s been carrying.
Which leads him to Donghyuck’s hotel room. Again (it happened a few months ago). Sometime past midnight, a little drunk and a lot heartbroken. All blurry-eyed and sloppy with emotion.
He knocks. Leans against the doorframe, dizzy and cold and pathetic, like his legs can’t fully hold him up. It takes a while, long enough for Mark to almost tip backward, before the door creaks open and Donghyuck appears, clearly annoyed.
“What?” Donghyuck asks, brows drawn in irritation as his eyes scan the mess standing in front of him.
Mark sniffs, trying to hold himself together, but the cracks are already there. “Can’t you just give me a chance?”
Donghyuck just stares at him, unreadable for a long, long second. Then he lets out a dry scoff and shuts the door in his face.
Mark stays put. Stubborn. Stupid. Pathetic. He knocks again, not like he expects anything, not like he thinks it’ll change a damn thing. But standing there, drunk and desperate, still feels better than turning around and walking away.
“Just a chance,” he slurs, words tumbling out in a mess of alcohol and heartache. “I promise. Let me show you how good I can be... for you.”
His forehead starts thudding against the door, once, twice, over and over. A pathetic rhythm of desperation, soft thumps echoing down the hall. Tap. Tap. Tap. Until the door suddenly swings open and a pair of cold hands grab the front of his shirt.
Donghyuck’s face is all sharp lines and fury as he yanks Mark inside with one swift tug, nearly making him trip over his own feet.
“How many fucking scandals do you plan on starring in this year?” he hisses, practically tossing Mark into the room like a soaked rag. “For fuck’s sake, Mark.”
Mark just blinks at him, unsteady on his feet.
“What did I say?” Donghyuck snaps, voice sharper than it needs to be. “Let it go. Just let fucking go.”
“I don’t want to,” Mark says, voice wet and shaky. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand like a kid. “Does it matter if I don’t want to?”
“No. It doesn’t. Not even a little,” Donghyuck snaps. “What do you think you’re gonna get by being so damn persistent?”
“A chance,” Mark leans his weight against the wall, trying not to slide down it. “Just one. To prove I’m not the same guy.”
“There’s nothing left to prove,” Donghyuck says coldly. “Let’s get you back to your room before this turns into an even bigger mess.”
Mark doesn’t budge. “You want me to beg?” he asks, slurring the words, dragging them through whatever was left of his pride. “I can beg. I don’t care.”
Donghyuck lifts his chin, arms crossed. “Then beg. Crawl. Kiss my fucking feet, Mark. And maybe I’ll think about giving you an inch of a chance.”
Mark stares at him, eyes glassy and wide. Then, he sinks to his knees, dignity scattered in pieces on the hotel carpet.
“Like this?” he sniffles, blinking hard. “Is that what it takes?”
Donghyuck just looks at him. His mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. For a second, he just stands there, frozen in the tension.
“Get up,” he finally says, voice thin but urgent.
Mark shakes his head, his hands pressed flat against the floor. Then he actually starts crawling forward, dragging himself across the carpet with pathetic determination. “What else do you want?”
“Get the fuck up, Mark,” Donghyuck growls, grabbing him by the shoulders and practically shoving him backwards until he lands in the bed. “What does this look like to you? You think I’m enjoying this?”
Mark lies there, limp. His head spins, the world all sideways, Donghyuck’s cologne on the sheets making his chest ache.
“You still stay around,” he mutters at the ceiling, words slurring. “And I care. So much. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Donghyuck exhales hard. “Let’s get you back to your room.”
“Does it matter if I miss you?” Mark whispers, eyes fluttering half-shut.
“Miss what?” Donghyuck sighs. “We were barely even friends.”
Mark hums softly. “I guess I never said it, but… I learned your favorite song on my guitar,” he mumbles, eyes start to flutter shut. “Even when it hurt my fingers.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Donghyuck sounds tired now, defeated. “Come on. Get up.”
Mark doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try. His lips barely part as he breathes out, “Does it matter if I love you? Because I think I do.”
A single tear slips down his cheek just before he passes out.