Archive of Our Own

By the time they get to the bar, everyone is already exhausted in that specific way that only comes after a full day of schedules. The kind where your body is tired but your brain refuses to shut off, still buzzing with choreography counts and camera cues.

It is Chenle’s idea. He says it casually, like he is suggesting convenience store ice cream instead of alcohol. “It’s Saturday,” he shrugs. “We deserve it.”

No one argues.

They change fast, throw on hoodies and caps, pile into the car with the windows cracked open because someone complains it is too stuffy. The bar is dim and warm and crowded in a way that makes it easy to disappear. Low lights, sticky tables, music that rattles in your chest. It feels far away from practice rooms and managers and tomorrow morning.

The first round goes down easy.

So does the second.

Jeno drinks slower than the rest, nursing his glass, eyes tracking everything out of habit. Chenle gets louder with each sip, laughing too hard at his own jokes. Haechan immediately takes control of the table, half standing to argue with the bartender about what song is playing, half leaning back into Mark’s space like gravity keeps pulling them together.

Mark is in a good mood. A really good one.

He keeps talking about the showcase earlier, about how nervous he was, about how he almost messed up the timing but Haechan was right there, counting under his breath, grounding him. He says it with a soft smile, like the memory matters more now that he is tipsy.

“You always do that,” Mark says, poking Haechan’s arm. “You always help and then pretend you didn’t.”

Haechan rolls his eyes but his ears are red. “Please, you would survive without me.”

“Liar,” Mark says immediately, grinning.

By the third drink, Mark’s laughter is spilling over the edges. He leans closer without realizing it, knees knocking against Haechan’s under the table. Haechan does not move away. If anything, he shifts closer too, shoulder pressed into Mark’s like it belongs there.

Chenle notices first. He notices the way Mark keeps reaching for Haechan when he talks, fingers brushing his sleeve. The way Haechan automatically steadies Mark when he sways, palm warm against his back. Chenle raises his eyebrows but says nothing.

Jeno notices too. He always does. He files it away, the familiarity, the ease, the way neither of them seems aware that it might look like something else.

The drinks keep coming because no one is counting anymore.

At some point Mark is definitely drunk. He is slurring slightly, words looping back on themselves. He laughs at something Haechan says, head tipping forward until it bumps Haechan’s shoulder. He does not apologize. He just stays there.

“Hyung,” Haechan murmurs, amused, “you’re really gone.”

Mark hums, eyes half closed. Then, like it is instinct, like it is a reflex he has never questioned, he turns his head and presses a kiss to Haechan’s cheek.

It is simple. Casual. Almost affectionate in a way that suggests it has happened before, even if it has not.

Haechan blinks. Then he chuckles, low and warm, like the moment does not need to be examined. He does not pull away. He does not make it awkward. He just smiles and nudges Mark’s forehead with his own.

“You’re gonna regret that,” Haechan says lightly. Mark squints at him, thinking.

Across the table, Chenle has frozen completely.

Jeno stares, expression carefully blank, processing too much too fast.

The bar keeps going around them. Music thumps. Glasses clink. Someone shouts for another round.

Haechan finally looks up and notices them both staring.

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused.

Chenle coughs, grabbing his drink. “Nothing,” he says, way too fast.

Jeno nods. “Yeah. Nothing.”

Mark is already drifting again, leaning fully into Haechan now, content and unaware. Haechan lets him, arm loose around his shoulders, thumb tracing idle patterns against his sleeve.

Chenle takes a long sip, eyes flicking between them.

They lose track of it.

One moment they are at the table, Mark half asleep against Haechan’s shoulder, Chenle loudly arguing with Jeno about something meaningless. The next, Haechan is standing, tugging Mark up by the wrist, murmuring something about air, about the bathroom, about splashing water on his face.

Mark follows without question.

The hallway to the bathrooms is narrow and dim, quieter than the bar but still vibrating with bass through the walls. Mark stumbles once, laughs under his breath, grips Haechan’s hoodie tighter to steady himself. Haechan glances back at him, something unreadable flickering there before he looks away again.

The bathroom is cramped and smells like soap and alcohol and too many people. Haechan barely checks if anyone is watching before he pulls Mark into a stall and locks it behind them.

The space is too small. Their knees knock. Mark’s back hits the stall door softly.

They stare at each other for a second.

Mark’s smile is lazy, unfocused, fond in a way that makes Haechan’s chest feel tight. “You okay?” Mark asks, voice low, like he genuinely cares.

Haechan scoffs quietly. “I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine,” Mark says. Then, after a pause, “You’re really close.”

Haechan laughs under his breath. “It’s a stall, hyung.”

Mark nods, like that makes sense. Then his hand comes up, slow and uncoordinated, brushing Haechan’s jaw. It is clumsy, thumb bumping his cheek instead of tracing it properly. Still, Haechan goes very still.

For a split second, it feels like a line they could still step back from.

They don’t.

Haechan leans in first, impatience winning over caution, mouths crashing together in a kiss that is all alcohol and laughter and something that has been building for far too long. It is messy immediately. Mark kisses back just as hard, hands grabbing at Haechan’s hoodie like he is afraid he will fall if he lets go.

They bump noses. Teeth click. Someone laughs breathlessly into the kiss.

Haechan presses Mark back against the door, one hand braced beside his head, the other fisted in the fabric at his waist. Mark kisses like he dances, instinctive and earnest, like he is not overthinking a single thing.

When they finally pull back, both of them are breathing harder than they should be.

Haechan rests his forehead against Mark’s, eyes half closed. “We are so drunk,” he mutters, “You’re going to regret this” he says once again, like silently trying to convince Mark that he doesn’t have to.

Mark smiles, unfazed. “Yeah.”

He leans in again like that settles it. 

Haechan shudders, pressing closer in the tight space, their bodies slotting together hip to hip. The alcohol blurs the edges, makes every touch electric, and Haechan feels his cock stir, thickening against the front of his jeans. Mark's thigh nudges between his legs, rubbing firm, and Haechan grinds down instinctively, chasing the friction. “Fuck”, he breathes into Mark's mouth, hands fisting the back of Mark's shirt.

Mark pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy and intense, like he's been starving for this moment. Haechan looks up at him like he’s seeing God himself in front of him.

Mark’s hand drops to Haechan's belt, yanking it open with clumsy urgency, zipper rasping loud in the confined space. Haechan's heart slams in his chest, but he doesn't stop him, doesn't want to. Instead, he nods, desperate heat flooding his veins, making him arch into Mark's grip.

Pants shoved down to thighs, Haechan's cock springs free, hard and leaking at the tip. Mark stares at it, trying to put into words what he’s thinking, but seems impossible. It’s the first time he’s ever seen a dick this up close. He wraps his fingers around it, stroking slow and unsurely, thumb circling the head to smear pre-cum, just like the porn actresses do it. Haechan bucks into the touch, a moan slipping out raw and needy.

Mark's other hand works his own jeans open, freeing his own hardness, already throbbing. Haechan grabs it and rubs it against his own, grinding them together, the slide slick and hot.

Mark gasps, he doesn’t know how to react. It feels good. He lets Haechan hump his dick with his own, suddenly feeling desperate for something more.

“Can you turn around?” Mark asks drunkenly, spinning Haechan before he can respond, pushing him face-first against the stall wall.

The metal is cold against Haechan's cheek, almost making him forget he’s about to have sex with his best friend.

Mark crowds in from behind, cock slotting between Haechan's ass, rutting teasingly. Haechan spreads his legs wider, pushing back, his hole clenching in anticipation.

“I don’t know how to do this” Mark admits and spits into his hand, he’s had anal with girls he’s met before, this can’t be any different, can it?

He reached around to slick two fingers before pressing them against Haechan's entrance. He pushes in with a pause, the stretch burning as Haechan gasps, gripping the wall for support. 

“You’re so tight…” Mark groans, pumping his fingers deeper, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and for some reason pretending that Haechan was another hook up girl felt wrong.

Haechan whines, rocking back onto them, the desperation clawing at him after all this time.

Mark pushed them in and out pathetically, like that was supposed to get some kind of hot reaction from him. Haechan turned his head, almost frustrated. It didn’t feel good, it almost hurt. But when he sees Mark’s clueless face, he knows better than to say something about it.

“Please, Mark. I need the real thing…” and Mark doesn't need more encouragement. He pulls his fingers out for good, lining up his cock just between his ass, the tip of his cock touching Haechan’s hole almost teasingly. Almost, Mark was terrified. Completely frozen.

He didn’t want to question what they were doing just when it was about to get real. He flirted first, they made out, he just fingered his best friend in a bathroom stall minutes ago, how could he just now think it through?

“Mark?” Haechan calls slowly, his voice soft, like he knew this was gonna happen. “It’s fine, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, ” Mark states, honestly. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits.

Haechan laughed under his breath, his hyung was so cute, definitely. “You already loosened me up, you can just put it in, I’ll let you know if it hurts” he explained.

Mark nods, sweat running down his face as he gently starts pushing his dick inside his best friend’s hole. Haechan groaned in pleasure, Mark wasn’t big, or small. Average, at best. But fuck, does size really matters when the man you’ve been yearning for nine years finally fucks you?

The stall shakes with each thrust, skin slapping loud and obscene. Mark leans over him, breath hot on Haechan's neck, biting down as he drives deeper. It looked almost like Mark forgot who he was fucking in a dirty bathroom stall in a cheap bar.

Haechan reaches down, stroking his own cock in frantic pulls, the coil tightening fast. Sweat slicks their skin, the air thick with the scent of sex and spilled drinks. “H-hyung…” he moans, almost calling for him. “Closer, I need us to be… c-closer” he groaned, trying to push himself deeper into Mark’s cock.

Mark groaned, in both pleasure and discomfort. Haechan’s insides were so tight, but so incredibly hot. He felt the hands of the younger grip his hips not allowing him to move much.

“Hyung…” Haechan called again, turning his face against the cold stall, “…I don’t want to stop feeling you”

Well, shit.

Mark gained enough consciousness to understand the situation he was in, staring at his dick being warmed, how beautiful his best friend looked bent over like that. It lasted for a few seconds, before he pushed himself deeper, his face crashing against Haechan’s shoulder, biting it down almost violently.

Haechan whimpered at the brutal reaction, trying his best to stay quiet, but it was hard when he felt the cold blood running down his shoulder from Mark’s mouth like it was nothing. It hurt, it hurt like hell. But for some reason, he couldn’t stop jerking off while it happened.

Mark starts moving again, his bite going back to the shoulder his teeth were so fixated on every thrust.

“H-hyung— I’m so close” His voice was soft and trembling, like an angel crying, Mark thought.

Haechan came first, spilling over his fist with a muffled shout, walls clamping down around Mark's cock. Mark follows with a guttural moan, pulling out at the last second to cum across Haechan's lower back, hot stripes marking him. They sag against the wall together, chests heaving, Haechan’s arms wrapping around Mark’s waist to hold him up, despite being spent himself. 

Mark wakes up to sunlight.

That is the first problem.

The second problem is the unfamiliar ceiling. The third is the couch beneath him, too soft to be the dorm, cushions slightly sunken in a way his body recognizes before his brain does. The fourth problem hits all at once when he shifts and realizes he is wearing a T shirt that is definitely not his and nothing else he can immediately account for.

He freezes.

His head throbs. His mouth is dry. His thoughts move too fast and not fast enough at the same time.

He blinks hard and looks around.

There is a coffee table cluttered with empty glasses and a folded hoodie. A pair of sneakers by the door, his sneakers, kicked off carelessly. A familiar shelf by the TV, stacked with game controllers and random figurines.

Oh.

Mark sits up too fast and immediately regrets it, groaning softly as he presses a hand to his temple. The T shirt rides up and he yanks it back down on instinct, heart racing.

Haechan’s place. He knows it instantly. He has been here a hundred times, movie nights and late practices and nights that blurred into mornings. That somehow makes it worse.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to rewind his brain.

The bar. Drinks. Laughing. Haechan’s shoulder under his cheek. That kiss. God, the kiss. His stomach flips as the memory resurfaces, warm and mortifying all at once.

Bathroom hallway. Dim lights. Haechan’s hand on his wrist.

Then things get fuzzy. Mark drags a hand down his face, breathing out slowly. “Okay,” he whispers to himself. “Okay.”

He checks himself again, more carefully this time. Half naked, yes. No immediate injuries. No catastrophic signs of disaster. Still, his chest tightens with the not knowing.

Did they…?

He swallows hard and forces himself not to spiral.

A soft sound from down the hallway. A drawer opening. The quiet clink of a mug being set on the counter. Mark’s heart jumps into his throat.

He stays perfectly still, staring at the wall, listening. Footsteps approach, unhurried, familiar. Then Haechan appears in the doorway.

He is fully dressed, hair still damp like he has just showered, holding a mug in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks normal. Annoyingly normal.

He stops when he sees Mark awake. Their eyes meet, and there is a long, loaded silence.

“Oh,” Haechan says first. “You’re up.”

Mark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it again, then tries once more. “Hi,” he manages, voice hoarse.

Haechan’s lips twitch, unreadable. “Morning.”

Mark’s brain is screaming. His heart is pounding. A thousand questions pile up behind his teeth, but the only one that slips out is the worst possible one.

“What happened last night?”

Haechan watches him for a moment, expression softening just a little.

“…How much do you remember?” he asks.

Mark swallows. “Not enough,” he admits.

Haechan exhales, leaning against the doorframe. “Okay,” he says gently. “Then don’t panic yet.”

Haechan sets the mug down on the coffee table and crosses his arms, like he is bracing himself. Mark notices the way his shoulders are tight, the way he is very deliberately not joking right now.

“You didn’t do anything you didn’t want to,” Haechan says first, like he knows exactly where Mark’s thoughts went. “Before you ask.”

Mark lets out a breath he did not realize he was holding. It comes out shaky. “Okay. Good. Thank you.”

Silence settles again, heavier this time.

Mark rubs his hands together, staring at the fabric of the couch. “But something did happen,” he says quietly.

Haechan hums. “Yeah.”

Mark winces. “I kissed you.”

“You did,” Haechan agrees, way too calmly.

“In the bar.”

“And later” Haechan adds, gently.

Mark’s ears burn. He drags a hand over his face, mortified. “God. I’m so sorry.” The silence stretches long enough that it starts to hurt.

Mark keeps staring at the floor, fingers twisting into the fabric of the borrowed T shirt. His head still aches, but the worse pressure is in his chest, tight and restless.

“There’s something else,” he says finally.

“I don’t really remember anything after the kiss,” Mark says, too quickly, eyes fixed on the couch cushion instead of Haechan. “Like, I remember kissing, but that’s it.”

It sounds wrong. Even to him.

Haechan watches him closely, head tilted, expression unreadable. “That’s it,” he repeats.

Mark nods, throat tight. His heart is racing, palms damp. He can still feel it, buried under the hangover. The press of bodies in the stall. The heat. The way his mouth had been everywhere. He remembers enough to make his stomach churn.

He just wishes he didn’t.

Because remembering means accepting it. Accepting that he had sex with a man. That it was Haechan. That it wasn’t an accident.

“I think I just blacked out,” Mark adds, like that will sell it.

Haechan exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Mark flinches.

“I’m not lying,” he insists, but his voice cracks at the edges.

Haechan straightens. “Mark. Look at me.” 

Mark doesn’t. That makes something twist painfully in Mark’s chest. “I was drunk.”

“So was I,” Haechan snaps back. Then he stops himself, jaw clenching. “But don’t act like you were unconscious.”

Mark swallows. He feels cornered, exposed, shame creeping up his spine. “I don’t think it meant anything,” he says, and immediately hates himself for it.

That does it.

Haechan laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Wow.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Haechan turns away, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “You really don’t remember?” he asks, tone flat.

Haechan pulls the fabric aside and exposes his shoulder. 

The mark is ugly. Dark and red, teeth shaped, bruised unevenly. There is a small scab where skin broke. It looks painful. Real. Undeniable.

“You did that,” Haechan says quietly. “You remember now?”

Mark’s stomach drops.

The image slams into him with brutal clarity. Haechan’s sharp intake of breath. Mark’s hands gripping too tight. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Mark blurts out.

Haechan’s eyes flick back to him. “So you do remember.”

Silence crashes between them. Mark’s shoulders slump. His lie collapses in on itself. “I remember enough,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I didn’t know how to say it.”

“Say what?” Haechan asks.

“That I regret it,” Mark says, the words tasting awful. “Or at least, I regret that it happened like that. That I let it happen.”

Haechan’s face hardens, something wounded flashing across it. “Because I’m your best friend,” he says. “Or because I’m a guy.”

Mark freezes.

“I—” He stops. Starts again. “I don’t know. I’ve never… this isn’t who I thought I was.”

“That doesn’t make it something you get to erase,” Haechan says, voice tight. “Or pretend you don’t remember so you don’t have to deal with it.”

Mark presses his hands into his eyes. “I’m scared,” he admits. “And confused. And I feel like I ruined something.”

Haechan lowers his shirt, arms crossing over his chest like armor. “You didn’t ruin me,” he says. “But you did hurt me. Just now.”

Mark looks up, eyes red. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Haechan says, softer now. “But sorry doesn’t make last night not real.”

The weight of that settles deep in Mark’s chest. The room feels smaller after that.

Neither of them moves for a while. The air is thick with everything they are not saying, the things Mark is too afraid to look at head on.

Mark shifts on the couch, fingers worrying the hem of the T shirt. His eyes flick toward the coffee table, where his phone sits face down beside Haechan’s mug. He has been aware of it the whole time, like a lifeline he is scared to grab.

“Haechan,” he says, voice small. Barely there.

Haechan looks at him, expression tired but still sharp at the edges. “Yeah?”

“Can I have my phone back?” Mark asks quietly.

The words sound wrong in his own ears. Too careful. Too polite. Like he is a guest who stayed too long.

Haechan’s gaze drops to the table. For a second, it looks like he might say something sharp, something defensive. Instead, he just reaches for the phone and hands it over.

“Here,” he says.

Their fingers brush when Mark takes it. Mark flinches like he has been burned.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, already curling around the device, grounding himself in its familiar weight.

Haechan steps back, putting distance between them again. “You can text the others if you want,” he adds. “They were worried.”

Mark nods, throat tight, eyes fixed on the screen even though it is still dark. He does not unlock it yet. He just holds it, breathing slowly, like this is the first thing he has control over since waking up.

Mark unlocks his phone and just… stares at it.

Notifications crowd the screen. Group chats. Missed calls. Chenle’s name pops up more than once, messages sent hours ago and left unread. His thumb hovers uselessly above the keyboard.

Who do you even text after this.

He thinks of Chenle first, instinctively. The thought makes his stomach twist. What would he think. What would anyone think. The shame crawls up his spine, hot and nauseating.

He types Chenle’s name, then deletes it.

His chest feels tight. His hands shake just slightly. It had felt scary last night, the losing control, the line crossed so fast he barely had time to register it. It feels scarier now, sober, real, sitting in the quiet aftermath.

Haechan watches him from across the room. He sees it all, the hesitation, the panic written plainly on Mark’s face. He exhales, long and tired, rubbing a hand over his face.

Mark doesn’t look up. “What are they going to think,” he whispers. “Chenle, Jeno. They’re not stupid.”

Haechan huffs softly, not amused. “Yeah. About that.”

Mark finally glances at him, dread pooling low in his stomach.

“They already know something happened,” Haechan continues, voice flat. “Not details. But we didn’t exactly come back subtle.”

Mark’s heart drops. “What do you mean.”

Haechan looks away, jaw tight. “You were clinging to me. We were both sweating, exhausted, clothes messed up. Chenle wouldn’t stop staring. Jeno wouldn’t even look at us.”

Mark feels sick.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“So,” Haechan says quietly, “if you’re scared of what they’ll think, you’re a little late for that.”

Mark’s grip tightens around his phone. His mind races, replaying the looks, the silence, the things he had been too drunk to notice. The embarrassment crashes over him in a wave, heavy and suffocating.

“I didn’t want them to know,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Haechan says. His voice softens despite himself. “But it’s already out there. You don’t have to explain anything you don’t want to.”

Mark nods faintly, eyes burning. “It feels like everything’s wrong.”

Haechan watches him for a moment, then sighs again. “It doesn’t have to be,” he says. “But you can’t pretend it didn’t happen just because you’re scared.”

Mark looks back down at his phone. Chenle’s name still sits at the top of the screen, waiting..

Haechan sinks down on the arm of the couch, close but not touching. Mark can feel the weight of him there anyway.

“Mark,” he says quietly.

Mark looks up, eyes red, phone still clenched in his hands.

“Can you stop treating it like it was a mistake,” Haechan asks.

The words are gentle. That somehow makes them hurt more.

Mark’s breath catches. “I’m not trying to,” he says weakly.

“But you are,” Haechan replies. He keeps his voice even, but there is something sad underneath it, something wounded. “You panic like you did something wrong just by being there with me.”

Mark’s shoulders hunch in on themselves. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“I know,” Haechan says. “That’s the problem. You don’t mean to, but it still happens.”

He looks down at his hands, fingers lacing together. “Last night wasn’t perfect. It was messy and impulsive and probably not how either of us imagined anything would go. But it wasn’t nothing.”

“You wanted me,” Haechan continues, voice low and full of hurt. “Even if you’re confused now. Even if you’re scared. That doesn’t disappear just because it’s uncomfortable in the daylight.”

Mark’s chest aches. “I don’t know how to feel about it,” he admits. “Everything feels upside down.”

“That’s okay,” Haechan says softly. “What hurts is you acting like wanting me was some kind of failure.”

Mark’s grip on his phone loosens. He stares at the floor, shame and longing tangled together in a way he does not know how to untangle.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Haechan nods, eyes flicking away. “I know.”

The sadness lingers, quiet and unresolved, sitting between them like something fragile neither of them knows how to pick up without breaking.