“Those are my shorts.”

Mark Tuan is not a reputed fast learner. It doesn’t take much, however, to understand that Jackson Wang knows zero after etiquette.

“Yep,” Jackson singsongs from across the kitchen. He’s wearing the aforementioned pair of Mark’s red boxer shorts, embarrassingly tight around the thighs he’s so proud of, and an apron Mark didn’t even know he owned, swaying to a Radiohead song on the Bluetooth speakers he must’ve stolen from the living room.

“I didn’t know I had an apron,” Mark says blearily, watching from the doorway, hair still sticking up, face puffy. He’d come stumbling in straight from the bedroom once he’d heard the crackle and hiss of hot oil on a skillet, sheets trailing behind him. For lack of anything better to do, he pours himself a cup of coffee from the pot ready on the counter.

“Me neither,” Jackson says brightly, laying an omelette on a plate. He looks way too chirpy for nine in the morning, not a trace of hangover on his face, and Mark struggles to keep his eyes away from the little dance in Jackson’s hips to the beat of the music. “Do you like pancakes?”

Mark surveys him over the rim of his coffee mug, and something winds up at the bottom of his stomach, floaty and aching and apprehensive.

“Sure,” he says instead, putting the mug on the counter. “I’ll lay the table.”

*

They’re not a thing. At least, Mark doesn’t think so. Mark doesn’t really know much about this kind of thing, and he’s sure as hell not suicidal enough to ask a friend for advice on this sort of thing (as if you have friends, hyung, Bambam would sigh).

It started an accident, carried on as a series of unfortunate events, and it would be way too much effort and emotion to start wondering if he’s starting to do these things deliberately. So he keeps it this way, falls asleep with Jackson’s forehead nestled between his shoulder blades like it’s nothing, because it is.

So when Jackson steals his favourite mug next, the one that states the days of the week, except it replaces every weekday sans Friday with a big, rainbow “DAY”, he’s not even mad.

Mark wakes up that morning to find him lounging on the couch, legs crossed, wearing a fleecy regal blue bathrobe one of his aunts had gifted from a holiday in Egypt, sipping from the mug while he watches the morning news. The achy floaty feeling returns, spinning like Catherine wheels in his stomach.

“That’s my mug,” he says, half awake, hoping Jackson’s at least brushed his teeth. He’s vaguely aware Jackson’s not wearing anything under the robe, and this doesn’t do much to promote his focus on the fact that this guy’s taking over his home, one household appliance at a time.

“Hong Kong is nice this time of the year,” Jackson says in reply, pointing to the television- there’s a feature on tourist numbers in different countries for winter.

Mark opens his mouth and closes it, before glancing at the report. Yes, Hong Kong is a rather nice place for a holiday. He doesn’t see how this applies to either of them, though.

Jackson takes another sip from his mug. “There’s lots of food. Everyone tries to sell you stuff and there are open-air taxis you can ride in, it’s great and your hair goes crazy in the wind. If you’re in the city, you can hunt for cafes for days.”

He pauses, as if leaving an opening for Mark to say something. Alarmed, Mark resorts to his first and only line of defence: silence.

“The alcohol’s kind of expensive though,” Jackson adds prudently, as an afterthought. “And there’s cigarette smoke everywhere. But in spring you can go everywhere, the weather’s great.”

Mark blinks and shuffles awkwardly. Again, there’s a pause, like Jackson’s waiting for him to say something. But the moment comes and passes, and it’s over.

“Anyway!” Jackson bounces up, startling him, and flounces off to the kitchen, bathrobe fluttering behind him. “I thought a change would be nice this morning, I made oatmeal with bananas and blueberries instead. Do you like chocolate?”

“My mug,” Mark blubbers indecisively, trailing behind Jackson.

(He gets his mug back eventually, full of coffee with no cream and three sugars like he always drinks it, and a big wet kiss on the cheek he tries to ignore.)

*

Bambam barging into his place is nothing new. Yugyeom barging into his place is also nothing new. Youngjae also barging into his place is noth-

“HYUNG,” Bambam crashes through his front door, waving two boxes of pizza and a dozen doughnuts.

Mark’s hastily cleaning up the traces of Jackson’s last visit (and damn does he leave a lot of traces), shoving the last remnants into his room as Yugyeom and Youngjae troop in after Bambam, holding a six pack of soda and a plastic bag with what looks suspiciously like numerous tubs of Ben and Jerry’s.

It’s like dealing with a bunch of kids, honestly- they dump their stuff everywhere, dissociate and wreck their own little havocs everywhere they go, and it gets worse as they get younger- Youngjae at least tries to be helpful and Bambam isn’t all bad when he’s guilt-tripped into it, but Yugyeom can be hell on two extremely long legs when he tries.

“So how’s life,” Bambam says sweetly, as he starts to unpack the food while keeping his eyes on Mark’s face in a distinctly creepy fashion.

Mark’s distracted momentarily by the smell of pepperoni, so he trips up and shrugs. “Good.”

Bambam gasps. He glances at Youngjae for confirmation, holding a stack of Lord of the Ring Blu-rays, who’s looking over, mildly alarmed at the bug-eyed look on Bambam’s face.

“Did you just,” the Thai native says in a hushed whisper, as if talking to someone on their deathbed. “Say life was “good”?”

“Mark-hyung deserves a good life,” Youngjae says absently, as he goes about setting up the movie marathon.

“Who you off,” Bambam demands, slamming a hand on the table unsettlingly close to the doughnuts, which Mark carefully pushes away from the danger zone. “We need names. Pictures. Instagram accounts. ID and credit card numbers.”

“No one,” Mark shoulders him away from the table, starting to distribute the food himself.

“A relationship would be nice for hyung,” Youngjae says dreamily. “It’ll get you out of your sad quagmire cesspit of social isolation, and they can make you nice food because you cook really badly.”

“Yeah,” Bambam gestures wildly, knocking over a stack of magazines. He ignores the mess. “The fact that you’re meeting someone! A person! In person! Who can help you fix all your inherent life problems!”

“I don’t have problems,” Mark snaps, trying to clean up the magazines now.

“Oh really now? Allow us to name a few,” Bambam says, adopting a clinical air. “Social ineptitude, bad taste in potential partners-…”

“Terrible cooking skills,” Youngjae adds helpfully. Bambam nods vigorously.

“…-workaholic lifestyle, abhorrent flirting skills-…”

“Identity crisis,” Yugyeom says distantly.

Mark whirls around as the maknae emerges from his bedroom.

Bambam blinks. “Wow, even I didn’t know about that one. Why again?”

“Because he owns a cap that says,” Yugyeom squints, studying the bold white words against black. “W-A-N-…”

“That’s not mine,” Mark says crossly, going over to snatch the cap back. “Stop going through my stuff, Gyeom.”

“He’s got a bunch of poop pants two sizes bigger than his skinny hips and a Green Day shirt back there,” Yugyeom informs the rest gravely. “Considering his sadly generic taste in music-…”

“YOU BROUGHT SOMEONE OVER,” Bambam screeches at a decibel and pitch typically only witnessed in dolphin communication.

“We’re not together!” Mark shouts, finally wrenching Yugyeom from his room and slamming the door shut, panting and glaring at the three of them. “Yes, I brought someone over, yes he left some of his stuff over the few visits-…”

“He came back after the first night?” Yugyeom says dubiously.

“Well, yes-…”

“He cooks for both of you? That’s the reason for the dishes in the sink?” Bambam interjects. “I know those weren’t you, hyung, because you can’t boil water to save your life.”

“Yes, he cooked for us but-…”

“And all those pancake oatmeal sundae pictures on your Insta were because of him too?” Yugyeom says, sounding relieved. “I thought you found new dongsaengs to bully all your money out of you.”

“Yes, but-…”

“I think,” Youngjae smiles at nothing in particular, speaking half to himself. “Mark hyung should get his wreck of a life together and date this guy.”

*

Jackson’s actually wearing his own stuff the night he bounds through the door, plastic bags of ingredients swinging wildly from one hand.

“You were running out,” he says brightly. “And I figured we could eat in tonight. You mentioned you like jade noodles?”

“Uh,” Mark says, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth momentarily. “Yeah.”

“Want to watch a movie? I rented some DVDs, they’re in the bag,” Jackson drops his knapsack in a chair by the table as he bustles towards the kitchen.

“Uh-…”

“I couldn’t remember which Men in Black instalment you said you liked the most so I just brought all of them,” Jackson’s starting to take out the ingredients. “Do you like oyster sauce?”

“I got you something,” Mark says finally, with the air of one ripping a band-aid off a wound, and Jackson looks over, head cocked in confusion. “Uh,” he waves the little plastic bag, slightly embarrassed. “I mean I figured it would come in handy, with you, uh, coming over all the time-…”

He hands the bag to Jackson, who opens it, still looking a little mystified, to pull out a new toothbrush, still in its packaging.

“You know,” Mark says feebly. “For when you. Stay the night. If you’d like to stay over more,” he scrabbles desperately for something to say. “Gum health is important. You know gingivitis-…”

“So is this-…?” Jackson cuts him off, voice b with a repressed sort of anxiety, brandishing the toothbrush, and Mark feels a stab of guilt at the bottom of his stomach. “Do you-…?”

“Uhm,” he stutters helplessly. “Yeah…?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, where they stare at each other across the kitchen. Then Jackson leaps right into him, knocking him back against the counter in a bear hug disproportionate to the size of the gift, and though the cupboard handle’s digging painfully into the back of Mark’s thighs, he hugs back, relieved.

“Sorry it took so long,” Mark mumbles.

“What knocked the sense into you?” Jackson grins, stepping back to admire his present as if it were gold. “Damn, does this have cross-bristles?”

“Don’t ask who,” Mark says darkly. “You don’t want to meet them.”

Jackson drops it back in the bag, a positively evil look flashing across his face (one Mark thinks he’ll probably be seeing a lot more from now on), and drags him over to the bags of ingredients. “You know, if we’re going to start dating, I’m going to need you to learn some basic lifeskills. Let’s start with understanding how the stove works.”

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I,” Mark eyes the stove apprehensively, and Jackson lets out a ringing laugh, making every budding fear fade instantly.

“Don’t worry,” the other man snickers, taking his hand. “Everything you own’s already taken to me so well, shouldn’t be long before you do too.”

a/n: 
hope yall enjoyed it hehe! hmu @goldengyeom on twitter? c: we can yell about markson yes yes
p.s. 7fics is also conducting its annual recruitment now, do give it a shot if you're interested here! :)