The first time he spots the Mark on his body is a sunday. It must have been december because the air in his room 
was just wintry, heavily condensaiting in almost tangible shapes just outside of his numb lips. Jenuary maybe. It was sunday, that's for sure. 
He won't forget it, even after all this time he can't forget it, how could he? 
He can still remember how he spent almost half an hour examining the newly "born" shape in front of the blotchy surface of his
wardrobe mirror, brushing it over and over with the tip of his index figer. 
It's not like he wasn't expecting it to appear somewhere on his otherwise spotless porcelain like skin; he would be lying if he didn't admit he had been
waiting for it for so long. 

Kim Jongin

That's what the inky formation on the palm of his hand spelled. Not much of a surprise there either. 
He had known the "owner" of the name for how long at that point? Almost is all life ,he concluded. 
He remembered that there was a time, an almost unrecalled time, where they used to actually talk to each other; to silently play,on a hive of mistreated feathers, 
in the especially consacrated safe space right behind the younger's couch. No need to move, 'cause the rest of the room is lava.
Where they used to run down the hill behind the oldest house so fast that the breath would always get caught on either one's throat,always too soo, always hand in hand.
One of them would always end up dragging the other down the hill in a mishaped ball of unclaimed limbs. Rubbing at sore spots.  Did you hurt your head, hyung?
There were times where they used to lay on their backs on freshly cut grass on someone elses loan and point with their already paint stained fingers up in the air, right above each other's head, to draw and
saw fluffy shapes and unimaginable creatures that would only make sense for an instant, only right there and then. Looks like a hot-air balloon, i can even see the string. Can you see the string, hyung?
That was a long time ago, though. Things have changed.. The bare-skinned boy muttered to himself, right there and then, in front of the blotchy wardrobe mirror. 
But why, he had no clue. 
There were nights,most nights to be honest, even long after those alway sunny and warm days that he had sneaked into his own bed with the thought of Kim Jongin lulling him to sleep, caressing him till the eyelid became too heavy. 
That Kim Jongin, the Jonging made of dreams, would alway leave him with red cheecks and aching heart. With promises and soft kisses. 
This Kim Jongin, however..all that this Kim Jongin would leave him with were purle and bluish splashes creeping on perfect porcelain white skin. Those patches tho wouldn't go away when he woke up, no matter how hard he tried. So in the end he
ended up collecting them. He would save them, preserve them with reverence, until they would melt and merge in a big black stain only to disappear and reappear somewhere else all over again. 

He was absolutely certain it was a sunday because the next day was monday and that morning he was presented, as any other monday, with the ungrateful task of poking his face outside of the secure cocoon made out of his blankets. 
The Every Monday Torture, he had to detach himself from the softness of that Jonging to roll into the sharpness of This Jongin.He hated it. He hated the all process. Especially the part were he had to see the actual face of This Jongin so close to his, eyes narrowed into thin lines, 
morph into a mask of unfathomable and a poisous spit of liquefing blasphemy land right on his lips, where the other's should have been. 
But again why, he had no clue. 
On the other side, there was not much to do and there was not much still that he was willing to do as long as in the night, in the secrecy of his cocoon made of sheets, This Jongin and That Jonging could merge into one being, right under the center of his chest. 
That specifical monday morning tho must have made the boy so much braver or maybe The Every Monday Torture was still taking place under the neon greenish light of the school cafeteria and the unmoving eyes of The Giant friend and the one tightly wrapped into his arms beacause after
Jongin's tray had been slammed hard against the wood surface in front of the couple and the younger had striked towords the shorter, blonder one  he had grabbed This Jongin's hand holding it tight in his own. The other hand, the marked one,tightly sqeezed inside his pocket.
Jongin... Everything at that point seemed to have stopped for a mere couple of seconds,he remembers it perfectly.
As an answer Jongin actually turned his attention to him. So, so slowly, But it didn't take much to remember the boy that this was This Jongin and not Thant Jongin. And This Jongin's knuckles, as an answer, had collided with the side of his face three,four times already when the older got
brave-possessed- enough to grab with the free hand and all the willpower left the younger by the red stained collar. His own blood, he noted. Eyes glued into eyes,Like always. 
Jongin... The boy had said with bearly any voice only to be covered by the sound of the younger screaming nonsense.

Jongin... He had said again, moving his face closer to the assaulter's neck. The good hand travelling up to the perfect,sculpted, cheeckbone  ...please, stop.

He was absolutely certain it was a sunday because the next day was monday and on monday the school cafeteria always served mashed potatoes. 
He was positively sure it was sunday because he remembers that that monday, after asking Jongin to stop, the last thing he saw was mashed potatoes.

Author's Note: If you are reading my notes it means that you have read the first chapter of this little experiment. As I said in the forwords this is my first attempt so please be patient! English is not my first language (not even the second to be honest, XD) so every correction will be gladly accepted, as any comment. Please, comment! It would make me sooooooooooo happy!  

SO...Thank you again, dear reader...see you soon!