a/n: quick warning, this is written in lapslock. meaning there's no uppercase letters. i was feeling different that day and wanted to try something new, i apologise to everyone who is struggling with this aesthetically. it's 5.5k+ wc -mia

august nights in los angeles are the reason why mark hasn’t moved down to chicago like tyler is always pressuring him to. sure, he misses his best friend of over six years and would like nothing more than to kick it with him on the daily. but it’s the warm breeze blowing across his front porch, tickling the leaves and making them rustle, the taps and crunch of his penny board rutting over smooth sidewalk, and the umami smell that always hits him in the face when he rolls past tj’s skinny dump, the best place for chinese-korean fusion this side of seventh street, that anchors him here. he wouldn’t trade this feeling, the feeling of waking up to home and going asleep to home and being home, for anything in the world.

he usually takes a quick ride after a heavy night of studying to drain the caffeine from his system and wind down enough to get some type of quality of sleep. good or bad, that’s up to the tides and the moon and black magic because it’s finals week and rest comes around in short, clumsy spurts when the exhaustion finally does his in.

mark hits up his neighborhood convenience store for some ramen and monster, truly staples of his diet. he microwaves the ramen in some water and stirs in the soup packet, stuffing noodles in his mouth with some chopsticks as he gurgles out a goodbye to the store’s owner mr. den, a wrinkled vietnamese man of sixty-two with a drinking problem and swearing addiction. nevertheless, mr. den fixes his green polo shirt with a rough hand and waves with the other, always a nice dude as long as no one’s asking for any trouble.

the block mark lives on has a reputation of being that ‘rowdy frat block’; true to the rumors, parties happen on a bi-weekly basis, more often during festive seasons, but regular enough as it is. on a good day, they end in some sick-covered laundry to do and booting of wasted stragglers. fortunately, kappa alpha theta is the preferred spot to throw the craziest rangers, as they are sponsored by one of the members’ insanely rich parents and have a huge swimming pool and alcohol bar. parties occasionally break out at delta tau delta and run into the deep night, but they never make campus news for being the best or greatest. which is okay with mark because he gets to sleep in his own bed most nights and rarely faces sick cleanup duty.

even so, parties or any social gathering of any kind are almost unheard of during finals week. the same week responsible, capable students are reviewing for their exams, party-addicted knuckleheads are blowing their brains out to get something done, and in-betweeners like mark are working moderately hard, not sweat inducing, life contemplatively hard, but hard. with the brain and instincts mark has, pursuing a journalism major and korean minor, he finds a nice ratio of him working it and it working him.

this all said, the streets are usually a ghost town by this hour. which is why he finds a hunched body trembling in the orange glow of the streetlight more than an oddity. some part of his brain is urging him to ignore it. superhero mark is nice and all in the daylight, but a creepy dude under a streetlight past midnight is psychopath serial killer territory. he has some exams in the next few days that he probably needs to be alive to take. but another part is telling him, as he gets closer and hears the quiet sniffling coming from the figure, that he doesn’t look like a serial killer at all. if he is, either he’s a real good one, or mark is a damn er, or both.

even if mark wants to pass him up, just feet from his house, almost at the finish line, the guy’s shoulders shaking and his endless crying has mark slowing his steps and eventually stopping right where he is.

against all his better judgement, mark says, “hey, you alright man?”

the guy, boy really, once he lifts his head and mark gets a good luck at his soft features and young face, looks up. his glassy eyes find mark in the dusty glimmer of the light and mark in a heavy, important breath as he discerns a current of fear so thick it nearly shocks him. he hopes this isn’t some trick serial killers use to get their victims to soften up, because mark is falling for it, hard.

but what really hits mark like a frigid ocean wave is the velvet, auburn ears twitching softly in his equally dark hair and the matching tail flicking languidly behind him. he’s a catboy. mark’s never met one before. it’s kinda cool. but the situation itself overshadows the revelation.

the young catboy has a bulging backpack weighing on his shoulders, his entire life probably inside, along with a black suitcase on wheels that he’s using as an impromptu seat. if jaebum hadn’t schooled jackson on the finite differences in physiology of the east asian races, after the ladder let his ignorance slip (something not to be done in jaebum’s company) and mark hadn’t been suffering through every waking minute of it with a dead phone battery and no fake appointment to excuse himself to, he wouldn’t be able to tell that this guy looks korean as hell. and by the ‘america rocks’ button pinned to his thin jacket and the sadness in his pretty eyes, mark can tell he’s a tourist that’s having a strike of very bad luck. to mark, los angeles is his home. but to this poor guy it’s a jungle of unfamiliarity and he must be scared less.

that’s gotta .

“i’m lost,” he admits finally in a heavy accent. mark shouldn’t be thinking that it’s cute and melting a little because he’s still not out of the danger zone. he could be carrying murder tools in his backpack, it’s definitely big enough.

“and they stole my money,” he adds miserably in elaboration. “i have no money, and i’m lost. i’m stupid.”

“you’re not stupid,” mark can’t help but say, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand holding his black plastic bag, fingers looped through the handles. “uh, what’s your name?”

the guy clears his throat, up his sniffles. “youngjae. choi youngjae.”

“nice to meet you, youngjae. i’m mark.” don’t tell him your last name, idiot. i swear for the love of all that’s good and pure, don’t- “mark tuan.” he points behind him, kind of guessing the direction so he has his eyes on youngjae, gauging his comprehension of the situation. “that’s my frat over there. since you don’t have money, you can crash there tonight and we can figure things out in the morning. what do you say, youngjae?”

youngjae looks troubled, uncomfortable. “how do i know you’re not going to harvest my organs and sell them on the black market?”

mark is equal parts amused and deeply mortified. “american television is crap. it’s all crap, okay? read books, youngjae. i promise not to harvest your organs and sell them on the black market. so come, yeah? i’d hate to have you sitting out here because i can guarantee i’m the nicest person you’ll encounter in downtown la in the middle of the night.”

youngjae’s eyebrows furrow in thought. he casts one long glance at the street before turning back to the hand mark has out stretched to him, a very transparent question: risk it for a cool bed or play it safe and end up roaming downtown la in the dead of night, susceptible to god knows what? for some reason, when youngjae takes mark’s hand and allows him to pull him up, he gets a weird sense of accomplishment, as if youngjae hadn’t just chose short-time survival over very possible long-term suffering.

“let me get that.” mark pulls up the handle of youngjae’s suitcase and rolls it alongside them as they walk, closing the distance between the street and the house with each anticipated step. mark has clocked out his good deed meter and is ready for some blissful, air-conditioned sleep. again, up to the moon and the tides and good ole’ black magic. but nobody can tell him not to dream.

“why are you out here, youngjae?” mark asks curiously as they step through the front gate, barb wire swinging closed with a clink and clack, whining like the antique it is.

“america is very beautiful,” youngjae says wistfully, slight smile visible underneath the porch light as it hums to life. “i’ve read about america in books as a child. the land of opportunity. i never thought i’d get to go. then my mother committed suicide just a month ago. i dropped out of university and worked full time at a cafe, saving money to come here. looks like i’m back at square one.” his coy smile doesn’t hide the tsunami of pain roaring in his eyes, suddenly too much for mark as he looks away.

“i’m sorry…uh, about your mom,” he mutters uselessly. “i’m sure she’s in heaven.”

“or hell,” youngjae blurts out unceremoniously. “suppose you go to hell for that sort of thing. or purgatory. maybe she’s there.”

all other generic, commercialized words of condolence burn at the back of mark’s throat, dying right where they are, cold, metallic niceties that slide down as heavy as iron and drop resolutely into his gut. he coughs out a meaningless “yeah”, like he gets it. he doesn’t.

this is weird.

they walk inside. as jackson is the only one with a car, there’s no way to tell if the others are home. mark’s quiet anyway. always is.

“this is the living room,” he says, and flips a table lamp on. light blooms in the crowded space. the black, suede pull-out couch is swimming in clothes, a mixture of clean and not. empty cans of monster and beer litter the squat coffee table, rings of moisture already leaving their presence on this little piece of the earth where jackson lives to irk mark’s patience. he always tells that slob to get tidy or get out. of course since mark holds no ownership over the house he’s a little out of his jurisdiction to call those types of shots, so jackson mostly ignores him. but he still says it and occasionally jackson likes to play human, doing human things like having some dignity and not crapping where he eats.

mark points to the darkened room right off the living room, left of the staircase, “kitchen”, and then to the room left of that one, “first floor bathroom. help yourself to anything in the kitchen as long as you clean up. i hate messes because no one cares enough to fret but me. need anything and i’ll be upstairs, preferably sleeping but probably not.”

for the first time since he’s seen him, youngjae actually smiles. not a tight grin or nervous twitch of his lips, but a real smile. the kind of smile that is raw and panic inducing and something mark wants to lock in a box forever.

“thanks, mark.” youngjae drops his backpack on the floor and goes over to the couch. mark regains his senses in time to run over and knock all of the clothes on the floor, pulling out the couch into a bed and dragging some pillows and a comforter from the surrounding furniture to make it look somewhat like a decent place to sleep and not just a filthy couch stained with caffeine and ity.

“no problem.” he waits awkwardly as youngjae toes out of his shoes and lies his jacket aside in quiet task, content.

“do you need some sleep clothes?” mark asks, surveying youngjae’s remaining cotton graphic tee and blue jeans.

youngjae smiles meekly. “would it be trouble?”

“not at all. wait here, okay?” mark goes up the stairs, all nervous and jittery for some reason. he bangs around oafishly in his black room for a few minutes, not having the sense to turn on some light as he focuses on finding youngjae something comfortable to sleep in. he finally decides on some green basketball shorts and a plain white sleeveless shirt.

this is weird, mega weird. he’s letting a stranger sleep in his house, wear his clothes. jaebum’s gonna chew him out for this. it’s almost not worth the headache. he goes back downstairs and hands youngjae the stuff.

“thanks.” youngjae does that thing again where he smiles and mark doesn’t know what to do with the raw and genuine sensation.

“yeah, sure.” oh, jaebum’s definitely gonna chew him out.

he goes back up to his room and collapses in his bed. whatever happens in the morning is for the morning. the caffeine cleanse apparently worked, as he passes out much sooner than expected.

                                                  *   *   *   *

“yo, tuan!”

mark rolls over in his bed, groaning at the bomb of luminescence bathing his room in unrepentant shine, unamused. if jaebum didn’t haunt his dreams on a regular enough basis he wouldn’t be doubting his actual presence. but after a door–his door–slams open, mark groans again, but no longer doubts that the real jaebum is in his room, and angry for some reason lost to his drowsy conscious.

“tuan, i swear to god-”

“jaebum,” mark says in a mock conversational tone, sitting up and kicking his thin sheet off his legs, blinking his eyes open slowly. “to what do i owe this unexpected visit?”

“i could say the same,” jaebum grits out, livid. “what’s a stranger doing on my couch?”

that’s when the gears get spinning and mark looks over at his seething friend, who has what he remembers to be youngjae’s bag gripped roughly in one hand, the other screwed on his hip in impatience. mark understands why he’s mad, knows there’s a dude sleeping on their couch who could still be a serial killer despite his completely disarming smile and shy tendencies. but he’s not one to lose to jaebum.

so he says, “you mean our couch?” even if just to save face.

as expected, jaebum is less than amused at the quip. “i’ll give you two seconds to talk, dumpling face. who is that guy?”

mark stands up finally, and shivers off the rest of his sleep. he refuses to flinch at jaebum’s unrelenting glare. “his name is youngjae. he’s a kid from korea, and he got mugged last night, so i let him sleep here. i couldn’t just leave him outside so something worse could happen to him, jaebum. that’s just cruel.”

jaebum visibly softens, the grip on youngjae’s bag handle loosening and his stare melting a bit, not as hot and unforgiving as before. “he understood you?”

“yeah.” mark shrugs. “he speaks perfect english.”

“dammit, mark.” jaebum’s frustrated more than mad now, which really is an approvement. “you couldn’t be your normal nonchalant i-don’t-a-flying-fajita self?”

“flying fajita?” mark stage whispers.

“whatever.” jaebum waves him off, tossing him the bag which mark catches easily. “take care of it. if he’s going to be staying indefinitely, i want some background info.”

“got it.” mark nods firmly.

“you’re just a regular ole’ clark kent,” jaebum grumbles to himself all the way to his room, closing the door and leaving mark standing in his open doorway with youngjae’s bag and at a loss for what to do next. he loops the bag over one shoulder and pads down to the living room. his fear of youngjae possibly being awake to suffer jaebum’s wrath and feel all unwanted is dissipated when he sees that youngjae is still in deep sleep, half of his face buried in the pillow, softly twitching ears and rising back the only sign of movement. he then sneaks a peek over at the den adjacent to the living room. jackson is knocked out, pacified in slumber by some beer that reeks its way all the way over here.

mark crinkles his nose and moves closer to youngjae, dropping the bag softly as he takes a tentative seat at the sleeping boy’s feet, gazing curiously at his peaceful face. youngjae looks so young that mark is immediately guilty for some reason. he has these soft looking, peach-hued lips and a cute nose. being able to stare so intently, mark also notices a beauty mark under his left eye–well, mark’s left, but youngjae’s right. he’s very pretty; so pretty that mark is lost in him, only aware that he’s being just a bit creepy when those sweet eyes blink open and fix him a perplexed stare.

“uh, sorry.” mark backs up, actually blushing like some chastised schoolgirl. youngjae barely responds, still mostly sleep, only blinking curiously at mark so blankly that mark is forced to ask his next question. “how old are you, youngjae?”

“18,” youngjae says sleepily, rubbing his eyes and fixing to sit up. he’s a baby, mark thinks solemnly to himself.

“you graduated early?” mark asks after remembering some stuff jaebum told him about the age of university in korea being 20 instead of 18 like in the states. he smiles. “you must be smart.”

“dumb enough to get robbed,” youngjae answers cynically. mark’s smile vanishes. he doesn’t know what to say to follow that up. move on.

“do you know anyone out here?” mark asks. “anyone you can call, or ask for a favor?”

“it was really a whim decision,” youngjae admits sheepishly. “i hated being in that apartment by myself. everything reminds me of her. her clothes, her bills, her favorite spot on the couch. everything smells like her.”

mark is really at a true loss when youngjae becomes visibly shaken, choking up on his words and eyes watering. if mark is good at anything, it’s giving people space and letting the dust settle. but he can’t exactly leave youngjae while he’s on the brink of crying, doesn’t want to leave him. he wants to hug him and whisper hushed comforts until he stops crying and making mark feel like an unfeeling ogre as he continues to sit by and do nothing.

who has he let into his house?

“youngjae,” mark says gently, biting his lip in awkward anticipation. “come here.”

youngjae looks up at him then, glassy eyes the same ones that had warped him the night before when mark first saw him, sitting like a sad puppy on the curb and waiting for a er like mark to stroll by. his bottom lip is trembling a little, and mark cracks at that. youngjae inspects mark’s open arms for a moment, not too sure what to do with him, and then, to mark’s bittersweet triumph, actually crawls into them.

youngjae sits cross-legged next to him, head cushioned on mark’s shoulder as the man rubs his back, hating the hiccups and shivers that rattle through him. mark’s never been the most clever or timely with words, so he keeps his mouth shut until youngjae calms some time after, shoulders stilling and crying fading into the early morning birds’ orchestra.

“i’m sorry,” youngjae whispers in a quiet rasp. “you don’t even know me. i don’t know you. but look what i’m doing in your house. i really am stupid for coming here. you know, the really sad thing is i realize that after i’ve had my money stolen and have no way to get back. i’m an idiot. i’m so stupid. i’m the biggest dummy-”

he’s knocking his knuckles against his temple so hard that mark worries he’ll crack something, and he swoops in to grab his wrist impulsively. the boy looks up at him quizzically.

“you’ll hurt yourself,” mark answers his unasked question. “and you’re not stupid. you’re grieving. you can stay here as long as you need, or want. as long as you want.”

youngjae smiles finally. “you’re really nice, hyung.”

mark stiffens unintentionally. “hyung?”

“is that not okay?” youngjae sits up in a flash, face suddenly contorted in panicked apology. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to. it’s just, i’m pretty sure you’re older than me. is it weird? should i just call you mark?”

“no, no, no.” mark laughs. “hyung is okay.”

youngjae’s smile returns, and mark knows it’s gonna be the end of him one day.

that’s when jackson’s loud grunt breaks through the peaceful silence, taking youngjae’s attention, something mark didn’t think he would mind until now (because he does).

“jesus fu-”

“idiot.” jaebum comes skipping skipping down the stairs with a joyful smirk, books ladening his arms and backpack slung on his shoulder. he looks much happier than about ten minutes ago. he must have a stash of chocolate in his room. mark wouldn’t put it past him.

“who’s this?” jackson’s irritated frown turns into a curious smile at the sight of youngjae. he’s looking at him the way the man looks at anyone he’s preparing to swoon, and for some reason mark is ready to spring between them because of it. he doesn’t, though. they just met. mark has no claim over this beautiful catboy named youngjae.

that would be weird.

“youngjae,” mark says a bit sullenly, already resigned to this quiet fate. “he flew from korea.”

“i didn’t fly,” youngjae interjects, looking over at mark.

“bus then…?”

“some very nice men and women drove me here,” youngjae says vaguely. mark’s eyebrows pinch.

“you hitchhiked?” mark’s voice raises before he has any control over it, almost hysterical in that instant. “youngjae, that’s so dangerous. you can’t just trust anyone. strangers are off limits, okay?”

“you’re a stranger,” youngjae says cheekily, a very clear smile on his face. mark is disarmed for a very long second, again at a loss for what to do with youngjae. this strange catboy who is lying on his pullout couch, apparently an orphan (though he’s not sure about his dad, maybe that’s too personal though). he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

“i don’t count,” mark says after a long time.

“okay.” youngjae shrugs indifferently, faint smile still etched on his lips.

                                              *    *    *    *

somehow, mark is able to convince jaebum that youngjae is not a serial killer, despite his own doubts, and he has agreed to let him stay indefinitely. youngjae has his own special magic. maybe it was between the behind-ear-scratches and the content purring; regardless, jaebum and jackson are both infatuated. jackson is more vocal, but when is jackson not more vocal in general?

mark is happy. he really is. but he has no idea what he’s doing at all. youngjae seems fine, most of the times. he’s smiling and munching on jaebum’s secret stash of chocolate (which jaebum doesn’t mind at all, the discrimination!) and being all obliviously cute as he floats around in mark’s slightly too big clothes like everything’s hunky dory.

(it’s not.)

then he’s crying quietly in a corner of the bathroom before startling as mark purposely clears his throat, feigning ignorance as he stomps inside to throw a thin greeting his way.

he thinks they have built up a system that isn’t perfect, but functions somewhat smoothly. youngjae vents to himself, and mark intrudes after some time to keep him from drowning in his own anguish. it’s good. it’s a good system.

then the systems breaks about a week after that.

one day mark actually does walk in on him as he’s crying far too quietly to even be picked up. mark doesn’t even notice him until he’s halfway in his room, shirt already off and hand digging around in his drawer for something less sweaty.

their ac’s old and uncooperative sometimes.

youngjae is wrapped up in mark’s blankets despite the increasing wave of heat blowing through the house, lasting as long as the ac decides to spazz. his ears are flattened against his fluffy hair and he looks so small and sad that a piece of mark dies. the older’s puny desire to hurriedly pull on another shirt to cover his bare torso is disintegrated under the need to move closer to youngjae. which he does.

his shirt is dropped somewhere on the floor on his way to the bed.

“hyung,” youngjae sniffles quietly, big, pretty eyes full of tears.

“do you want me to leave?” mark asks stagnantly. he doesn’t want to at all. but if youngjae says so then he will.

“no.” youngjae shakes his head while looking all vulnerable and hurt. mark slides in next to him, pulling him instinctively into his lap without fretting if this is too intimate. youngjae wraps around him. the top of his head slots perfectly against mark’s warm throat and the little breaths he’s blowing from his nose tickle the skin there. the boy’s tail floats down across mark’s thigh and coils loosely.

“your mom?”

“my mom.”

“what was she like?”

“sometimes she was mean to me,” youngjae breathes unsteadily, wet cheeks signalling to mark that he’s crying again, or more, since he never really stopped before. “she called me mean names and hit me. dissociative identity disorder, the doctors called it. it’s like she had more people than just her living in her head. sometimes she was really nice. she baked my favorite cookies and rocked me to sleep. then she was being mean again,  pulling my tail and tugging my ears until i was so dizzy that i passed out. when i woke up she would often be crying with a new batch of cookies in the oven. she was my best friend and my worst enemy.”

“youngjae, i’m–uh, youngjae–”

“you don’t have to say anything, hyung,” youngjae whispers. “can you please just hold me?”

so marks shuts his mouth, which is the best decision he’s ever made in his life, and holds youngjae in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. he’s not sure if that’s okay at all. but youngjae purrs like he does when he really likes something, and so mark doesn’t apologize about it.

                                               *    *    *    *   

taking him sightseeing had been made a thing with jaebum’s offhanded suggestion and youngjae’s enthusiastic approval of the idea. he sees how youngjae slugs around the house in boredom, pressed thin between the thoughts of his mother, which are so obvious mark can almost drown in them along with him, and youngjae’s own restlessness.

mark is more than apprehensive about it all because as much as the right side of la can be a  plethora of all good things; the bad side can be the complete opposite.

even though mark doesn’t mind seeing youngjae walk around in his clothes, small frame swallowed by the fabric, loves it actually, he would rather other people never have the pleasure. he takes the boy shopping at a high-quality and wallet friendly shop in the mall as a segue to the afternoon leg of their downtown adventure.

the morning had been a rush of breakfast, window shopping, and youngjae touching everything they passed, never letting a single thing go without mulling over it first, endlessly excited and curious and so new to everything. mark thinks he’ll fall asleep to youngjae’s voice going ‘what’s this?’ and ‘what’s that?’ and ‘is that what this thing does?’ because he’s heard it enough to absorb the sweetly pitched tones into his bloodstream. as if he needs anymore of youngjae running through his system than there already is.  

“hyung!” youngjae tugs his arm and drags him over to a shop after they’re done picking out a few bags of nice, cheap clothes that should get youngjae by for at least a few weeks, paired with items from mark’s wardrobe since he won’t ever get over seeing youngjae wear his clothes.

mark isn’t partial to shops with ‘pink’ or ‘stuffed’ in the name just because those things creep him out. also, his sisters used to force him into dresses and makeup when he wasn’t old enough to toddle away by himself, so the trauma’s still there. he’ll brave if for youngjae, though.

he’d brave so many things for youngjae.

“isn’t this one cute?” youngjae holds up this bear thing with freakishly huge eyes and the cheesiest smile mark has ever seen. it’s this pastel purple color that makes the older’s skin crawl. it’s not only cute, but creepily so. killer china doll cute.

“yeah…” mark lies uncomfortably, trying to appease youngjae’s smile with a tight grin. “really cute.”

“you hate it.” youngjae drops the thing with a sigh. his eyes search around quickly after that, widening in delight when he sees something else he likes. he rushes over and mark trudges along behind him.

“what about this one?” he holds up a baby blue pikachu with white blushing cheeks. it’s actually cute and doesn’t look like something he’d open his eyes to at 2am trying to harvest his insides. because mark tends to be as easy to read as black and white print, his approval spills out onto his face and youngjae beams.

mark actually gets the thing because his tight wallet becomes a little looser with youngjae giving him these pretty pouty eyes and pushing his bottom lip out like the sun will stop shining or water will stop being wet if he doesn’t get this blue fuzz thing with the white cheeks, ears twitching something furious.

they have a pair of burgers and fries at the food court before leaving for their next stop. mark won’t forget how youngjae looks at everything like it’s earth’s saving grace, can’t forget how the sweet kitty touches everything with an innocent wonder and amusement not easily replicated by hands that have touched and eyes that have seen and chests that have burned for reasons beside the scorching love for one’s love lost.

the original plan had been to catch the fireworks at six, grab some snack to take home, and be done with their adventure. however, mark’s perfectly scheduled conclusion to their day is derailed when youngjae stops him as they’re walking over to the park, pointing excitedly at a crowd of people huddled around something. upon wandering closer, mark recognizes this man as the one that usually sets up his street magic a few blocks from his house and amuses groups with tricks difficult enough to entertain the average person, but simple enough that mark was able to memorize them in just a month after a dumb bet with jackson that cost him time better spent. he’s not at all impressed, but youngjae is engrossed, gasping generously enough for the man to come closer and let him get a better look at some tricks.

“is it that fun, youngjae?” mark asks with an easy grin, never not fascinated by how the kitty manages to find boundless excitement in the near mundane.

“look at that!” is youngjae’s enthused reply, eyes sparkling and hands mimicking the man’s motions sloppily, completely focused. that’s when mark thinks to himself, infatuated beyond belief, that if spring were a person, it’d be youngjae. he has such a fresh attitude; that paired with his teeming exuberance and al glee towards most of anything has mark swooning, falling so hard he’ll need someone to scrape him off of where’s melted in a puddle for this sweet, pretty catboy with bright eyes and a childishly pure trust in others.

dammit, dammit, dammit.

as they’re walking home mark is internally pleased at how they can still still see the fireworks from across the lake and youngjae is ‘oohing’ and ‘ahing’ again as if he has the sole power to see everything in existence through rose-colored glasses. he wants to ask youngjae how he’s feeling about his mom and just talk to him to see if he’s still hurting because mark gets sappy at the curling at dusk when the warm wind is whistling past his ears and making everything loose and quietly blissful. he also wants to press him into his chest and kiss his cute, squishy face until everything else loses all meaning. the only concrete necessity being youngjae cradled in mark’s arms.

none of these things come to pass because youngjae slips his hand in mark’s and the older forgets how to breathe momentarily, exhaling when he needs to inhale and almost passing out before he gets the hang of it again. he spares a sideways glance in the kitty’s direction to see his tail swaying happily in the breeze and a soft smile on his clear, bright face.

not to be dramatic or anything, but it’s a smile that could cure the world of all of its impurities.

“can i stay with you?”

mark startles at youngjae’s honey-slick voice, staring down at him more focused. he must look like a puppy on a leash, but he’s okay with it being youngjae who’s seeing him like this, will always be.

“can i stay with you, hyung? for a long time?” he asks again, tightening his grasp on mark’s hand just the slightest and blinking up at him like this is all he needs. mark doesn’t even need to think, doesn’t care about the implications or strings attached because it’s youngjae.

“for a long time.”

and he really ing means it.