Mark never thought he was particularly weird. Sure, he did some weird stuff, but so did everyone else to be honest, but it didn’t make him weird. He didn’t even think anything was wrong with him until one visit from the doctor told him otherwise. He was younger, maybe eleven, maybe twelve, maybe thirteen, but that doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that Mark got into a biking accident that required him to get stitches on his face and multiple trips to the doctors.

The doctor had wanted to make sure he didn’t have a concussion and made Mark follow the light he was shining in his eyes. Mark felt like he could have puked and fainted at the same time, the doctor’s flashlight mixed with the urgent and worried maroon of his parents, the crimson of his pain, and the bright white sterile of the hospital made him so dizzy he crumpled back into his father’s arms murmuring how the colors were too loud it hurt.

When the room stopped spinning and Mark could open his eyes and focus, Mark’s parents were looking at him in increased worry, his mother muttering a constant stream of red under her breath that he did have concussion and how she was going to kill his cousins for letting him tag along with them as she wrung her wrists. Mark’s father had his hand, warm and safe, cradling the back of Mark’s neck, his thumb rubbing soft, comforting circles.

His father glanced at the doctor before shifting his gaze to glance down at Mark.

“Yien,” he started softly, still gently massaging the back of Mark’s neck. “What did you mean when you said the colors were too loud?”

And so Mark tried his best to explain in a weakened, tired voice how there were just too many loud colors in the room from his parents’ worry and the doctor’s calming blue, and the light grey haze stemming from the constant hum of the machines that it just felt like too much and it made him dizzy.

And so, it was this visit to the doctor that confirmed that Mark had something the majority the population didn’t: synesthesia.  

-

It’s a common mistake people make when they think that Mark’s silence means he’s passive. (He’d gotten into so many fights when he was younger that his father put him into martial arts saying that if he was going to fight, he was going to be safe (win). It was a win-win situation, Mark’s mother stopped getting too worried and all of Mark’s extra energy was now devoted to cool martial arts tricking.)

Mark is quiet not because he doesn’t have anything to say, but because he just doesn’t want to speak. Why would he want to speak when he can listen and marvel at the colors of each of s’ voices? Why would he want to see his own voice when he has six other people, six other colors, to appreciate.

He’s learned s as quickly as he did thanks to his synesthesia. He’s learned them by their colors, their moods, their personalities. He loves when he’s able to help his friends and family by knowing exactly what they need based on the color of their voice or how down their mood is. He loves his friends so much, he never wants anything to seriously bother them and always wants to help them, when he can.

His mother always joked after they found out about his synesthesia, how his heart was too soft a pink and that he had to take good care of it. Mark doubted his heart was that color, but he appreciated the confusing sentiment nonetheless.

-

Mark loves to observe s. He likes to sit and watch them make a fool out of themselves or talk quietly over dinner. He’s so thankful that they don’t mind him just hanging around and don’t mind him not talking. s are lovely, never forcing him to talk and letting him laugh at his heart’s extent.

Mark has notebooks of half-written lyrics and descriptions of people and sounds and colors. If anyone were to find them they would have thought his scribbles were nonsense, but Mark treasures all of his notebooks, especially a special, leather bound one the members got for him for one of his birthdays before debut. They saved up extra money, penny pinching when they could to get it before his birthday and Mark will always treasure this notebook more than others. Inside of it is only his neatest writing and the most beautiful of his observations, such as the descriptions of s colors.

Jaebum is a deep and elegant black, power and authority pouring out of his pores and into his voice that left Mark without a doubt he’d make a good leader before they debuted. Jinyoung is royal blue, security and responsibility all rolled into one sassy mother hen. Youngjae is a bright and happy yellow, cheery and optimistic, his voice and personality like sunshine. Bambam is a sassy violet, wild imagination and creativity that Mark’s so happy to see has never been stamped out from harsh schedules, training, and especially haters. Yugyeom is a deep green, holding so much potential inside his tall body, kindness sprouting from the leaves of his stable branches. Mark loves them so much he’s speechless sometimes.

And then, there’s Jackson.

God. Bright, too loud, insecure, handsomely-obnoxious, self-conscious, courteous, caring, confident Jackson Wang.

Wang Jiaer.

Gaga.

Mark is stunned speechless whenever he’s around, taking in the dulcet golds of Jackson's deep voice, the golden shimmer of his boisterous laughter. Mark truly believes Jackson was named correctly, King indeed. Only someone like Jackson would make gold his color and do it so effortlessly that Mark is left gasping in awe at his golden majesty.

(And Mark will never tell anyone but-

In the middle of the night, when everyone is asleep and all the world’s colors have been muted, Mark blushes to himself, face buried into his pillow when he thinks about how well he and Jackson really do fit together. Jackson, with his brilliant golds, and Mark with all his flustered reds, balanced and in harmony.

Mark tries not to also think about how these are the traditional colors of a wedding but that’s usually when he ends up screaming fuschia into his pillow and Jackson wakes up thinking he’s had a nightmare.)

That hasn’t happened in a while and that’s only because Jackson has moved out of the dorms and Mark has the room all to himself and is free to scream a rainbow into his pillow all he wants for a variety of reasons.

-

Mark has actually never outright told the rest of the members that he has synesthesia. He knows that JYP knows and that their manager does too, even if he doesn’t completely understand. He’s not purposefully hiding the truth, he’s just not exactly spilling it out either. He just doesn’t know how to tell them.

Mark’s nervous, okay?! Whenever he opens his mouth the words just don’t come out and soon another member is filling the silence with other chatter and his moment is gone. He doesn’t think that any of them will react negatively, it’s just that his track record with telling people have made them treat him differently, like something to be studied. He’s stopped telling people who aren’t required to know after a few choice cases.

He knows he has to tell them sooner than later, but he just doesn’t know how. Sometimes Mark really hates being the quiet one.

-

Mark creeps into the kitchen for some coffee, awareness slowly making its way into his mind as he inhales some caffeine and eats a quick bowl of cereal. He blinks, body leaning against the counter and head tilting the side as he tries to gauge what kind of day it is today.

He turns on the faucet to rinse out his mug, the turquoise of the tap calming, when a bright flash of neon orange and disgusting lime green slams into his view, making him flinch and drop his mug ungracefully into the sink, clunking down with a dark brown thunk. Bambam and Yugyeom burst into the kitchen with all their usual splendor and then some, playfully -and loudly- bickering, highlighter colors twirling around the kitchen.

Mark inhales sharply and lifts a hand to his head, rubbing at his temple. He was thinking it’d be a grey day, fuzzy and slightly muted, bearable, but that thought was immediately destroyed by all the neon swimming in his vision thanks to the two maknaes.

Jaebum yells at them to stop fooling around and get ready for practice and Mark sways a little, neons a little too loud, lights a little too bright and Jaebum’s dark, slinking annoyance mixing into a repulsive cocktail of colors. He swallows his nausea back and walks a little unsteadily back to his room to change.

He just needs to calm down and wear a hat for practice. He’ll be fine.

-

So, yeah, Mark is not fine. At all.

They haven’t been dancing that long but Mark is panting like he’s run a marathon. His head is bent low and he rests his hands on his knees, head low on his shoulders as he leans forward. He knows that the other members are staring at him in worry, knows that Mark’s endurance is one of the best and for him to be this tired this soon means that something is wrong. His nerves feel white hot, like they were stripped of their outer covering and all that’s left is the vulnerable fleshy middle.

He straightens up slowly, holding the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger, swallowing back the bile that’s building in the back his throat. Mark’s warm and perspiring a little from practice, but his sweat is starting to cool and he shivers. His breathing turns shallow and Mark really hopes his doesn’t puke as he takes off his cap and drops it to the ground carelessly, pressing his palms against his eyes. Even with his eyes closed tightly shut he can still hear, still see, still feel the colors of the other members voices, reds and oranges rising in hue as they become more worried, frantic.

“Mark-hyung, are you okay?”

“Hyung?”

“Hyung?!!”

Mark presses his lips together when the nausea hits him. He’s sure he’s paler than he usually is and flinches so hard when someone touches his shoulder that their hand gets jerked off; that touched felt like a stab to his hypersensitive nerves. He swallows, throat dry and too wet at the same time, colors flashing and spinning in front of him, kaleidoscope-ing, nerves hot like a brand and a spicy cinnamon red-brown. Every sound assaults his system, even his own sickly green breathing.

Mark takes an involuntary step and crumples forward. He feels the sudden, cold rush of air before strong arms are catching and cradling him to their chest, slowly sinking the both of them down to the ground. He can’t even appreciate that because his nerves are so shot, colors flashing uncomfortably bright behind his eyelids, the members voices a deafening urgent orange and yellow. Mark curls into a fetal position in whoever’s lap he’s in and whines high in his throat, so overwhelmed that he starts to cry, unrestrained.

Someone is speaking softly to him, and usually Mark would find the soft, affectionate pastels comforting, but all they do now is make him more nauseous and he sobs.

“Quiet…” he croaks drily.

“Hyung, what-”

“Be quiet please,” he sobs, unsure of what language he uses, eyes shut and hands pressed to his ears, curled so tightly together he can’t even take a proper deep breath.

The voices go silent immediately. Mark still sees little pinpricks of color behind his closed eyes when the others move around a bit and when he breathes, but it’s a little more manageable now. When his breathing gets less harsh, he uncurls a little and his shoulders lower themselves from where they were hunched up by his ears.

When he feels it’s okay, Mark slowly moves his hands off his ears but has them still clenched into fists, pressed close to his chest. He feels weak and cold and his hip aches from how it’s pressed against the hardwood of the practice room.

Mark can feel the hesitation in the air before a hand settles slowly and warmly into his hair, gently rubbing in between his neck and the base of his skull and Mark can’t help himself. He makes a primal noise in the back of his throat that universally screams COMFORT ME and he’s suddenly he’s being situated upright, arms caging his body in warmth and a hand guiding his head to lay on a broad shoulder. He turns more into the person’s embrace and nuzzles his nose into their neck, breathing in their scent, chin hitting a chain and oh.

Jackson.

Mark slumps into him, weak but warm, safe. He keeps his face pressed against his neck as he takes a few deep breaths, ears ringing and trying to regain his sense of equilibrium. Mark feels like he’s slowly coming out from underwater, everything coming back slowly and then all at once.

He notices his hands are fisted in Jackson’s shirt, grips a vice, he notices the warmth of Jackson’s arm around his waist, his other hand cradling Mark’s head into the crook of his neck, warm breath blowing his bangs gently as he has his mouth pressed against his forehead, lips moving as he croons gently to Mark in mandarin.

“Shhh, baobei you’re okay, you’re alright, you’re safe, I got you, you’re safe…”

Mark can’t even explain how he feels right now, only knows the soft cradle of baby pink and the tendrils of gold vines that creep their way across his eyelids as Jackson holds him, still murmuring.

His eyelashes flutter as he tries to open his eyes, he frowns; it’s a little harder than usual. Jackson notices; the hand cradling his head rub comforting circles at the base of his skull. His presses a kiss on Mark’s forehead and makes an encouraging noise that encourages Mark more than it should.

When he opens his eyes, his lashes brush the skin of Jackson’s neck gently and Mark has to blink a few times to get used to all the colors in his vision again. He pulls back slightly so he can peek at the other members and pouts in discontent. Jinyoung is wringing his wrists as he looks around from Jackson’s side, Jaebum hovering near Jinyoung’s shoulder. Their manager is there and places a hand on Jaebum’s shoulder. Youngjae is in front of the MarkandJackson complex, looking like he wants to grab Mark in his arms and never let go. Bambam and Yugyeom each have a fist curled around the fabric of Mark’s pants on Jackson’s other side; Bambam is crying.

“Bammie…” Mark calls softly, struggling to unclench his own fist from Jackson’s shirt to offer to Bambam; Mark’s voice a soft, baby blue. Once Bambam realizes what he’s doing, he darts forward and quickly -but softly- clasps hands with Mark. He brings up their hands to his wet face and presses them to the sides of his cheek, lower lip still quivering.

“H-hyung, hyung, I hate you! You s-scared us -me, so b-bad! I thought you were gonna die!” Bambam cries, his slight sobs jostling Mark’s arm; he holds Bambam’s hand tighter. Mark feels terrible and curls back into Jackson’s embrace unconsciously, trying to make himself smaller. Jackson notices and rubs a hand down his back comfortingly. He hides for a bit before he takes a deep breath.

When Mark looks up from where his head is buried into Jackson’s shoulder, there are six pairs of eyes staring expectantly at him. They’re not judging or malicious or scientifically curious; they’re worried and warm and accepting.

And so Mark opens his mouth and speaks.

(a/n) wow thanks for reading! this was so self indulgent haha i will probably continue this?? maybe? evnetually? lol but really thanks so much for reading! XD