Mark dreams of roses, bright red and blooming, freshly sprung from the dark, rich earth. They’re the kind best wrapped in striped sheer and pretty ribbon, best meant for gift-giving. He picks some. He sticks his hand into the rose bush full of thorns and laughs when it tickles.

He picks a dozen, and when he realizes he’s picked the earth bare, he giggles and puts some back. He only needs seven. One for each letter of his name. Roses smell good, don’t they? He’s never smelled freshly picked ones before so he sees for himself. Mhm, they do smell good.

When he opens his eyes, he’s outside of his dorm building. In the back where they had first met. Mark looks to the sky and waits. The night sky is full of twinkling stars, and Mark wonders which one is it that he comes from. He hides his bouquet of seven roses behind his back.

As the night grows colder and the stars begin to fade, Mark gives up on trying to count them all. An icy chill has settled underneath his skin and pricks it worse than the rose bushes. “What’s taking him so long?” A numbness creeps on the outskirts of his mind.

The fluttering of a rose petal catches his attention, and Mark’s heart sinks as he examines the bouquet. Coldness, greedy and hungry, had bitten pieces of the flowers’ crowns, and the unforgiving air had made them stiff and rigid. One strong breeze would snap them.

No one would accept flowers like these. Mark throws the seven roses to the ground and stomps on every one of them until they’ve turned into fine dirt. Snow flurries fall all around him, and when he looks up, one lands in his eye. It burns and hot lava runs down his cheeks.

He lets his tears flow to warm him body some, to chase away the coldness of the night and the disappointment of the wait. He sets down the mic and waves farewell to the fans, ignoring their chants for an encore and exits the stage. He’s done performing for them. He’s done.

He shrugs off s’ supportive touches and ignores his manager’s inquisitive gaze. He keeps walking down the long, gray hallway, past the group’s dressing room, past the restrooms, past the opening of the cave. When he stops to look back, a flash of sunshine blinds him.

When he can see again, only a jacket with a lip print design remains. The darkness of the cave laughs at him, and Mark lets it. He drops to his knees and scoops the jacket up into his arms, burying his face into it to muffle his screams.

Mark wakes with a start.

The room is dark, and it takes awhile for Mark’s eyes to adjust, for his brain to get up to speed, for him to catch his breath.

“Mark, are you okay?”

Mark jumps in surprise, turning away from the wall to find Jaemin leaning over him, wide-eyed and puffy faced.

“W-what? I’m—,” Mark breaks off into a cough that burns. His mouth feels like it’s been filled with sand. A glass of water appears in front of him, and he takes it eagerly, downing it all in one breath. Jaemin refills the it for him again.

After the second glass and lots of throat clearing, he finally says, “Yeah, I’m fine,” and Jaemin huffs.

“Oh, sure you are, thirsty.” Jaemin looks at him intensely for a moment. “I think you were having a nightmare—you okay?”

“Was I?” Mark frowns, trying to recall. He can’t.

Jaemin studies him for a moment longer before yawning and heading back to his bed. “Alright then. Try to go back to sleep. It’s still early.”

Mark glances at the glowing red digital on his desk and is hit with a wave of guilt. They were never up this early during a rest period.

“Sorry for waking you.”

Jaemin makes a derisive noise that Mark interprets as a sleepy, watered version of sass. Mark pushes himself up against the wall and reaches for his phone... or at least where it should be. Mark tosses his blankets around to no avail.

“You said you were sorry,” Jaemin mumbles.

“Oh... sorry,” Mark whispers. He slips out of bed and tiptoes to his desk. He tries rummaging through it as quietly as he can, but Jaemin’s loud sigh updates him on his success of that. “Sorry—“

“Don’t apologize if you don’t mean it!”

Mark hears the ruffling of blankets behind him, and when he peeks over his shoulder, Jaemin is sitting up and sending a nasty glare his way.

“What are you looking for?” Jaemin asks grumpily.

Mark waves his hand. “Oh, no, it’s okay...“ Jaemin blinks. Mark cracks. “My phone.”

Jaemin’s face contorts into confusion, but then relaxes as the realization of something hits him. His mouth forms an ‘o’ shape.

“What is it?” Mark asks. Jaemin suddenly looks uneasy, and starts playing with his bear slippers, poking his feet in and out. “Jaemin—come on—what?”

“The manager has it.”

Mark’s face goes through the same ordeal—confusion, then realization. His mind bursts with a rush of memories, and the room spins around him.

“Woah, Mark—“

Mark braces himself on his desk. “I’m fine,” he urges. Jaemin comes over anyway.

“You probably shouldn’t be standing,” Jaemin says, guiding Mark towards his bed. Mark wants to ask what’s wrong with him standing, but he can’t seem to force the words out through the haze. He listens to the firm pressure Jaemin applies to his shoulders and sits.

Jaemin joins him and runs his hand in circles against Mark’s back. Mark’s seen Jaemin do to this the younger members whenever they were sick or sad, but he’s never been on the receiving end himself. He feels like he’s been robbed. After a while, Jaemin asks if he’s okay.

Mark nods and when he feels Jaemin’s skepticism, he insists verbally.

“Do you... I’m probably not supposed to ask you this...” Jaemin plays with his slippers again.

“Just do it.”

“Do you remember anything?” Jaemin winces like the words had cut his tongue. “Why you were...”

“Outside?” Mark completes for him. Jaemin raises his brows.

“So, you do remember—“

“—Yes, I remember it all. Everything...”

Jaemin leans forward, as if waiting for Mark to spill a secret. Well, there was a secret, but he wasn’t planning on sharing that anytime soon.

Somehow, with his intuitive ways, Jaemin seems to pick that up, and he rolls his eyes, shoving Mark away before standing up. “Of course you’re not going to tell anyone,” he says bitterly. Instead of heading back to his bed, he stops at the door. “You seem fine now. You coming?”

Mark glances at the clock again. “It’s barely 5?”

“You slept for twenty-four hours, aren’t you hungry?”

Mark’s stomach growls on cue, and a sheepish smile spreads across his face. Jaemin snorts and leaves first. Before Mark follows, he has to see something for himself.

He finds Jaemin’s phone on a tragic 31%, but more importantly he finds that Jaemin’s comment about him sleeping a whole day hadn’t been an exaggeration. His stomach flips in a way that isn’t related to hunger.

He slept through his ‘Day One’...

Did Haechan try to visit him?