chimera (2/2)
it's the 15th of january, the night before debut. tomorrow, the two of you will become mark tuan and jackson wang of jyp's newest hip-hop boy group, got7. but tonight, you're still mark and jackson, teenagers, best friends, soon-to-be-bandmates. you savour the anonymity, the simple pleasure of being able to take a moonlit stroll on the beach at night, because you know soon this too will be only a memory.
he turns to you. he looks impossibly young, the light in his eyes fierce and undimmed. you have the sudden urge to protect it from all dangers, never let anything extinguish it because it's so fleeting and ephemeral, like the ocean mist.
"hyung," he says. his korean is still rusty, but you have gotten used to practicing it together, even when you're alone. you tilt your head at him.
he smiles tremulously. "everything's going to work out, right?"
the way he's looking at you makes you feel like what you're going to say next is terribly important, like your word is his law. so you take a deep breath and smile brightly, watching his smile widen in reflection. "of course."
as you look at his profile, it begins to sound less like a promise and more like a certainty. because he is one of the most hardworking trainees in the company, and you've always respected him greatly, even before you became friends. it's such a huge honour to debut alongside him. he's going to take korean pop by storm, you think. there's never been an idol like jackson wang - with his inimitable candor and brutal honesty, his piercing wit and sparkling humour. his uncontainable passion for life, for music, for performing. just standing beside him leaves you breathless, shaking.
you want to tell him all this, can imagine so vividly how his eyes will light up with surprise and pleasure, how they will well up with tears of gratitude and newly renewed strength. but you've never been good with words and you don't know how to. all you manage to do is to reach for his hand, your own equal-sized one struggling to encompass it, and lace your fingers together. "i've got you," you say. you sound like a lame wannabe hipster, but he looks at you and his smile is like the midnight sun.
you lie side by side, watching the sun emerge from behind the horizon and creep irrevocably up, pinkening the pewter sky. when the entire sphere is visible, he pipes up with a hushed mix of dread and wonder.
"it's the end."
you tear your eyes away from the sun and turn your head slightly to study the semi-curve of his smile in profile. his smile is always a perfect crescent, like an upside-down moon, and now it looks like a moon half obscured by clouds.
you laugh softly, walking your fingers over the sand to find his. "it's just the beginning."
it's five seconds to your goodbye stage on inkigayo and your shoulders bump as jaebum pulls all of you into the traditional pre-performance group hug. you haven't won anything for this comeback but you think it's okay because this whirlwind month of debut, the girls girls girls era is something that you wouldn't have traded for anything in the world.
you don't think there's anything that could quantify the grueling practices in the studio till you were all sick of the song, the way he would randomly sing his lines in his sleep, the way his obsidian pupils flickered in the darkness of the stage wings, his smile tired but wide as the horizon.
you think of his crisp, charismatic rap, continuing where you leave off without missing a beat, the raw impact in every move of his tricking. he shines so bright, you think he deserves to be classified as an independent source of light, like the sun and the moon and the stars. his stage presence is compelling and offstage he's vivacious and lively, smile so captivating that girls and guys alike flock towards him automatically. he's like a dynamo, you think, like unswept glass, dangerous and so beautiful that you would be willing to walk over him till you were cut and bleeding.
he blossoms under the spotlight like a sunflower under the sun, thrives under attention as much as you shy away from it. you crave and fear the spotlight with equal intensity, but you're content to just stand unobtrusively beside him, watching him shine and quietly soaking up his warmth.
somehow, when he's beside you, cracking stupid jokes and horsing around, it's a little easier to breathe. he engages you, pulling you out of your comfort zone and making you act out of character. he's your lifeboat when you feel like you're drowning in the torrents of adulation, the tearful and screaming adoration.
you think of how he wears his heart on his sleeve, his every emotion playing across his expressive face like a movie, transparent as water on glass; his refreshing unpretentiousness; how he's brave in all the ways you wish you could be. some people misjudge him as shallow and frivolous, but you know better than anyone else that in truth he's thoughtful and sensitive, wise beyond his years. he takes criticism way too personally and is more brittle than he looks, disguising his vulnerabilities with carelessness.
he's a morass of contradictions, egoistic and narcissistic, fiercely patriotic and partial to wearing his name embroidered across custom-made snapbacks and jerseys. he's bullheaded and shockingly ballsy, not dictated by others' opinions, not afraid to be himself. simply put, he just doesn't give a fuck.
he never once compromised on his individuality, rebelling against all attempts to put him in a box. he's always cool as a cucumber, never having suffered from your chronic ailment of stage fright and makes public speaking look like a piece of cake as he gesticulates and postures animatedly. it's not that he's particularly funny or humorous. in fact, his jokes are often flat and cold. but there's an indefinable quality about his gags that rouses his audience into peals of adoring laughter.
some people say that he is superficial and selfish, but you don't see anything selfish about the boy in front of you, who never forgets to thank the members and fans foremost in his award acceptance speeches; who attributes all the group's success to your long-suffering leader; who is unfailingly humble and gracious. you're not surprised by his explosion of popularity, because you had known from the very first day that he was destined for superstardom. you half wonder why the world has taken so long to see what was obvious to you at first glance, and half wish longingly that you could selfishly monopolize his light, like trapping a firefly in a jar.
he's generous and careless with his affection and fanservice comes easily to him. he's frisky and mischievous as an overgrown puppy and flirts like it's an olympic sport. you admire how he's so unselfconscious, how he's so good at getting close to people without being ingratiating. nine out of ten times, he's the one who initiates skinship between you, and you worry sometimes that he will tire of perpetually being the one to make the first move one day. but he doesn't seem to mind your passivity and timidity, reaching out to you without any reservations as if he knows that you're waiting for him to.
you think of his close-lipped smile on after school club, exasperatingly cheeky; his indomitable competitiveness; his rugged raspy bass as he beatboxes; his acoustic dulcet as he croons the chorus of playground. you think of the b flat minor of his voice as he sings forever young and the c major of his voice as he raps follow me; his deadpan a rap that has become one of his trademarks. he's like a flood of sunlight, always giving too much of himself away to others and never expecting anything in return.
you think of him pretending to take a big bite of your head as he calls you his dimsum and him eloquently explaining the nickname markiepooh; his patented screechy laugh; his ear-to-ear grin when you call him gaga, the way the stagelights spilling over him cast into relief the hollows of his cheekbones and the bluish shadows beneath his eyes.
sometimes you wish you could reach out and turn down the wattage of his smile like adjusting the brightness of a tv. he inhabits his skin with an ease that you can only dream of and sets the stage on fire, oozing sex with his sharp footwork and powerful dance moves. not a single person can take their eyes off him, not the audience, not you.
being with him seems to magnify all your shortcomings, his sheer comfort in his own skin emphasizing the way you're painfully self-aware, a fish out of water, always second-guessing. but you can't seem to stay away.
you're not unaware of the effect you have on girls, the reason why the group call you their visual. since you debuted, more than a few female idols and staff have thrown themselves at you. you know some girls find your brooding mysterious image attractive, but you find females hopelessly intimidating. you're not a smooth-talker like him, and fail miserably at flirting.
for some reason, you have a feeling that no one truly knows you besides him. he's the only one in the group you feel totally comfortable with, the only person you don't feel like you have to impress. you know he won't judge you for being boring if you space out for hours listening to your ipod, or just sit there and wallow in the tiredness. in front of him, you can just be the most authentic you. you can just be.
he's the only rubik's cube you've ever been unable to solve, the one you've wanted to most. you spend hours trying to figure him out - the way he's both insufferable and irresistible at the same time, exhausting and inexhaustible, intimidating and yet approachable, glib but gawky, blunt yet sensitive, shrewd and yet naive. you think of his fluting, resonant voice as he sings like oh, his magnificent, outrageously warm grin, the way he pouts when his jeans hug his thighs in a way he hates but you find strangely alluring. he's the most elemental and adventurous person you've ever known, exuding confidence without trying. he's always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, a ray of sunshine whether it's morning or night. he has enormous appetites and yet humble tastes, never forgetting his roots and old friends.
but at the times that matter, he's thoughtful and responsible, the unnoticeable thread that sews the fabric of the group together. he's the one who loosens jinyoung up with teasing and squabbling when he descends into one of his moody spells, the one who makes jaebum crack a smile when he gets too serious, who makes youngjae and yugyeom and bambam laugh in a gleeful way that betrays their age. most of all, he gives you hope. somewhere along the way, he's become all the roles in your life - brother, friend, confidante, rival, partner.
"there he goes," jaebum sighs. "smiling his mark smile again."
"mark smile?" you echo uncertainly, surprised.
jaebum laughs, not unkindly. "haven't you noticed? he smiles differently with you."
it can't be true that he has a smile reserved for you. can it? you look over instinctively. he's standing with jinyoung, talking about something. when he senses you watching him, he looks up, eyes widening and softening as his lips curl up dreamily. you gulp and look away.
"i swear, he only listens to you," jaebum grumbles, looking disgruntled as he flounces off rebelliously, flouting another of jaebum's leaderly rules.
you laugh and try to hide the smug wave of pride swelling up inside your chest, patting jaebum benevolently on the shoulder. "leave it to me, i'll talk to him later."
yours is an alliance forged by necessity and proximity, strengthened by your shared ethnicity. you only understand snatches of the chinese syllables flowing off his tongue as he patiently tutors you in mandarin, but there's a familiarity about the lilting melody of your mother tongue that feels like homecoming.
he's the one who accepts you unconditionally, with open arms, who takes the time to draw the words out from your mouth when it clams up stubbornly, who waits patiently and always listens to whatever you have to say as if it's the most important thing in the world. he makes you feel as interesting as him, less hopelessly boring and dull. you can't get enough of that indescribable magical feeling when you manage to complete each other's sentences, when you're the only one who gets his inside jokes. it feels like the planets are perfectly aligned for a moment when you're on the same wavelength and frequency. it's priceless - coming of age alongside him, watching him grow up every day into a person you are prouder and prouder of, into a man who makes your heart beat quicker than that boy ever did.
no one knows you like he does, even yourself. and you hope no one ever will, because the way he sees through you like water on glass is simultaneously thrilling and unnerving.
you open your bedroom door to find him doing push-ups on the floor, topless and grunting rhythmically as his biceps pump like pistons. he's such a typical guy, really, you can totally picture him having a room stinking of socks and sweat from lifting weights if he weren't an idol. but because he is, because you both are - he is noticeably more self-conscious, more aware of his image. still, you feel proud because he lets down his guard the most around you. he doesn't feel embarrassed to brush his teeth while you're peeing (although you do) and when he wakes up late he barges into the shower and fights over the shampoo with you. compared to the carefully calculated artifice, the perfection he simulates onscreen, you find this unfeigned naturalness much more charming.
as the promotional period for the second mini-album commences, the practices and rehearsals begin to bleed into each other again. you're rushing from schedule to schedule arranged back to back, sleeping on your feet and on hard dressing room chairs as the stylist noonas fuss over your bangs. it's been a week since you've seen both your beds in your dearly missed bedroom, and he's running on adrenaline and caffeine and energy drinks. you're running on empty.
he's had a cup too many coffees tonight. you can tell by the way he's jiggling his knee restlessly as he pounds away on the nintendo ds, killing zombies relentlessly. he's bouncing off the walls, almost out of his own skin and you want to walk over and lay a hand on his knee to still it but you're locked in your chair by the intimidating stylist.
jaebum walks into the dressing room, hair immaculately styled and eyes darkened with liner. he immediately assesses the situation and settles down beside him on the couch, leaning in to whisper a few words in his ear. he always had the power to effortlessly calm him. you swallow the slightly bitter lump in your throat and finally stagger out of your chair as the pd's voice comes from the wings, "in one, two -"
as you weave past each other in impeccably synchronized choreography onstage, you think of how he lives life at a velocity faster than anyone else, but how instead of wearing you out, being with him is liberating, empowering. he makes you feel fearless, reckless, daring, because he is brave in all the ways you're not and powerful in all the ways you long to be. he brings out a side of you that is wild and crazy. sometimes you think that maybe it's your best side.
he's exhaustingly hyperactive, dangerously aggressive and overpoweringly masculine, moving through life at a harrowing, breakneck pace. he doesn't have any brakes and you struggle to catch up with his frenetic pace, knowing that even the most seemingly infallible people aren't immune to loneliness. he's always so thorny and abrasive like a porcupine but you know that it's all bluster and bravado, that his bark is sharper than his bite. he always likes to act like such a tough, macho guy, failing miserably in the end. but no one has the heart to tell him that his frailities are clear as day, and you complicitly conspire with the rest of the group to keep this secret from him forever.
you don't understand why he's not pocket-sized at all - brawny and larger than life, but there's just something about him that makes you want to keep him in your pocket. he's so rough and unrefined and likes to affect a cocky swagger but he can't hide the fact that he's cute without even trying.
he's very much an acquired taste, but you think that he's frail and beautiful as spun silk, as resilient. you wish you could be as unassumingly confident as him, less tongue-tied and tripping over the korean syllables rolling too awkwardly off your tongue, practicing every sentence in your head ten times before you say it out. and when you make mistakes even then, you wish you could be as unabashed as him, easily laughing it off and making his slips seem charming. he's not afraid to laugh at himself and you admire that courage, the cloak of assurance that he wears like a second skin.
everyone thinks he's like an energizer bunny, always fully charged with an neverending supply of positivity, but you know better. when he gets back to the dorm and it's just the two of you, he deflates like a balloon with its air let out, a wind-up doll with its spring running down. but it's okay, because you think you like this quiet, serious him better with his lopsided smile. you know he's more brittle than he looks, fragile as exquisite china.
you like listening to him speak cantonese, the coarse, nasal dialect flowing easily from his lips, too fast for you to catch the few basic words he's taught you; the bold, sensual consonants of his english; his halting, accented mandarin and his charmingly imprecise, uniquely foreign korean. you love listening to the husky velvet of his voice in every language, because it always resonates with his love for singing, for rapping, for talking. he's completely comfortable with his own voice, and that makes you feel the same comfort listening to him.
you always pretend to be irritated and impatient with him perpetually buzzing around you like a gnat, poking and prodding at you to get you to answer him, but you hope he knows that the incessant melody of his voice by your ear is something that you've grown used to, something that you can no longer imagine yourself losing.
you look at his untouched, exuberant smile and think that if this is a mistake, it's the most beautiful mistake you've ever made. for now - for now, you're perfectly content with just watching over him silently, waiting uncomplainingly for him to notice you. you want to be the flower in his hair on after school club, the mic that grazes his lips, the bed that he sleeps on and the oxygen he breathes.
because the way he looks at you when you trick, makes you think you might have a reason to do it for the rest of your life.
the other members think that the reason you always vie to take on the most daring and tricky stunts is because you're an adrenaline junkie, that it's what gives you your rush. you don't bother to correct them. the truth is, it's not that you're not terrified shitless that you'll land wrong and break your neck.
it's that you're more afraid he will.
"what's your secret?" they pester you, eyes bulging enviously as you seem to cruise the wind and sail through the air.
you look at him and think, there's no secret. it's just as simple as this: when you feel his eyes watching you, it makes you weightless, invincible. cresting on the arc of his smile, there are no heights you cannot scale.
what's a mystery is that you've been defying gravity for two years, but the only force you can't seem to fight is his inexorable pull. you thought the laws of physics didn't apply to you, but he seems to be your center of gravity.
you can hear his off-tune warbling in the bathroom as he showers all the way from your room, and when he comes back in, carelessly towelling his dripping wet hair, he's clothed in only a pair of boxers that leaves nothing to the imagination.
you protest loudly to disguise your alarm. "put on a damn shirt and dry your hair properly, you'll catch a cold!"
he smirks, plopping heavily onto your bed. "help me."
he bats his eyelashes and smiles winsomely and suddenly your hands are on the towel and you're obediently drying his hair. he purrs in contentment like a cat, his smug grin looking like he just slurped up a saucer of milk.
you try to keep your eyes from straying down his bare torso, following the rivulets of water down his fencer's physique to the waistband of his boxers, slung low over his hipbones. close up and without makeup, you can see the smattering of acne he has developed recently due to the stressful schedules, marring his usually clear complexion. but unexplainably, it makes him look even more attractive.
his hands find yours behind your backs at autograph sessions, on stage in front of a million scrutinizing eyes and cameras. the most dangerous place is the safest place, he jokes. they'll suspect, you protest. no one knows, he reassures you, threading your fingers together even tighter. you look at your reflection in the camera lens - petrified, flushed, smile too dizzy and eyes full of him - and think, how could they not?
"what would you do," he asks conversationally, "if you could do anything you wanted? if got7 didn't exist, and you were just mark and i was just jackson?"
you answer by pressing your lips on his chastely and clumsily, all enthusiastic desire without any real finesse. his lips melt warm and pliant under yours and he takes over ever so unobtrusively, tongue sliding out to work your mouth open and expertly coaxing yours out. he's such a skilled, surprisingly gentle lover, always taking care of you and making you feel comfortable. it's so easy to get lost in his worshipful smile and the breadth of his hands splayed possessively over your hips, his urgent, breathless kisses.
but try as you might, you can never completely toss away the guilt, ignore the fact that you're supposed to be the older, more responsible one here, the legal adult. it's easy to get caught up in his heady hotbloodedness and convincing confidence but you can't forget that he's really impossibly, painfully young, not even twenty-one, and you -
shafts of moonlight slant through the windows and onto his pale skin, making him look like he's behind imaginary bars, stripped of freedom. his eyes gleam with quiet frustration and his hands slip, defiant and determined.
you know that your word is his absolute command, and it makes you feel dizzyingly powerful. he is always wordlessly forgiving your cowardice, protecting your inability to accept and face yourself and shouldering the responsibility of your actions. you know your indecisive, spineless vacillation hurts him but he never gives you any pressure, always just waiting quietly and hopefully, with superhuman patience. he accepts you unconditionally, even the parts of you that are weak and ugly and you can't accept yourself.
you want to keep him safe like a flower in a greenhouse, give him everything he wants and protect his uncorrupted smile for as long as you can. sometimes you wonder if this is merely an infatuation built on convenience, adrenaline and adolescent teresterone mistaken as something deeper. it doesn't make sense because he could have anyone he wanted. someday, he's going to finally date all those girls he lusted after and discussed his longings for with you, those glamorous, voluptous bagel girls with baby faces that are his type. you could never even begin to compare. you're just you, flat-chested and ungainly and bumbling, hopelessly male, neither masculine enough to dominate him nor effiminate enough to be as pretty as a girl. he deserves everything and you - you're nothing.
but then you look at the staggering hordes of fans he has, and you feel less alone. how can you be blamed for falling for someone a zillion other people are equally in love with? the only difference is that you're a boy, and his bandmate. sometimes this difference feels like a world.
love you, love you, love you, he sings unceasingly, eyes adoring. hyung, i love you.
you swallow hard and open your mouth, wanting to say it back at least once, as easily as him. but the words are stuck in your throat, refusing to tumble out.
"i can't say it," you finally blurt in frustration, and his grin widens, wordlessly forgiving. that's what i love about you.
outside the window, the storm rages on, but in your room, you're safe and warm. the muted noise of rain falling beyond the window is broken by clicks of the computer mouse as he tweaks the synthesizers on the editing software. his eyes are serious behind oversized glasses and the headphones retain his warmth as he pulls them over your head eagerly, asking you to listen to the song he just composed.
you close your eyes and do. when the closing chords fade away and you open them, he's looking at you hopefully, smile touched by softness. "how is it?" he presses. "will you help me with the beat?"
when you nod, he lights up like a christmas tree. you think of his encyclopaedic knowledge about music, quiet ambition and budding passion for producing, and feel such an enormous hunger welling up inside you. you wonder if he knows that all the songs you sing are about him, not just the love ones. even before you were old enough to know what it meant to love someone, it hadn't stopped you from falling uncontrollably, irreversibly, head over heels for him.
you watch him striding confidently across the room, all eyes instantly gravitating towards him like bees to honey, and you want to say, i'm the only one who can make him beg. you want to say, i'm the only one who can make him come undone. but then he turns, and all the resentment melts away because his laughing eyes are filled with you. you're the only one he sees. it's unbelievable, a miracle. he's the most beautiful thing you've ever had in your life, and he's all yours.
you're irrationally jealous of the way he effortlessly makes friends everywhere he goes, collecting them like charms on a bracelet; the way he can make everyone laugh with a single word, a cold joke. he's always the center of attention in every room, the life of every party. you want to tell him to stop shining so brightly, because you can't see anything else. you want to tie him down, but you know that he abhores restraints. you want to monopolize his attention but you can't, because he doesn't belong to you. he never has.
it seems like ages since you've last seen him when you walk into the kitchen to find him standing in the chilled air of the open refrigerator, chugging straight from a carton of banana milk with his adam's apple bobbing. he swallows and wipes his lips with the back of his hand when he sees you, smiling sheepishly. his eyes are cautious but flickering with an unreadable light.
you feel the distance between you like an unbreachable gulf. you think of the way he used to attach himself to you like a limpet to a rock, till you had no room to protest, no room to even breathe. you know it's inevitable for both of you to grow up and away from each other, but you still feel the mix of resentment and pride that a mother bird feels watching her fledgling leave the nest.
"want some?" he asks, effortlessly breaking the ice. you gape at him as he smirks and tosses you the half-full carton. you catch it instinctively before it explodes all over you, drenching you with banana milk and lift it gingerly to your lips. he watches you, eyes never leaving yours as you tilt the mouth to your own, tipping back the cold, sweet liquid. his tongue slips out to lick his lips and you think you can taste him on your tongue, all the way from across the room.
you notice he has a paper cut on his ring finger, and he's surprised when you point it out to him. he must've gotten it shuttling to one of those solo schedules that you can't be there to accompany him, and he smiles sheepishly to ease your worries.
"it's just a superficial wound," he says, but you insist on rummaging in your drawer for a band-aid and wrapping it clumsily around his finger.
he lifts it to his eyes and studies it, a smile playing at his lips. without warning, he grabs your wrist and another band-aid, winding it equally clumsily around your ring finger.
he holds up your hands together, admiring the homemade ring. "don't take it off," he whispers, and you laugh and weave your fingers together. "never."
it's one year after the filming of igot7 that you borrow his ipad and your breath catches in your throat to see your red-haired self from the girls girls girls album photoshoot staring back at you.
you tentatively approach him, your voice a pitch higher than usual.
"you seriously kept this picture?" you try to sound offhand and teasing, but he jumps, blanching as he snatches the ipad roughly from you, looking offended.
"who said you could use my stuff without permission?" he growls, but he's blushing an interesting shade of beetroot.
you laugh nervously, backing away awkwardly. "sorry..."
he huffs and hugs the ipad to his chest protectively, glaring at you.
"i thought you were just joking for the show," you say softly.
"it's been my wallpaper since then," he blurts out, and you nearly trip over thin air.
"w-why?"
"why do you think?" he snaps, and you can't contain the moronic grin threatening to take over your face.
his eyes widen, before they narrow and he sticks his tongue out brazenly. "because you're so ugly, it makes me feel better about myself."
but it's too late, you've already caught the vulnerability that flashed across his eyes for a fraction of a millisecond.
you take a step towards him, crowing inwardly at the way panic flits across his eyes and he backs away. you walk purposefully up to him, closing the distance between you, and bend to brush your lips against his ear.
"that time in china, i was lying."
he looks confused, face flushed a delicious fuchsia.
you laugh and explain, "when i said i wasn't looking at your pictures on my ipad."
you turn and walk away, dripping with satisfaction at the last glimpse of his mouth hanging open and the warmth of his searing gaze on your back.
in the deepest, darkest small hours of the night, you finally have a chance to gaze at him up close, run your fingers over his growing-out crew-cut. his scalp feels like the fuzzy skin of a peach under your touch and his baby fat has melted away to draw his skin tauter over his sculpted cheekbones, the regal bone structure of his face. his body is buffer and harder than it looks beneath your fingertips, but the muscles of his biceps are more ropy, his shoulderblades jutting out sharply.
his lush, toned body glistens with perspiration as he rocks into you, but you are the one who crushes your mouth against his soft, luscious lips as if to imprint yourself indelibly on him. it's crazy and senseless and dangerous but your body is like a flammable substance and his hands are the lighter, igniting your blood.
you don't know how long this can last. you're afraid to ask. this small world contained within your four walls is too evanescent to be durable. but he seems to read your thoughts as he murmurs, "don't think. just feel," and you sigh against his lips with relief and obediently let yourself go, just once.
"what do you want for your twenty-first birthday?" you ask him, hand moving to the back pocket of your jeans to pat your wallet uncertainly. you don't want to disappoint him.
his eyes soften, a teasing note in his voice as he replies simply, "your smile."
you gape at him. "is that all?"
his own smile silences you. "it's everything."
more and more, you can't keep your hands off each other. it's like you're the north of one magnet and he's the south of another and your bodies are two entities destined to be attracted to each other, doomed to stick together inseparably the moment you're near.
even as you approach closer, you drift apart in subtle ways. as he hones his variety skills on more reality shows he's invited alone to and his korean improves by leaps and bounds, he grows steadily more independent. he's so prideful and obstinate and unpredictable, like an exotic bird of paradise, and you fight the overwhelming urge to clip his wings.
but he's still there, when you need him most.
he's there when you break down in nagoya; at your first solo concert in korea; at the los angeles stop of your first world tour, the rough pads of his thumbs brushing the tears away to reveal his worried face, blurred like an unfocused landscape through the lens of a viewfinder.
"you're glowing," your mother remarks in wonder when you return home for the holidays, and your friends notice the change too. "it must be the celebrity thing," they conclude.
only your father draws you aside with a shrewd smile. "who is she?"
you blush to the roots of your hair, mortified. is it that obvious?
"jackson," you confess, half-joking, half-truthful, and your father laughs his belly laugh, not buying it for a second.
but yugyeom looks at you, his eyes knowing and his smile wordlessly accepting.
when you get back to the dorm, disheveled and jet-lagged and dragging suitcases full of presents, he's sitting on the couch in the living room with jaebum. his eyes drink you in as you walk through the door, looking like he wants to swallow you whole. you flush and avert your gaze but he stands up and ambles towards you, relieving you of your carry-on and turning to head for your room without saying anything.
you trail after him. he closes the door behind you with a soft click and tosses the duffel onto the bed carelessly. you take a stuttering step back as he advances slowly towards you. "i missed you," he says huskily.
you swallow and stammer lamely, "when?"
he smiles, eyes softening as he pauses an arm's length away from you and brushes your cheek with a gentle finger. "all the time," he whispers. "i thought of you when i was with my family, when i went out with my friends, before i slept at night. especially in the shower."
"in the shower?" you echo, comprehension dawning belatedly. "oh."
"yeah," he says, watching your face colour with satisfaction. "i couldn't stop," he hangs his head, rubbing his neck sheepishly.
"what about you?"
when you look up, your breath catches in your throat at his hooded, unabashedly hungry eyes.
dream on, you are one breath away from saying. the words are on the tip of your tongue, but they linger there, unwilling to trip off because he looks like his heart is one word away from breaking.
instead, you just swallow the instinct to hide your feelings behind taunting and nod shyly. it's enough to make him grin like a moron for the rest of the day.
"have you heard of the butterfly effect?" he asks you carelessly one afternoon as you lie in bed wrapped around one another like vines on a fence.
you nod, your chin nudging his back. you don't know the scientific details of it, but you have a vague impression of what it means.
"it says that something as miniscule as a butterfly fluttering its wings could cause an earthquake or natural calamity on the other side of the world."
he leans in to touch his lips to yours, eyes devastating like thunderstorms, and you think of tsunamis wrecking everything in their path halfway around the globe at this very minute, tectonic plates shifting underneath the surface of the earth. it makes a little more sense - just a little - why such an infinitesimal action sends your heart crumbling and your insides quaking. why kissing him feels like an apocalypse, like creating a whole new world.
sometimes, you feel burnt out, like sea glass worn to unblemished smoothness by the relentless buffering of the waves, losing all the jagged shards that had given it its individuality. you feel afraid that you're losing your identity beneath ingratiating smiles and rehearsed lines from a play that you have acted in for so long, it's blurred the lines between pretense and reality. you feel running away from all the oppressive responsibilities, the binding contract, the unceasing fatigue. you feel like just disappearing.
at these times, you take comfort from the fact that even if one day you do forget yourself, he will still remember you. because just like he knows you like the back of his own hand, you know him like the back of yours.
when you're falling apart at the seams, he takes you gently into his arms and cradles you in his lap, stroking your hair with soothing hands. he puts the pieces of you back together, not letting go until you're whole again.
"who am i?" you murmur, lost and bewildered, and he smiles serenely, answering simply without a moment's hesitation.
"you're mark, my mark-hyung. the person i love most in this world."
and just like that, you realize that that's all you've ever wanted to be.
"what do you like about me?" he asks, and you just laugh.
he looks hurt, but you wonder what kind of face he'll make if you say, i don't like you. i can't live without you.
you've spent half your life dreaming of bright lights and stardust, but lying together in the muted mauve light of predawn, his limbs splayed messily over the bed and covers slipping off his knobby knees, he makes superstardom seem meaningless, so pitiably insignificant in comparison.
nowadays, you dream of fighting for the freedom to love openly. you're saying goodbye to the tearful and hoarse fans at one of the final stops of your asia tour. it's a testament to how the number of solo concerts under all your belts that you can't even keep count anymore. japan to china and then southeast asia. next, you're going global.
so much has changed in such a short span of time. you've scaled heights, accomplished feats, and crossed milestones you'd never in your wildest dreams expected. but the one thing that has stayed the same during this unforgettable journey is his unchanged eyes as he stands beside you wearing the untainted smile you fell in love with so many years ago. they're forthright and clear, glasslike and penetrating and in them you see clarity.
you think of him at fifteen, shaggy hair falling into his eyes as he peered intently down the blade of a sabre, brave and strong, already risking everything to fight his way towards you, even before the two of you had met. he's both your roots and your wings, anchoring you to the ground while enabling you to soar in higher and higher skies. you may regret many things, but you will never regret meeting him.
with a start, you realize that you were always being protected, always being taken care of, even though you're the elder. can you really enjoy this happiness at the expense of others? will you be able to be blissful together, knowing how many hearts you had broken to get there? you are riddled with doubts and fear, knowing that this thing between you is something taboo, something that you will have to pay a steep price for.
but then you look at his longing smile, his sorrowful eyes, and you realize that this love is bigger than the fear.
the stadium is filled to full capacity, the refrain of your discography that has become more familiar to you than breathing amplified like the beating of your heart.
you'll always be my best friend, you think, looking over at his sunny smile magnified on the big screen, the other five standing a step behind him, watching him with the same pride as you while he shines. even now, he still makes you laugh like no other. however this ends, nothing will ever change the fact that he was the person who taught you about the meaning of friendship, and what a wonderful thing it was to give.
your heart tightens as he finishes his introduction and the rest of them nudge you gently to the front, smiles wordlessly encouraging, eyes filled with respect and adoration. in such a short span of time, they've become so unspeakably precious to you. this band. this boy. this best friend who became your first love. he's your lifeboat, your refuge, the road you can't help but take home. when you first met, you hadn't expected anything from him. but he had given you everything. he had broken down all the walls you put up, creeping soundlessly into your heart before you even knew.
you've seen hardship and tears, adolescence and adulthood, glitz and glamour alongside him. but now you realize that that is far from enough, that you also want to see life and death and birth beside him, that you want to know him for the rest of your life. he makes the unknown future seem slightly less daunting, slightly less bleak and unchartable. and so you decide, that you're never going to let this hand go.
"what does jackson mean to you?" the host asks brightly at yet another scripted interview, a question you have answered more times than you can remember.
but instead of giving your default reply today, you look at him sitting beside you, watching you with soft eyes and his ears tilted towards you, waiting for your next words as he plays absently with your hand.
you take a deep breath. "everything," you say enigmatically, watching the surprise break over his face like a tropical sunrise and the ends of his lips pull up into a shaky smile.
"we're not going to live happily ever after, you know," you say offhandedly, casually disguising how much the words take you to say.
he looks at you, genuinely perplexed, before shaking his head with a tender smile. "oh, baby," he says softly, pulling you into his lap. "why would i want a happily ever after, if it's not with you?"
* * *
years, decades, later, when got7 is no longer your whole life, but a distant but priceless memory, he is still the one by your side and you think there's something to be said for that. you have seen life and birth and death together, but the only thing that has remained unchanged are your feelings for him, which have grown from a teenage puppy crush into something softer and sweeter but more enduring.
you marvel at how far you have come, how you could never have predicted you would arrive today at this current reality that surpasses even your wildest dreams. you've both more or less achieved your boyhood ambitions, his of becoming a producer and yours of going professional at both tricking and music. you think that there's no other way you'd rather have spent these years, than chasing dreams with him.
it's a rare day that he has no schedules and is dropping by to visit the set of your latest action movie, where you are doing all the stunts yourself without the help of any doubles. your body is stiffer and heavier now, slowed and more beleaguered by injuries, but you still feel as confident as you did at twenty-one with him quietly watching you. i never took my eyes off you.
he stands by the sidelines behind the cameras and equipment, looking understatedly but effortlessly breathtaking in casual, dressed-down clothes and sunglasses. when you approach and he takes them off, you see that his eyes are warm and smiling.
"knock them off their feet," he murmurs in your ear as he backhugs you, slipping unobtrusive but casually proprietary arms around your body for a moment.
you turn and meet his lively, playfully dark eyes. "i'm going to be so, so perfect out there," you promise fiercely. "i'm going to make you so proud of me."
his voice softens and his eyes shine with unshed tears. "i know, baby," he whispers. "i know you will."
your heart tightens breathlessly and you blurt out unconsciously, "don't ever leave me."
his eyes widen at the desperate edge to your voice, before they melt, his arms tightening around you.
"never, darling," he swears gravely. "not ever."
in the middle of all the meandering people, the harried shouts and the chaos, he leans in unseen and you arch up to meet his touch as he presses a tender, urgent kiss to your forehead. the heat of his lips spreads through your face and his eyes flutter closed.
presently, someone calls your name and you untangle yourself gently. his body is soft and pliant in your arms and he holds on reluctantly for a heartbeat longer, pressing his chin into the hollow between your neck and shoulder.
you turn to stroke a placating, caressing hand through his hair. "watch me," you whisper, moving away.
he does, and with his eyes (your wings) on your back, you fly once more.
+ so this is my epic failed markson canon fic i've been working on since december lol. i got stuck at so many parts esp with the smut and was pretty unsatisfied with how it turned out but decided to just post it anyway because i was tired of the wip. sorry for any factual inaccuracies or ooc-ness ;n; thanks for reading, comments are loved and concrit is appreciated :)