#19: Show Me Yours, I’ll Show You Mine (For the_resolver)
Title: show me yours, i’ll show you mine
Fandom: got7
Pairing(s)/Focus: mark/jackson
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 9300
Work remixed: House Colours by the-resolver
Summary: as far as jackson’s concerned, #markson is a match made in heaven.
Notes/Warnings: to my remixee! i hope you like this, even though I changed the tone of the fic quite significantly ;A; hope this is enjoyed \o/
“Goddamn,” someone shouts into the freezing morning air from the courtyard some moments after dawn. It’s extremely jarring.
Jaebum groans with the consistency and tone of a weathered old set of bellows from his bed, but Jackson makes a beeline for the dorm window at once, halfway into his robes. A grin splits his face at the sight of several tumbling dots of black down below against the startling white of the snow.
“Get your ass out of bed!” he whips the blankets off Jaebum, cackling at the stream of expletives that follow. From the next couple of beds, someone starts mumble-cursing Jackson in a mixture of English and French, but Jackson doesn’t need to care- Quidditch is almost synonymous with diplomatic immunity around here, anyway. “It’s snowing, you old piece of shit, you can’t stay in bed!”
Jaebum almost breathes fire, then, eyes flashing, and Jackson rounds his bed with an ecstatic yell, thundering down the stairs two at a time.
It isn’t every day they get a snow day on a weekend, and apparently about half the school population’s realised this too, because in the five minutes it’s taken Jackson to reach the courtyard, black splashes have blossomed onto the white, boys and girls barely wrapped up in scarves and beanies all overflowing on the icy powder, laughing and screaming.
Jackson rams his shoulder hard into the back of one of the boys he knows from Herbology, Jongup, and gets a face full of snow in return, laughing so hard he can feel the little white crystals melting in his nose and throat.
“Jackson’s here!” Song Minho booms, one of the Gryffindor seniors and the team’s outstanding Keeper, and promptly, the sporadic sea of black seems to part, people looking over their shoulders and shrieking when Jackson sends a spray of snow their way, laughter escalating so loud he barely hears another voice, softer, though deliberately audible enough for him to hear.
“Make way for Gryffindor’s alpha dog,” Park Jinyoung titters snidely, and Jackson turns with a lopsided grin to face Slytherin’s pretty-eyed Seeker, smiling back at him with some level of amused derision. “Careful not to trip over all the attention you’re getting, Wang.”
“At least I get enough to know what to do with it, Park,” Jackson tosses some snow up, laughing as he treads through the white mass to get to Minho. “Chill, man, it’s a snow day!”
It’s a snow day doesn’t even begin to describe the snowball fight that follows that morning- it’s organised warfare between the four houses, including snow forts and trenches, that quickly devolves as the three houses team up on Hufflepuff, followed by a betrayal on Ravenclaw’s part towards Slytherin, and somehow that translates into an every-man-for-himself all-out genocide.
Halfway through getting a snowball shoved down the back of his robes, courtesy of a Hufflepuff boy he barely knows, Jackson catches sight of a pale face behind the third-floor window in mid-yell, and the smile on his face promptly widens.
“Babe, get down here, the snow’s great!” he cups his hands around his mouth to yell, stumbling a little as a girl collides into him from behind while trying to escape a snowball, squealing in excitement.
His grin falters a little at the way Mark’s expression, barely visible behind the murky glass, remains unchanging, before disappearing entirely as the boy leaves the window.
Exactly four seconds of confused disappointment follows, before he gets a snowball to the ear, and all apprehensions are thrown to the back of his head as usual, as he turns, grinning widely and counter-snowball at the ready, worries forgotten.
*
“Hey,” Jackson’s breathing heavily as he rounds the Ravenclaw table, hands affectionately squeezing Mark’s narrow shoulders, ignoring the general look of distaste that several of the surrounding students shoot at him for leaving a trail of melting snow and mud in his wake. “Hey, where were you this morning?”
“Sleeping,” Mark shrugs, chewing on a sausage- Jackson wrinkles his nose at the meagre amount of food Mark’s taken for himself.
“Is that all you’re eating? You know you’re not going to be able to eat till like, six hours later, because of the Ice Enchantment Festival later right?” he scowls, before gesturing at one of the other boys beside Mark, Youngjae, or something. “Hey, you’re just going to let him starve like this? Put something else on his plate, for crying out loud.”
The boy shoots him a partially offended, mostly silently annoyed look, before using the tongs to get a roll of bread onto Mark’s plate.
“Jackson,” Mark mutters uncomfortably, then, pushing the other boy’s hands off his shoulders, and Jackson raises a brow, hands in the air.
“What?” he frowns, wondering what he’d done to warrant something like that- couldn’t a guy be concerned about how much his boyfriend was eating?
Then someone yells out a Jackson, get your ass over here from the head of the Gryffindor table, and Jackson eyes Mark one last time, noting the pensive look on the older boy’s face with some discomfort before he trudges back, breaking into a run at the last few steps to avoid the sausage that one of the guys aims at him.
Needless to say, Jackson doesn’t spare the morning’s events much further thought.
*
But then again, in retrospect, this doesn’t even matter much, doesn’t matter at all, in fact, because according to Jackson Wang, #Markson is a match made in heaven.
It’d been like a hit and run, he recalls blissfully to this day. The moment he’d set his eyes on Mark during Charms, when the quiet redhead managed to impress Flitwick by pulling off a rather difficult spell with considerable ease, he’d known that Mark was The One.
It hadn’t taken much for Jackson to muster up the courage to ask him out either- he’d been in his fifth year, about time for someone like him, Beater and one of the star players of the leading Quidditch team, to get attached, wasn’t it?
It isn’t just about howgorgeous Mark is, either, with his pale skin, ethereal aura and mysterious half-smiles, because everyone already knows attractive people make the best couples, don’t they? No, Jackson prefers to think that their relationship goes much deeper than that.
Their compatibility was perfect, he reasoned, as did most of the friends who knew about the two of them had said- Jackson’s confident where Mark’s quiet. Jackson connects when Mark isolates himself. Jackson’s-…
“Dumb brawn while Mark’s the only one with any sense at all,” Jaebum says absently over their idle homework session, crammed into the common room that night. Again, being on the Quidditch team and known by just about the whole school earns Jackson his spot on the armchair by the fire, and by association (also because he’s Head Boy, but no one really listens to that part and Jaebum can’t be assed to care as long as he gets a place by the fire anyway) Jaebum’s opposite him, scrawling something on a piece of parchment.
Jackson pouts, teary-eyed look intensifying when Jaebum ignores him completely. “Hyung! How could you say that?”
“He’s from Ravenclaw. You’re from Gryffindor. Get over it,” Jaebum scratches the tip of his nose, careful not to drip ink on his (already dark, so Jackson doesn’t really see the point) robes. “Have you done the Potions assignment, by the way? What’s the answer to question twenty-four?”
“And you say I’m stupid,” Jackson huffs, tossing his own parchment roll over.
“You’re only getting all these answers because Mark helps you every time,” Jaebum says absently, checking against Jackson’s column of answers, before writing something down on his own parchment with some degree of satisfaction.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ve got all the time in the world to always be on top of my homework, anyway,” Jackson says defensively, even more wounded at the sight of Jaebum clearly not paying attention to whatever he’s saying. “You’re Head Boy and you aren’t in half of the organising committees and events I’ve helped out in!”
“Exactly,” Jaebum makes a face at one of the answers on his parchment, carefully cancelling it, before continuing to write beside it. “I know where to stop because I know where my priorities are. Don’t you think you’re falling back on Mark a little too often?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, hyung,” the words sound odd, even to Jackson, who’s been waiting to say this since the start of the conversation. They itch on his tongue, like they know he’s using them to tell a lie, which doesn’t make sense, because there’s no way something like this could be anything but the truth, right? “Mark helps me because he knows I’ve got a lot to deal with, and he’s understanding and he loves me- I’m not forcing him to do it, sheesh.”
Jaebum sighs into his parchment, scratching his nose again, and Jackson’s so bothered by his apathy he can’t even muster the willpower to crack a joke about the black ink smudges Jaebum keeps leaving on his nose. “Whatever you say, Jacks.”
Jackson’s frowning for almost the rest of the night- what he’d said was true, wasn’t it? Sure, he’d asked Mark for help countless times, usually the night before a big project or assignment was due, but Mark had always seemed willing to help at those times. Jaebum was probably just jealous he didn’t have someone as perfect as Mark with him all the time.
Jackson hesitates for a moment after that thought.
Still, though, just to make sure-…
“You’re done?” Mark sounds genuinely surprised when he settles next to Jackson at one of the stone tables near the courtyard, books and parchment rolls in his hand.
“Oh, yeah, I uh,” Jackson gestures weakly to the parchment with one hand, still scribbling with the other. “I had some extra time on my hands, so I thought-…”
Mark unrolls one of the scripts, and Jackson feels the burn of embarrassment when the older boy starts to laugh. “There a reason why you replace the “w” with a “b” every time you write “witch” here?”
“Oh shit, let me just,” Jackson mumbles, snatching the parchment out of Mark’s hands, hastily scribbling out the offending letters and writing the right one in its place. “See? I’ve got it. I’m handling my own homework fine.”
“I’m amazed,” Mark says drily, albeit with a small smile. “This is monumental- Jackson Wang Jia Er, finishing his homework on his own. Someone call the Daily Prophet, this needs an article and an interview.”
“Yeah,” Jackson’s throat is dry- he doesn’t know why he’s behaving like this all of a sudden, nervous and guarded and awkward, completely ignoring Mark’s words in favour of blurting out what’s been on his mind since the conversation with Jaebum. “So-…you know. You don’t need to come down so often. I can handle things here. You can uh-…do your stuff.”
There’s a lengthy pause after that.
“Oh.”
Jackson sneaks a peek at Mark over the tip of his quill- the other boy’s fixing him with a puzzled glance.
“Uhm,” Mark’s still holding his books, Jackson realises, slender fingers wrapped around their spines uncomfortably. He straightens in his seat, like he’s just realised something. “So, uhm, do you still want a hand with this essay, or…?”
“I got it! Really, I can handle this one,” Jackson blabbers anxiously, burying himself in another worksheet. “You can go do all the-…uh, the stuff that you, uh, you do. I got this.”
“Oh. Okay,” Mark fidgets in his seat. “Well, actually, yeah, I do have some practice to catch up on-…”
“Yeah! Don’t let me bother you,” Jackson says, relieved that it’s working, he’s making things better, as he dives back into his essay corrections. “Really! You don’t have to be around here.”
There’s a longer pause this time, before Mark stands. “Uhm. Okay, then.”
Another few seconds of silence, and the other boy turns to shuffle off, giving a half-hearted wave, which Jackson returns while looking as busy as he possibly can.
When Mark’s well and truly out of sight, Jackson slumps back into his chair, eyes screwed shut, letting out a long breath, before taking a forlorn glance at his essay.
For Mark, he tells himself determinedly, steeling himself with a deep inhale, before plunging back into the thick of his essay.
Jackson makes extra sure to tidy up all his homework over the next week so he won’t have to bother the other boy on such short notice again anytime soon, and though he’s pretty miserable with the workload and the hours he spends on end without seeing Mark, he pulls through.
Just in case, you know. That Jaebum’s right.
*
Little changes after that, other than the fact that Mark doesn’t show up as often in Jackson’s daily life as much as he used to. But this doesn’t do anything to alter the fact that according to Jackson, Mark is the most perfect person to walk this Earth.
It’s crazy, he muses sometimes- Mark’s pretty, kind, amazingly smart, always taking care of Jackson when the other boy needs it the most. Jackson recalls, with a certain fondness, all the times he’d just had to look down from his broom during a match, high above the world below, to search for the splash of red hair in the sea of blue, and feel the strength rush back to him immediately, like he could rule the world with just Mark by his side and nothing else.
Mark is his constant, the only thing that’ll always be there for him when he needs it, even when everything else has upped and left in his life. And that’s the only thing that’ll ever matter, right?
“He won, by the way.”
Jackson looks up owlishly from where he’d been glancing over his timetable, trying to figure out a slot he could finish up the meeting for that new event coming up in spring, to see Choi Youngjae, that Ravenclaw fifth-year that hangs around Mark sometimes (more so now that Jackson’s doing that less), blue scarf wrapped around his neck like a balaclava, looking down at Jackson through his black frames with some hint of distaste.
“Huh?”
“The Winter Intra-School Duelling Championship,” Youngjae sniffs, glancing over a fingernail, as if it doesn’t really matter to him. “Mark came in first. I don’t suppose you were there, or you would’ve known that he mentioned you in his dedication speech.”
“Wait,” Jackson says incredulously. “Wait, hang on a sec- he was in a competition?”
The hint of distaste on Youngjae’s face takes a rather lengthy step towards full-blown polite revulsion. “Yes, Jackson-ssi, he’s been taking part in duelling competitions since second year, this is his second time winning the Intra-School Championships, he was slated to represent us and take part in the nationals this year until one of the contestants got sent to St. Mungo’s and the competition got cancelled, and his favourite hex and the winning spell for this and last year’s championships is Stupefy, but I doubt you know what that does, so it’s not like there’s a point trying to explain these things to you anyway.”
Jackson frowns, quite sure he’d been insulted somewhere in there, but he’s too busy trying to turn everything over in his head to care. Now that Youngjae mentioned it, yeah, Jackson did remember Mark bringing something up about a competition a couple of weeks back, but there’d been something- a meeting? Yeah, one of the adhoc meetings to prepare for the upcoming spring events, that’d clashed with the date. Even now, Jackson barely remembers refusing Mark’s request- but maybe it’d also been because of the way Mark had put it across, quietly, unobtrusively, littered with “only if you’re free on that day”s and “if it isn’t too much trouble”s, and Jackson didn’t even remember his own response, much less the fact that he’d refused.
“You did know about the competition, didn’t you?” Youngjae’s wrinkling his nose carefully now, like he’s trying to mete out the appropriate amount of disgust to fit the conversation.
“Yeah-…what, of course I did,” Jackson half-snaps, wiping his palms on his pant legs, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to go through the past five months of his life again to try and remember anything else Mark might have mentioned (and he might have missed). “I, uh, I had something on. He told me it was okay. He knows I’ve got a lot of things to do, he understands.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Youngjae purses his lips, rearranging the scarf around his neck with the hand that isn’t holding the scarily thick books to his chest. “Now that just needs to work both ways.”
Jackson’s about to open his mouth to ask what he means, but the students streaming into the Great Hall are making this hard- a horde of Hufflepuffs trudge past, and when Jackson cranes his neck to look over their heads, Youngjae’s already gone.
*
Staring blithely into a dying fireplace, doing nothing, is strangely more therapeutic than Jackson had imagined it to be. Then again, it’s been a pretty shitty couple of weeks, so Jackson guesses a lot of things would feel therapeutic.
“Are you listening,” Jimin snaps her fingers in front of Jackson’s face, and he startles back into attention, shaking his head. “The Winter Sonnet Night. Catering. Invites. What are we going to do.”
“Why are you even asking me?” Jackson mumbles, running a hand through his hair, rubbing at his eyes in exhaustion.
“Why aren’t the Prefects helping with this?”
“That’s ‘cause you said you could handle it, like a month ago,” Jimin purses her lips. “Yah, Jackson Wang, I’m giving up an entire Hogsmeade outing to get this done with you, you’d better not bail on me now.”
“Mmh,” Jackson stares glumly at the list in front of him, eyes lidded. It’s weird- he’s always so energised and excited about planning events like these, so feeling this drained, it’s something new entirely. It’s like life’s adhered to his skin, stretching and dragging him unwillingly forward when all he wants is to sit in silence by himself, or with Mark, for a moment. The homework, the final match with Slytherin coming up tomorrow, and exams looming in the distance- Jackson’s just more than a little stressed with everything that’s happening now.
Now that’s something new, considering the fact that “quiet Jackson” is an oxymoron and even he knows that. He doesn’t mean to say he hates spending time with people and getting involved in current affairs now- he’s just sort of tired of it for the time being.
Whatever’s wrong is apparently enough to tip Jimin off, because the snappish edge to her voice is gone when she speaks next, replaced by uncomfortable concern.
“Look, why don’t you just hand this back to Jaebum and the team?” Jimin squints, and Jackson shakes his head tiredly.
“I already said I’d do this, I can’t just give up now.”
“Yeah, that’s your fault,” Jimin scoffs. “But you look like shit now, no offence. Jaebum’s your best friend, he’ll get it. You’ve been going on overdrive for the past couple of months, and with the match coming up tomorrow, he’ll probably want you to be in top shape to win us that Cup.”
“The others are going to kill me,” Jackson squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will away the migraine that’s beginning to grow from his temples. “Dumping all this back on them at the last minute.”
“Oh, I’ll handle the rest of them,” Jimin says dismissively. “It’s sort of their fault for pushing this onto you anyway- besides, there’s like two weeks left to the Sonnet, they’ve got enough time to pull some shit together. And now you know, don’t you, not to bite off more you can chew? With exams coming up next month and everything, taking all this on was a pretty stupid idea to begin with.”
“Thanks, thanks so much,” Jackson mutters, unable to muster enough energy to snark back at Jimin in response. “So-…we meet them tonight, or…?”
“Yeah, you drop Jaebum a line and we’ll hand this shit back to them after dinner- you’ve paid your dues to this school in terms of involvement already anyway,” Jimin shrugs. “Now go and eat or sleep or something, man, you look like you’re about to die.”
“I feel it,” Jackson admits, slumping back in his armchair. “You know I forgot the Potions and Transfiguration essays that were due yesterday? Don’t know what the hell I’m going to forget next- I’m probably going to come down to breakfast tomorrow in pyjamas.”
“I look forward to that,” Jimin says drily. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to join Hayi at Honeydukes and beg for her forgiveness for ditching her at the last minute to meet you about this. You owe me a Butterbeer.”
“Mmh,” Jackson mumbles, something nagging at the back of his mind at the mention of Hogsmeade that quickly disappears as Jimin leaves, and he slumps back in the armchair, falling asleep almost immediately.
That something, whatever it is, resumes its nagging as he slouches his way down to the Great Hall for dinner that night, having woken up two hours after Jimin left and rushed through his essays, and he’s mulling over what to say to Jaebum and the House Prefects when he bumps into a mix of blue and green- blinking rapidly as he stumbles backwards.
“Oh, Jackson-hyung!” Yugyeom’s wearing the blue scarf this time- he and Bambam seem to have this habit of switching colours every time they go to Hogsmeade, mostly to confuse their friends (at least, that’s the excuse they gave every time Mark asked last year). His eyes are sparkling in the way they did when he left Dungbombs under Jaebum’s seat on the bench during the Halloween Feast and blamed it on Jackson (successfully, thanks to Jaebum’s shitty lack of trust in his friends), so it’s no wonder that the older boy is instantly suspicious.
Seeing the scarves, though, for a moment there, Jackson’s faintly reminded of one quiet night in a dark locker room, the gentle bruises blooming where cold fingers left imprints on his shoulders, red and gold on pale skin suddenly dull against the alluring vermillion of silky soft strands in between Jackson’s fingers while blue lay discarded on the floor, and for some reason that makes his throat go dry the same way it did when he had that conversation with Jaebum, or when Youngjae dropped the bomb about the competitions Mark’s been taking part in all this time.
Bambam doesn’t seem inclined to offer the same greeting, though, avoiding Jackson’s eyes, and the nagging at the back of Jackson’s mind grows exponentially louder.
“Where were you today?” Yugyeom’s laughing, an arm around Bambam’s shoulders, and Jackson blinks, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Huh?”
“Your date, hyung, with Mark-hyung, at the Three Broomsticks,” Bambam finally cuts in, then, condescension dripping from his voice.
Jackson thinks his legs almost give out under him then, because the grin on Yugyeom’s face spreads to manic proportions.
“Hyung, you didn’t forget about it, now, did you?”
“Shit,” Jackson almost wails, attracting the momentary attention of several passing students, who immediately assume all is well and continue walking when they see who it is. “I knew I was forgetting something, it completely slipped my mind, fuck-…”
“He was waiting out in the snow for ages, hyung,” Yugyeom looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Bambam and I had to drag him in after what, half an hour? He was convinced you were just late, or something, you know, he looked so crushed after like, two hours passed, and you didn’t show up- ow!”
“Don’t worry, we made sure he at least got to enjoy a Butterbeer on his Hogsmeade outing when he sat with us after that,” Bambam says coolly, withdrawing his hand from Yugyeom’s side, where he’d obviously pinched the younger boy midway through Yugyeom’s spiel. “I’d go buy him a bunch of flowers and apologise on bended knee now if I were you.”
“Where is he?” Jackson says, eyes wide and panicked, trying to remember if there’s anywhere someone can get a bouquet in the middle of winter. “He should be coming down for dinner, shouldn’t he?”
“Nah, he said he didn’t feel up to eating when we came back with him just now,” Yugyeom says ruefully, sending a reproachful glance at Bambam, which goes completely ignored. “He’s probably heading for the Ravenclaw dorm now, you might be able to catch him if you’re-…whoa, ow!”
Jackson’s already pivoted around the two of them and sped off, tearing down the hall towards the Ravenclaw dorms, ignoring the surprised yells of the people he brushes past.
“What’s his problem,” Yugyeom sniffs, unamused, dusting his shoulder thoughtlessly.
“I should be asking you that question,” Bambam says sharply, ignoring the wounded look Yugyeom sends him as he pulls the scarf around his neck off none-too-gently. “And give me my scarf back,” he dumps the green fabric into Yugyeom’s hands, tugging the blue one off from where it’s loosely draped around the taller boy’s shoulders, before storming off into the Great Hall, leaving the pouting, mostly annoyed, giant standing alone at the entrance.
Jackson’s breathless by the time he’s climbed all the ridiculous stairs up to the bronze eagle knocker, trying to avert the stares of the few Ravenclaw kids coming out to go down for dinner. He’s suddenly aware of how little his apparent influence penetrates the most of the Ravenclaws- the students that pass either give him a once-over and walk on, snickering in quiet whispers with their friends, or think him worthy enough of a full-blown judgemental stare before they disappear down as well.
He almost cries out in relief at the sight of Youngjae leaving the door, waving to get his attention.
“Jae, Jae you gotta help me, can you let me in?” he’s staring anxiously into the doorway. “I need to see Mark.”
Youngjae takes one look at him, then at the door, before turning back to him, eyes deliberately wide with mock innocence.
“Answer the riddle then.”
“Huh?” Jackson blinks, stepping aside to avoid a group of boys on the way down. “Riddle?”
“Yes, Jackson-ssi, the riddle,” the door swings shut, and the bronze eagle that remains seems to be staring through his head into his soul. “Answer the riddle and you can go in. Just like the rest of us.”
“Jae, I don’t have time for this, could you just let me in? This is serious!” Jackson begs, about to lose his head.
“And I’m just as serious,” Youngjae deadpans. “You can’t possibly be expecting me to let you in to see Mark-hyung like that after everything you’ve done, can you?”
“I-…” Jackson stutters, then, taken aback by the brutal honesty on Youngjae’s part. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then you can keep standing out here,” Youngjae raises a brow. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going down for dinner.”
“Jae!” Jackson calls, desperate now, and Youngjae glances back, lips pressed together. “Look, I know I’ve-…I’ve probably been messing up really big this past month. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. And I-…I understand if you don’t want to let me in tonight. But when-…when you get back in tonight, could you- could you tell him I’m sorry about this afternoon? And…this whole year,” Jackson finishes lamely.
The look in Youngjae’s eyes shifts momentarily, and Jackson’s relieved to hear at least a hint of sympathy in his voice when he speaks again. “You can tell him that yourself when you see him again. He’s just not really up to seeing anyone tonight.”
“Oh-…okay,” Jackson says, deflating slightly, watching as Youngjae turns away and continues walking down the stairs, before glancing back at the bronze eagle, defeated.
I’m a stupid piece of shit, aren’t I.
The last student hurries down, leaving Jackson hunched, alone, at the top of the stairwell, and he lets out an infinitesimal sigh, every ounce of strength seemingly leaving him at once. The journey down the stairs now looks a lot more tiring than the one up had been, and Jackson takes once last morose look in the direction of the knocker.
The eagle stares, catching and holding his gaze imperiously for a moment. Then-…
“Why did the wizard never stop seeking that which he had already found?”
Jackson lets out a mirthless, breathy laugh, before slumping his way down the stairs, inexplicably more exhausted than he’s been in a long while.
“Wish I knew too,” he mumbles aimlessly, to no one in particular.
*
Jackson spends the rest of the night and the next morning in a stupor, of sorts- even while Jimin’s talking to Jaebum about handing back the event, while the Gryffindor team captain gathers them for a quick pep talk during breakfast the next morning, while he’s changing out of his robes, he’s in a daze, not quite sure what he’s doing, where he’s going.
It occurs to him how ridiculous things are when a year ago that this turmoil would’ve made perfect sense- his perfect Mark, his one and only true love, was angry at him, so how could things possibly be alright?
But something’s different now, like the rose coloured lenses perched on his nose have been smashed and he’s sprawled on the ground, reeling from the impact, finally seeing everything in its entirety rather than just glancing it over and trampling on it as he pleases.
Now he wants nothing more than to just have a day to himself, to try and dig up everything that’s happened over the year and live it again, fingers itching to reach back and hastily correct everything that he fears he might have done wrong. He’s reliving everything from a completely different point of view, frozen in a standstill on the path of his life when he’s thrown himself into the journey with vigour every year leading up to now, and now the passing events seem to echo around his head, having stolen all the joy and excitement that’d once stemmed so abundantly from within him.
The prospect of the match ahead weighs heavy and cold in his gut that morning, when he’d always been itching to start it and go in, guns blazing, for the win. Apparently the rest of his team can sense it too because his captain even drags him aside for a firm talk before the match, warning him of the potential consequences of letting one’s emotions affect them in the midst of important events like these, but all it does is make the sickness in the pit of Jackson’s stomach worse. Had Mark always been less important than Quidditch to him prior to this? Just what else has he been prioritising over his boyfriend?
Somehow the thought stays with him all the way until kick off, when he’s standing with his broom in the field, barely hearing the deafening screams of the crowd at the most-awaited match of every season. The sneers and staring challenges of the opposing team fall on deaf eyes and blind ears, because Jackson’s only craning his neck to scan the sea of blue, stomach sinking when he can’t find what he’s looking for, though by now he knows he probably shouldn’t be surprised.
Needless to say, the match that follows isn’t his best.
*
Gryffindor wins. Wins the Quidditch Cup, probably the House Cup, wins the affection and adoration of the school population, and Jackson walks out of the post-match celebration in his Quidditch uniform, leaving his broom with a semi-drunk Jaebum and a trail of melting slush in his wake.
Halfway up the stairs, a group of Slytherin girls look like they’re about to give him the stink-eye, before seeing the look on his face and parting slowly to let him walk past, puzzled. Six years of being in this school, one year of being Mark’s boyfriend, and this is the second time he’s gone up to the Ravenclaw dorm, he realises.
He barely notices the familiar uniform at the foot of the spiral staircase, so it’s only when he physically bumps into the person, mumbling out sorrys and just passing through, that he actually sees who it is.
“What are you doing here?” Jinyoung asks, viridian Quidditch uniform speckled similarly with mud and damp with icy water. The question isn’t particularly unkind- just blank, slightly cautious, and Jackson gets the uncomfortable feeling that the Slytherin boy knows something he doesn’t.
“I’m looking for Mark,” he decides he might as well be upfront about it at this point, but instead of the condescending laugh or snicker he’d been expecting, Jinyoung just looks slightly surprised.
Somehow that makes everything ten times worse.
“He hasn’t told you?” Jinyoung asks- his voice has this ability to maintain every bit of clarity despite the way it seems to tread quietly through the mess in Jackson’s head, every syllable sinking little anchors in his mind.
Jackson doesn’t open his mouth to ask.
Predictably, Jinyoung tells him everything anyway.
*
That morning’s air is the kind that crystallises and leaves little icebergs in one’s lungs, in one’s throat, between their teeth- they stay just long enough to pierce you, leave a thousand tiny flesh wounds all over you before they melt, stealing your breath as they go, before the moment passes and it’s like they were never there at all.
Mark keeps breathing, though.
He’d conjure a warming spell if he had the energy to reach out from his bed and find his wand, but that’s out of the question right now with how he feels like one gust of wind would be enough to do him over. Besides, getting out would mean letting the drafts in from between the drapes of his four poster, and he isn’t sure he’s ready to face the elements again to such an extent yet.
Speaking of the cold- a sliver of it manages to worm its way through the drapes to strike his lower back, somehow, and Mark frowns, eyes still closed, shifting in discomfort as he draws a laboured breath through his stuffy nose, but then it’s quickly replaced by a slow warmth that spreads from the same spot through the entire four poster, until it’s nicely toasty where Mark is, and he lets out a breath, relieved when his headache eases, along with all the other slow aches in his body.
It takes him a while, through his sickness-induced state, but he recognises it anyway: it’s a magical warmth- he can feel the tendrils of it wrapping gently around his arms and legs, soothing the sore spots that have buried themselves in his muscles and bones, and he smiles slightly, turning sleepily to give the person responsible (probably Youngjae or Bambam, if he’s managed to get up here from the fifth year dorms) a word of thanks.
Then he stops, squinting, because he’s quite sure who he’s seeing isn’t either of them.
Mark hesitates, a lot more than he probably should.
“Jacks…on?” he croaks out, shifting in his bed, blinking in the rays of the afternoon sun, but even now it feels near impossible to get up- his head is hurting, eyes stinging in the cold air, throat feeling like it’s been impaled by a thousand tiny needles just from forcing out those two syllables. He coughs once, twice, draws a breath that sounds awful through his nose, and the figure in the light shifts, arms outstretched.
“Hey,” Jackson’s reaching over to nudge Mark back down on the mattress, tugging the blanket back up, touch fluttering, hesitant, against Mark’s collarbones, as Jackson’s adjusts the fabric so the older boy stays warm. Mark’s eyes are adjusting to the light now, and it isn’t as bright as he remembers it being when Youngjae bade him goodbye this morning- it must be late in the afternoon now, when the sun’s pouring into the other side of the tower.
“How are you?”
Mark blinks away the tears that’d crept into his eyes from the light, wondering if he’s heard correctly. He gathers the sheets under his chin, inhaling slowly again, slightly embarrassed by how he must look right now- puffy-eyed, hair in a mess, nose runny and red.
“Better than I was last night,” Mark tries to laugh, but ends up coughing pathetically, and the pain in his throat spikes exponentially.
“Want some water?” Jackson asks quickly, shifting back from the bed.
Mark nods uncertainly, still trying to focus on Jackson’s face to see what’s wrong, before there’s a hand, gentle against the back of his head, supporting him, and the cool pressure of glass against his lips, and he sips at the water, slightly puzzled and slightly in awe.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t go this morning,” he barely manages a whisper once he’s done, but Jackson must’ve heard it anyway because he’s shaking his head.
“What? No, look at you, you can barely move, you would’ve died out there,” Jackson’s fiddling with the stray threads in Mark’s drapes once he puts down the glass, like he’s not quite sure if he should let his fingers wander. Mark remembers the way those same fingers used to run through his hair, intertwine themselves with his, wrap around his wrist and drag him after their owner in high-spirited pursuit of whatever else in life beckoned, and wonders where all that has gone, for a moment.
A pause, then-…
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mark winces- he’d been expecting that question.
“I didn’t want to distract you,” he mumbles. “You were busy.”
To be honest, that’s only half of it- Mark had just needed a moment to himself after yesterday, needed time to think over everything between him and Jackson. It was like yesterday had been the straw that broke the metaphorical camel’s back, and Mark could only do what he did best- isolate himself to think everything over with the care and value that something like this deserves. And it’d helped, because at least he knows what he’s going to do from now on.
Now, though, now he can hear every breath entering and exiting Jackson’s lungs, can see the smooth rise and fall in his shoulders every time that happens, and braces for impact, waits for the explosive that’s not important and do you know how worried I was and never do that to me again.
“I’m sorry.”
Mark only realises he’s shaking when Jackson’s hand comes to rest on his.
“What?”
“For yesterday,” Mark expects Jackson to sound uncomfortable, or hesitant, and it alarms him, just how tired Jackson sounds. “I’m sorry for forgetting. I’m sorry you stood out in the cold for so long.”
The older boy focuses on breathing evenly, looking up at Jackson, like he’s measuring his reaction with the scales of logic and reason that he’s always able to bring so easily to mind.
“It’s okay. You had important things to do.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” Jackson’s head is lowered, and Mark looks on warily, hands still folded weakly around Jackson’s.
He waits, letting the silence drag on, watching the distant look on Jackson’s face with some degree of uncertainty, feeling the dread start to pool at the pit of his stomach.
“Jackson?” he half-coughs out, voice cracking shamefully at the second syllable, betraying every bit of apprehension that’s currently weighing him down, because there’s something about the way Jackson looks so lost that frightens him. “It’s okay, really, I don’t-…”
“Mark, do you want to break up with me?”
Mark freezes halfway through his sentence, blinking once, twice, up at Jackson, and the silence seems to stretch the narrow distance between them, setting them on different planes entirely. He chokes out another cough, wondering why this has caught him off guard when really, he should’ve expected it since the day Jackson asked him out. He barely comprehends the murkiness in his sight until he blinks again, and warmth streams out from his eyes down the sides of his face.
“Why?”
Jackson isn’t even looking him in the eye, head lowered, both hands now wrapped around Mark’s. “Look at me,” he gives a weak laugh. “I didn’t make it for your competitions, I’ve been expecting you to help me out in my homework this entire year, I missed our date yesterday- I’m such a piece of shit, Mark, I don’t know why you still even let me in this morning. I didn’t deserve anything you ever did for me.”
Mark doesn’t speak- it’s true, those things had worn him down, each in their own way, but seeing Jackson so overwhelmed by everything he took in his stride had always made him worry, made him want to do what he could to alleviate even a little of the strain that the vitality of Jackson’s passions put upon his body. He’d been simultaneously inspired and exhausted by the extent to which Jackson invested himself in life, and maybe that’s the reason why he felt the obligation to try to take as much of it upon himself as he could, where he could.
“You didn’t have to help me or be okay with it when I messed up all those times,” he says, voice low, quiet, like Mark has never heard it before. “I’m so, so sorry, Mark, I shouldn’t have-…”
“You’re not.”
Jackson looks up at him, and in that moment Mark properly sees the bruised bags hanging under his eyes, lines fine as thread that have woven themselves into his face, nothing but shadows of everything he’d once known Jackson to be, and somehow it’s this, this, that spurs him to continue.
“Then don’t break up with me,” Mark tightens his grip on Jackson’s fingers the best he can, despite the fact he can barely move without getting a migraine. “Fix this. Don’t run away from this, Jackson.”
“How can I fix this?” there’s no mistaking the choke in Jackson’s voice. “I don’t even know what else I’ve done, Mark, how can I fix everything?”
“We’ll fix it. Once you’re in this there’s no more you, Jackson, it’s us,” Mark pulls Jackson’s hand closer, looking straight into his eyes, voice as strong as his throat allows. “We can do this. Give us a few months before we decide anything.”
“What if I mess up again?” Jackson seems paralysed by the idea, almost. “What if I never realise it?”
“Jackson,” Mark says firmly. “Look, I-…I thought this over last night too. Yes, I was hurt by all the things you did, but I know you never did any of those things because you genuinely didn’t care, and to be honest, it was my fault too, for never telling you how I felt and letting it build up to this. I guess the two of us just didn’t know how to deal with this relationship back then, but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn, right?”
“Hey, I’m from Gryffindor, remember?” Jackson says weakly. “Learning isn’t really my strong suit.”
“Then you’re lucky you have me,” Mark’s relieved to hear the Jackson he knows and loves somewhere in those words, muscles slackening against the pillow, already worn from the measly few minutes of exertion. “Let’s not jump to conclusions anymore, alright?” he leans forward a little to look Jackson in the eye, holding his gaze worriedly. “Can we start over?”
“If I do anything wrong-…” Jackson’s anxious, now, glancing away and back, but Mark’s just glad to know he’s hopeful. “You’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“Only if you tell me when I do something wrong too?” Mark adjusts their hands so their fingers are intertwined, eyes on Jackson, smile bordering on mirthful.
“You know-…” Jackson says, words tumbling over one another in hesitation. “You know I-…I really like you, right?”
A slow warmth, sweeter than the heat charm Jackson had cast just now, blossoms from the bottom of Mark’s heart, spreading within him, and he really smiles, gaze softening, somehow knowing with a warm certainty that things are going to get better, will be better, from now onwards.
“I love you too, Jackson.”
*
Sneakers stumble over robes and shoes as a Hufflepuff boy makes his way crossly to the side of the Quidditch pitch, bumping into a Ravenclaw girl as he does so.
“Good grief, I almost died on the way here, this had better be great-…”
“Shush,” the girl tells him absently. “Final round’s about to start.”
Both of them stare, one grumpily, one in admiration, as the two students take their positions on centre stage in the middle of the modified pitch. One of them wears the dark Durmstrang uniform, features sharp and confident, long fingers loosely playing with the wand in his hand, while the other, the Hogwarts boy, in blue robes, red hair striking against his pale skin, stands opposite, his face the picture of calm.
The teacher standing at the side, between them, raises her wand, looking at both of them for confirmation. It’s another second before she nods and lets loose the red flare from her wand, and after a breathtaking moment when both boys raise their wands, red and green clash immediately, loudly, from opposite ends of the platform, as she disappears to let the duel take place.
The Hufflepuff wrinkles his nose as he watches the light show on display. “You dragged me out here to see this?”
“Quiet,” The Ravenclaw girl snaps. “That’s Mark Tuan up there, the only guy in ten years who’s given Hogwarts a chance at winning the National Junior Wizarding Duels, so you’d better at least cheer if you’re not going to pay attention.”
There’s a collective gasp as the Durmstrang boy deflects one of the spells, sending it flying towards the crowd, only to disappear as it’s absorbed into the invisible force field separating the students from the match.
“I could be repotting my Puffapods right now,” the Hufflepuff gripes, as Mark ducks a blue flash of light, sending a red spell back that’s defended against quickly.
“Oh, give it a rest about the stupid Puffapods, will you,” the Ravenclaw implores. “This is a once in a lifetime match and you’re complaining about your plants?”
A bubble of excited chattering starts, before growing quickly, as Mark seems to conjure some sort of giant icicle from his wand while his opponent’s recovering from the last smoke hex, growing like ivy over the floor and stretching upwards between them in a way only magic can explain, probably as some sort of shield.
“They’ve missed their two o’clock watering!” the Hufflepuff protests. “That’s the most important one!”
“Oh for crying out loud, just shut up and go water them if you have to,” the girl almost stomps her foot. “This is the most important part of the match!”
The Durmstrang boy is casting dubious looks in the direction of the huge iceberg, almost like he’s inclined to laugh, even. The Hufflepuff pouts, looking reluctantly at the match in front of them.
“And what’s the point of all that ice?” he mutters, wounded, in a sore attempt at trying to show interest in the duel. “The other guy’s just going to shatter it, isn’t he?”
There’s a breathless silence as the glassy structure grows, sunlight glancing off its many facets through the force field.
“It’s not ice,” the girl replies after a moment, previous conflict forgotten in her awe. “It’s crystal.”
The Hufflepuff is about to ask what the difference even is when the Durmstrang boy seems to have decided he’s lost enough time waiting for Mark to finish, and raises his wand, triumphantly letting a red bolt of light fly.
The light hits the surface of the crystal, looking like it’s about to just slice through the transparent surface for a moment, before something changes-…
And the light looks like it’s exploded, billions of little rays refracted and shooting out from the crystal like a firework show, probably taking the Durmstrang boy by complete surprise, because three of them catch him in the stomach, forcing him to double over.
All eyes are on Mark, standing nonchalantly behind his crystal, having cast a deflective spell right after the other boy had let loose his last hex, and there’s a moment of silence, before the witch reappears, casting one look at the Durmstrang student, before lifting her wand hand up on Mark’s side.
Then the right side of the pitch seems to explode just like the light had, hundreds of students stomping and cheering and screaming, as the forcefield goes down and the teacher reverses the spell on the Durmstrang student, and Mark turns to the Hogwarts student body, a windswept grin on his face.
“Wait, so what happened,” the Hufflepuff says cautiously, and he’s bopped rather fiercely on the back of the head by the Ravenclaw.
“We won, that’s what happened!” she’s screaming, jumping up and down. “The first time in ten years! We won!”
“Okay,” the Hufflepuff mutters, slightly bitter that the Gardening and Herbology annual competitions are never paid as much attention as this. These people don’t know what they’re missing out on, seriously.
But then he tiptoes a little to look at this apparent hero who’s saved them from a ten year Duelling Championship drought, and speaking of attention-…
“Geez, who’s that guy in front,” he groans, eyes on the familiar looking seventh-year all the way at the front, yelling and doing some weird tribal dance-looking thing in the narrow space, clearly outstripping his neighbours in the extent of his cheering. “Is that a banner with Tuan All The Way on it, good grief-…”
“Oh, that’s Jackson Wang,” the Ravenclaw girl says dismissively. “Boyfriend, I think. He was watching the competition since the qualifiers in March.”
“Jackson?” the boy squints. “Isn’t he like, that jock from Gryffindor, or something? Why’s he wearing the Ravenclaw scarf? I thought the guy loved his house colours.”
“Why’re you asking me?” the girl rolls her eyes. “Probably some couple thing, or whatever. What matters is that we won! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have about twenty Galleons’ worth of bet money to collect-…”
“And I’ll be getting back to my Puffapods,” the boy mutters, sending a cross look behind him as someone treads heavily on his toes. “See you at the after party.”
“Don’t forget the weed!” the girl waves, before disappearing into the crowd, attracting the laughter of several guys and girls once they see who she’s talking to.
“Har har,” he mutters. He casts one more glance at the mess of people all crowding in front, a mix of blue, green and red, cringing slightly as Jackson, or whatever his name is, drags Mark in for an apparently breath-taking hug, before they’re smothered by the rest of their friends.
“Definitely going back to the Puffapods,” he mutters, retreating from the field sulkily.
*
(Jackson pins Mark to the wall of the locker room near the Quidditch pitch after the duel and before the party, lips searching his face, his neck, like he can’t get enough of him to be satisfied, and Mark lets his arms rest around Jackson’s shoulders as the other boy starts pulling at his clothes impatiently, laughing in giddiness from the win and the way Jackson’s fumbling with the fabric between them.
“Is this going to be a ritual,” he says in a breathy exhale, and Jackson laughs, the sound making the elation in Mark’s chest balloon impossibly further.
“It could,” he says, pressing his forehead to Mark’s, lips brushing his, tasting the smile at the edge of his mouth. “It could be anything you want it to, babe.”)
(They arrive late to the party, of course, panting and laughing and Mark’s swept away by his crowd of admirers at once, and Jackson sits with a thump beside Jinyoung and Jaebum on the couch, grabbing the drink out of Jaebum’s hands and snickering at the look on his face. He downs half of it as he looks around the room, eyes eventually landing on Mark, who’s with a few of his friends from the other side of the room, a couple of Ice Mice (his favourite sweet treat, Jackson had learned a couple months before) in his hands, laughing, eyes bright, relieved that the duel’s over and happy to be with his friends again.
And Jackson smiles.)
.
Fandom: got7
Pairing(s)/Focus: mark/jackson
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 9300
Work remixed: House Colours by the-resolver
Summary: as far as jackson’s concerned, #markson is a match made in heaven.
Notes/Warnings: to my remixee! i hope you like this, even though I changed the tone of the fic quite significantly ;A; hope this is enjoyed \o/
“Goddamn,” someone shouts into the freezing morning air from the courtyard some moments after dawn. It’s extremely jarring.
Jaebum groans with the consistency and tone of a weathered old set of bellows from his bed, but Jackson makes a beeline for the dorm window at once, halfway into his robes. A grin splits his face at the sight of several tumbling dots of black down below against the startling white of the snow.
“Get your ass out of bed!” he whips the blankets off Jaebum, cackling at the stream of expletives that follow. From the next couple of beds, someone starts mumble-cursing Jackson in a mixture of English and French, but Jackson doesn’t need to care- Quidditch is almost synonymous with diplomatic immunity around here, anyway. “It’s snowing, you old piece of shit, you can’t stay in bed!”
Jaebum almost breathes fire, then, eyes flashing, and Jackson rounds his bed with an ecstatic yell, thundering down the stairs two at a time.
It isn’t every day they get a snow day on a weekend, and apparently about half the school population’s realised this too, because in the five minutes it’s taken Jackson to reach the courtyard, black splashes have blossomed onto the white, boys and girls barely wrapped up in scarves and beanies all overflowing on the icy powder, laughing and screaming.
Jackson rams his shoulder hard into the back of one of the boys he knows from Herbology, Jongup, and gets a face full of snow in return, laughing so hard he can feel the little white crystals melting in his nose and throat.
“Jackson’s here!” Song Minho booms, one of the Gryffindor seniors and the team’s outstanding Keeper, and promptly, the sporadic sea of black seems to part, people looking over their shoulders and shrieking when Jackson sends a spray of snow their way, laughter escalating so loud he barely hears another voice, softer, though deliberately audible enough for him to hear.
“Make way for Gryffindor’s alpha dog,” Park Jinyoung titters snidely, and Jackson turns with a lopsided grin to face Slytherin’s pretty-eyed Seeker, smiling back at him with some level of amused derision. “Careful not to trip over all the attention you’re getting, Wang.”
“At least I get enough to know what to do with it, Park,” Jackson tosses some snow up, laughing as he treads through the white mass to get to Minho. “Chill, man, it’s a snow day!”
It’s a snow day doesn’t even begin to describe the snowball fight that follows that morning- it’s organised warfare between the four houses, including snow forts and trenches, that quickly devolves as the three houses team up on Hufflepuff, followed by a betrayal on Ravenclaw’s part towards Slytherin, and somehow that translates into an every-man-for-himself all-out genocide.
Halfway through getting a snowball shoved down the back of his robes, courtesy of a Hufflepuff boy he barely knows, Jackson catches sight of a pale face behind the third-floor window in mid-yell, and the smile on his face promptly widens.
“Babe, get down here, the snow’s great!” he cups his hands around his mouth to yell, stumbling a little as a girl collides into him from behind while trying to escape a snowball, squealing in excitement.
His grin falters a little at the way Mark’s expression, barely visible behind the murky glass, remains unchanging, before disappearing entirely as the boy leaves the window.
Exactly four seconds of confused disappointment follows, before he gets a snowball to the ear, and all apprehensions are thrown to the back of his head as usual, as he turns, grinning widely and counter-snowball at the ready, worries forgotten.
*
“Hey,” Jackson’s breathing heavily as he rounds the Ravenclaw table, hands affectionately squeezing Mark’s narrow shoulders, ignoring the general look of distaste that several of the surrounding students shoot at him for leaving a trail of melting snow and mud in his wake. “Hey, where were you this morning?”
“Sleeping,” Mark shrugs, chewing on a sausage- Jackson wrinkles his nose at the meagre amount of food Mark’s taken for himself.
“Is that all you’re eating? You know you’re not going to be able to eat till like, six hours later, because of the Ice Enchantment Festival later right?” he scowls, before gesturing at one of the other boys beside Mark, Youngjae, or something. “Hey, you’re just going to let him starve like this? Put something else on his plate, for crying out loud.”
The boy shoots him a partially offended, mostly silently annoyed look, before using the tongs to get a roll of bread onto Mark’s plate.
“Jackson,” Mark mutters uncomfortably, then, pushing the other boy’s hands off his shoulders, and Jackson raises a brow, hands in the air.
“What?” he frowns, wondering what he’d done to warrant something like that- couldn’t a guy be concerned about how much his boyfriend was eating?
Then someone yells out a Jackson, get your ass over here from the head of the Gryffindor table, and Jackson eyes Mark one last time, noting the pensive look on the older boy’s face with some discomfort before he trudges back, breaking into a run at the last few steps to avoid the sausage that one of the guys aims at him.
Needless to say, Jackson doesn’t spare the morning’s events much further thought.
*
But then again, in retrospect, this doesn’t even matter much, doesn’t matter at all, in fact, because according to Jackson Wang, #Markson is a match made in heaven.
It’d been like a hit and run, he recalls blissfully to this day. The moment he’d set his eyes on Mark during Charms, when the quiet redhead managed to impress Flitwick by pulling off a rather difficult spell with considerable ease, he’d known that Mark was The One.
It hadn’t taken much for Jackson to muster up the courage to ask him out either- he’d been in his fifth year, about time for someone like him, Beater and one of the star players of the leading Quidditch team, to get attached, wasn’t it?
It isn’t just about howgorgeous Mark is, either, with his pale skin, ethereal aura and mysterious half-smiles, because everyone already knows attractive people make the best couples, don’t they? No, Jackson prefers to think that their relationship goes much deeper than that.
Their compatibility was perfect, he reasoned, as did most of the friends who knew about the two of them had said- Jackson’s confident where Mark’s quiet. Jackson connects when Mark isolates himself. Jackson’s-…
“Dumb brawn while Mark’s the only one with any sense at all,” Jaebum says absently over their idle homework session, crammed into the common room that night. Again, being on the Quidditch team and known by just about the whole school earns Jackson his spot on the armchair by the fire, and by association (also because he’s Head Boy, but no one really listens to that part and Jaebum can’t be assed to care as long as he gets a place by the fire anyway) Jaebum’s opposite him, scrawling something on a piece of parchment.
Jackson pouts, teary-eyed look intensifying when Jaebum ignores him completely. “Hyung! How could you say that?”
“He’s from Ravenclaw. You’re from Gryffindor. Get over it,” Jaebum scratches the tip of his nose, careful not to drip ink on his (already dark, so Jackson doesn’t really see the point) robes. “Have you done the Potions assignment, by the way? What’s the answer to question twenty-four?”
“And you say I’m stupid,” Jackson huffs, tossing his own parchment roll over.
“You’re only getting all these answers because Mark helps you every time,” Jaebum says absently, checking against Jackson’s column of answers, before writing something down on his own parchment with some degree of satisfaction.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ve got all the time in the world to always be on top of my homework, anyway,” Jackson says defensively, even more wounded at the sight of Jaebum clearly not paying attention to whatever he’s saying. “You’re Head Boy and you aren’t in half of the organising committees and events I’ve helped out in!”
“Exactly,” Jaebum makes a face at one of the answers on his parchment, carefully cancelling it, before continuing to write beside it. “I know where to stop because I know where my priorities are. Don’t you think you’re falling back on Mark a little too often?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, hyung,” the words sound odd, even to Jackson, who’s been waiting to say this since the start of the conversation. They itch on his tongue, like they know he’s using them to tell a lie, which doesn’t make sense, because there’s no way something like this could be anything but the truth, right? “Mark helps me because he knows I’ve got a lot to deal with, and he’s understanding and he loves me- I’m not forcing him to do it, sheesh.”
Jaebum sighs into his parchment, scratching his nose again, and Jackson’s so bothered by his apathy he can’t even muster the willpower to crack a joke about the black ink smudges Jaebum keeps leaving on his nose. “Whatever you say, Jacks.”
Jackson’s frowning for almost the rest of the night- what he’d said was true, wasn’t it? Sure, he’d asked Mark for help countless times, usually the night before a big project or assignment was due, but Mark had always seemed willing to help at those times. Jaebum was probably just jealous he didn’t have someone as perfect as Mark with him all the time.
Jackson hesitates for a moment after that thought.
Still, though, just to make sure-…
“You’re done?” Mark sounds genuinely surprised when he settles next to Jackson at one of the stone tables near the courtyard, books and parchment rolls in his hand.
“Oh, yeah, I uh,” Jackson gestures weakly to the parchment with one hand, still scribbling with the other. “I had some extra time on my hands, so I thought-…”
Mark unrolls one of the scripts, and Jackson feels the burn of embarrassment when the older boy starts to laugh. “There a reason why you replace the “w” with a “b” every time you write “witch” here?”
“Oh shit, let me just,” Jackson mumbles, snatching the parchment out of Mark’s hands, hastily scribbling out the offending letters and writing the right one in its place. “See? I’ve got it. I’m handling my own homework fine.”
“I’m amazed,” Mark says drily, albeit with a small smile. “This is monumental- Jackson Wang Jia Er, finishing his homework on his own. Someone call the Daily Prophet, this needs an article and an interview.”
“Yeah,” Jackson’s throat is dry- he doesn’t know why he’s behaving like this all of a sudden, nervous and guarded and awkward, completely ignoring Mark’s words in favour of blurting out what’s been on his mind since the conversation with Jaebum. “So-…you know. You don’t need to come down so often. I can handle things here. You can uh-…do your stuff.”
There’s a lengthy pause after that.
“Oh.”
Jackson sneaks a peek at Mark over the tip of his quill- the other boy’s fixing him with a puzzled glance.
“Uhm,” Mark’s still holding his books, Jackson realises, slender fingers wrapped around their spines uncomfortably. He straightens in his seat, like he’s just realised something. “So, uhm, do you still want a hand with this essay, or…?”
“I got it! Really, I can handle this one,” Jackson blabbers anxiously, burying himself in another worksheet. “You can go do all the-…uh, the stuff that you, uh, you do. I got this.”
“Oh. Okay,” Mark fidgets in his seat. “Well, actually, yeah, I do have some practice to catch up on-…”
“Yeah! Don’t let me bother you,” Jackson says, relieved that it’s working, he’s making things better, as he dives back into his essay corrections. “Really! You don’t have to be around here.”
There’s a longer pause this time, before Mark stands. “Uhm. Okay, then.”
Another few seconds of silence, and the other boy turns to shuffle off, giving a half-hearted wave, which Jackson returns while looking as busy as he possibly can.
When Mark’s well and truly out of sight, Jackson slumps back into his chair, eyes screwed shut, letting out a long breath, before taking a forlorn glance at his essay.
For Mark, he tells himself determinedly, steeling himself with a deep inhale, before plunging back into the thick of his essay.
Jackson makes extra sure to tidy up all his homework over the next week so he won’t have to bother the other boy on such short notice again anytime soon, and though he’s pretty miserable with the workload and the hours he spends on end without seeing Mark, he pulls through.
Just in case, you know. That Jaebum’s right.
*
Little changes after that, other than the fact that Mark doesn’t show up as often in Jackson’s daily life as much as he used to. But this doesn’t do anything to alter the fact that according to Jackson, Mark is the most perfect person to walk this Earth.
It’s crazy, he muses sometimes- Mark’s pretty, kind, amazingly smart, always taking care of Jackson when the other boy needs it the most. Jackson recalls, with a certain fondness, all the times he’d just had to look down from his broom during a match, high above the world below, to search for the splash of red hair in the sea of blue, and feel the strength rush back to him immediately, like he could rule the world with just Mark by his side and nothing else.
Mark is his constant, the only thing that’ll always be there for him when he needs it, even when everything else has upped and left in his life. And that’s the only thing that’ll ever matter, right?
“He won, by the way.”
Jackson looks up owlishly from where he’d been glancing over his timetable, trying to figure out a slot he could finish up the meeting for that new event coming up in spring, to see Choi Youngjae, that Ravenclaw fifth-year that hangs around Mark sometimes (more so now that Jackson’s doing that less), blue scarf wrapped around his neck like a balaclava, looking down at Jackson through his black frames with some hint of distaste.
“Huh?”
“The Winter Intra-School Duelling Championship,” Youngjae sniffs, glancing over a fingernail, as if it doesn’t really matter to him. “Mark came in first. I don’t suppose you were there, or you would’ve known that he mentioned you in his dedication speech.”
“Wait,” Jackson says incredulously. “Wait, hang on a sec- he was in a competition?”
The hint of distaste on Youngjae’s face takes a rather lengthy step towards full-blown polite revulsion. “Yes, Jackson-ssi, he’s been taking part in duelling competitions since second year, this is his second time winning the Intra-School Championships, he was slated to represent us and take part in the nationals this year until one of the contestants got sent to St. Mungo’s and the competition got cancelled, and his favourite hex and the winning spell for this and last year’s championships is Stupefy, but I doubt you know what that does, so it’s not like there’s a point trying to explain these things to you anyway.”
Jackson frowns, quite sure he’d been insulted somewhere in there, but he’s too busy trying to turn everything over in his head to care. Now that Youngjae mentioned it, yeah, Jackson did remember Mark bringing something up about a competition a couple of weeks back, but there’d been something- a meeting? Yeah, one of the adhoc meetings to prepare for the upcoming spring events, that’d clashed with the date. Even now, Jackson barely remembers refusing Mark’s request- but maybe it’d also been because of the way Mark had put it across, quietly, unobtrusively, littered with “only if you’re free on that day”s and “if it isn’t too much trouble”s, and Jackson didn’t even remember his own response, much less the fact that he’d refused.
“You did know about the competition, didn’t you?” Youngjae’s wrinkling his nose carefully now, like he’s trying to mete out the appropriate amount of disgust to fit the conversation.
“Yeah-…what, of course I did,” Jackson half-snaps, wiping his palms on his pant legs, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to go through the past five months of his life again to try and remember anything else Mark might have mentioned (and he might have missed). “I, uh, I had something on. He told me it was okay. He knows I’ve got a lot of things to do, he understands.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Youngjae purses his lips, rearranging the scarf around his neck with the hand that isn’t holding the scarily thick books to his chest. “Now that just needs to work both ways.”
Jackson’s about to open his mouth to ask what he means, but the students streaming into the Great Hall are making this hard- a horde of Hufflepuffs trudge past, and when Jackson cranes his neck to look over their heads, Youngjae’s already gone.
*
Staring blithely into a dying fireplace, doing nothing, is strangely more therapeutic than Jackson had imagined it to be. Then again, it’s been a pretty shitty couple of weeks, so Jackson guesses a lot of things would feel therapeutic.
“Are you listening,” Jimin snaps her fingers in front of Jackson’s face, and he startles back into attention, shaking his head. “The Winter Sonnet Night. Catering. Invites. What are we going to do.”
“Why are you even asking me?” Jackson mumbles, running a hand through his hair, rubbing at his eyes in exhaustion.
“Why aren’t the Prefects helping with this?”
“That’s ‘cause you said you could handle it, like a month ago,” Jimin purses her lips. “Yah, Jackson Wang, I’m giving up an entire Hogsmeade outing to get this done with you, you’d better not bail on me now.”
“Mmh,” Jackson stares glumly at the list in front of him, eyes lidded. It’s weird- he’s always so energised and excited about planning events like these, so feeling this drained, it’s something new entirely. It’s like life’s adhered to his skin, stretching and dragging him unwillingly forward when all he wants is to sit in silence by himself, or with Mark, for a moment. The homework, the final match with Slytherin coming up tomorrow, and exams looming in the distance- Jackson’s just more than a little stressed with everything that’s happening now.
Now that’s something new, considering the fact that “quiet Jackson” is an oxymoron and even he knows that. He doesn’t mean to say he hates spending time with people and getting involved in current affairs now- he’s just sort of tired of it for the time being.
Whatever’s wrong is apparently enough to tip Jimin off, because the snappish edge to her voice is gone when she speaks next, replaced by uncomfortable concern.
“Look, why don’t you just hand this back to Jaebum and the team?” Jimin squints, and Jackson shakes his head tiredly.
“I already said I’d do this, I can’t just give up now.”
“Yeah, that’s your fault,” Jimin scoffs. “But you look like shit now, no offence. Jaebum’s your best friend, he’ll get it. You’ve been going on overdrive for the past couple of months, and with the match coming up tomorrow, he’ll probably want you to be in top shape to win us that Cup.”
“The others are going to kill me,” Jackson squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will away the migraine that’s beginning to grow from his temples. “Dumping all this back on them at the last minute.”
“Oh, I’ll handle the rest of them,” Jimin says dismissively. “It’s sort of their fault for pushing this onto you anyway- besides, there’s like two weeks left to the Sonnet, they’ve got enough time to pull some shit together. And now you know, don’t you, not to bite off more you can chew? With exams coming up next month and everything, taking all this on was a pretty stupid idea to begin with.”
“Thanks, thanks so much,” Jackson mutters, unable to muster enough energy to snark back at Jimin in response. “So-…we meet them tonight, or…?”
“Yeah, you drop Jaebum a line and we’ll hand this shit back to them after dinner- you’ve paid your dues to this school in terms of involvement already anyway,” Jimin shrugs. “Now go and eat or sleep or something, man, you look like you’re about to die.”
“I feel it,” Jackson admits, slumping back in his armchair. “You know I forgot the Potions and Transfiguration essays that were due yesterday? Don’t know what the hell I’m going to forget next- I’m probably going to come down to breakfast tomorrow in pyjamas.”
“I look forward to that,” Jimin says drily. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to join Hayi at Honeydukes and beg for her forgiveness for ditching her at the last minute to meet you about this. You owe me a Butterbeer.”
“Mmh,” Jackson mumbles, something nagging at the back of his mind at the mention of Hogsmeade that quickly disappears as Jimin leaves, and he slumps back in the armchair, falling asleep almost immediately.
That something, whatever it is, resumes its nagging as he slouches his way down to the Great Hall for dinner that night, having woken up two hours after Jimin left and rushed through his essays, and he’s mulling over what to say to Jaebum and the House Prefects when he bumps into a mix of blue and green- blinking rapidly as he stumbles backwards.
“Oh, Jackson-hyung!” Yugyeom’s wearing the blue scarf this time- he and Bambam seem to have this habit of switching colours every time they go to Hogsmeade, mostly to confuse their friends (at least, that’s the excuse they gave every time Mark asked last year). His eyes are sparkling in the way they did when he left Dungbombs under Jaebum’s seat on the bench during the Halloween Feast and blamed it on Jackson (successfully, thanks to Jaebum’s shitty lack of trust in his friends), so it’s no wonder that the older boy is instantly suspicious.
Seeing the scarves, though, for a moment there, Jackson’s faintly reminded of one quiet night in a dark locker room, the gentle bruises blooming where cold fingers left imprints on his shoulders, red and gold on pale skin suddenly dull against the alluring vermillion of silky soft strands in between Jackson’s fingers while blue lay discarded on the floor, and for some reason that makes his throat go dry the same way it did when he had that conversation with Jaebum, or when Youngjae dropped the bomb about the competitions Mark’s been taking part in all this time.
Bambam doesn’t seem inclined to offer the same greeting, though, avoiding Jackson’s eyes, and the nagging at the back of Jackson’s mind grows exponentially louder.
“Where were you today?” Yugyeom’s laughing, an arm around Bambam’s shoulders, and Jackson blinks, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Huh?”
“Your date, hyung, with Mark-hyung, at the Three Broomsticks,” Bambam finally cuts in, then, condescension dripping from his voice.
Jackson thinks his legs almost give out under him then, because the grin on Yugyeom’s face spreads to manic proportions.
“Hyung, you didn’t forget about it, now, did you?”
“Shit,” Jackson almost wails, attracting the momentary attention of several passing students, who immediately assume all is well and continue walking when they see who it is. “I knew I was forgetting something, it completely slipped my mind, fuck-…”
“He was waiting out in the snow for ages, hyung,” Yugyeom looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Bambam and I had to drag him in after what, half an hour? He was convinced you were just late, or something, you know, he looked so crushed after like, two hours passed, and you didn’t show up- ow!”
“Don’t worry, we made sure he at least got to enjoy a Butterbeer on his Hogsmeade outing when he sat with us after that,” Bambam says coolly, withdrawing his hand from Yugyeom’s side, where he’d obviously pinched the younger boy midway through Yugyeom’s spiel. “I’d go buy him a bunch of flowers and apologise on bended knee now if I were you.”
“Where is he?” Jackson says, eyes wide and panicked, trying to remember if there’s anywhere someone can get a bouquet in the middle of winter. “He should be coming down for dinner, shouldn’t he?”
“Nah, he said he didn’t feel up to eating when we came back with him just now,” Yugyeom says ruefully, sending a reproachful glance at Bambam, which goes completely ignored. “He’s probably heading for the Ravenclaw dorm now, you might be able to catch him if you’re-…whoa, ow!”
Jackson’s already pivoted around the two of them and sped off, tearing down the hall towards the Ravenclaw dorms, ignoring the surprised yells of the people he brushes past.
“What’s his problem,” Yugyeom sniffs, unamused, dusting his shoulder thoughtlessly.
“I should be asking you that question,” Bambam says sharply, ignoring the wounded look Yugyeom sends him as he pulls the scarf around his neck off none-too-gently. “And give me my scarf back,” he dumps the green fabric into Yugyeom’s hands, tugging the blue one off from where it’s loosely draped around the taller boy’s shoulders, before storming off into the Great Hall, leaving the pouting, mostly annoyed, giant standing alone at the entrance.
Jackson’s breathless by the time he’s climbed all the ridiculous stairs up to the bronze eagle knocker, trying to avert the stares of the few Ravenclaw kids coming out to go down for dinner. He’s suddenly aware of how little his apparent influence penetrates the most of the Ravenclaws- the students that pass either give him a once-over and walk on, snickering in quiet whispers with their friends, or think him worthy enough of a full-blown judgemental stare before they disappear down as well.
He almost cries out in relief at the sight of Youngjae leaving the door, waving to get his attention.
“Jae, Jae you gotta help me, can you let me in?” he’s staring anxiously into the doorway. “I need to see Mark.”
Youngjae takes one look at him, then at the door, before turning back to him, eyes deliberately wide with mock innocence.
“Answer the riddle then.”
“Huh?” Jackson blinks, stepping aside to avoid a group of boys on the way down. “Riddle?”
“Yes, Jackson-ssi, the riddle,” the door swings shut, and the bronze eagle that remains seems to be staring through his head into his soul. “Answer the riddle and you can go in. Just like the rest of us.”
“Jae, I don’t have time for this, could you just let me in? This is serious!” Jackson begs, about to lose his head.
“And I’m just as serious,” Youngjae deadpans. “You can’t possibly be expecting me to let you in to see Mark-hyung like that after everything you’ve done, can you?”
“I-…” Jackson stutters, then, taken aback by the brutal honesty on Youngjae’s part. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then you can keep standing out here,” Youngjae raises a brow. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going down for dinner.”
“Jae!” Jackson calls, desperate now, and Youngjae glances back, lips pressed together. “Look, I know I’ve-…I’ve probably been messing up really big this past month. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. And I-…I understand if you don’t want to let me in tonight. But when-…when you get back in tonight, could you- could you tell him I’m sorry about this afternoon? And…this whole year,” Jackson finishes lamely.
The look in Youngjae’s eyes shifts momentarily, and Jackson’s relieved to hear at least a hint of sympathy in his voice when he speaks again. “You can tell him that yourself when you see him again. He’s just not really up to seeing anyone tonight.”
“Oh-…okay,” Jackson says, deflating slightly, watching as Youngjae turns away and continues walking down the stairs, before glancing back at the bronze eagle, defeated.
I’m a stupid piece of shit, aren’t I.
The last student hurries down, leaving Jackson hunched, alone, at the top of the stairwell, and he lets out an infinitesimal sigh, every ounce of strength seemingly leaving him at once. The journey down the stairs now looks a lot more tiring than the one up had been, and Jackson takes once last morose look in the direction of the knocker.
The eagle stares, catching and holding his gaze imperiously for a moment. Then-…
“Why did the wizard never stop seeking that which he had already found?”
Jackson lets out a mirthless, breathy laugh, before slumping his way down the stairs, inexplicably more exhausted than he’s been in a long while.
“Wish I knew too,” he mumbles aimlessly, to no one in particular.
*
Jackson spends the rest of the night and the next morning in a stupor, of sorts- even while Jimin’s talking to Jaebum about handing back the event, while the Gryffindor team captain gathers them for a quick pep talk during breakfast the next morning, while he’s changing out of his robes, he’s in a daze, not quite sure what he’s doing, where he’s going.
It occurs to him how ridiculous things are when a year ago that this turmoil would’ve made perfect sense- his perfect Mark, his one and only true love, was angry at him, so how could things possibly be alright?
But something’s different now, like the rose coloured lenses perched on his nose have been smashed and he’s sprawled on the ground, reeling from the impact, finally seeing everything in its entirety rather than just glancing it over and trampling on it as he pleases.
Now he wants nothing more than to just have a day to himself, to try and dig up everything that’s happened over the year and live it again, fingers itching to reach back and hastily correct everything that he fears he might have done wrong. He’s reliving everything from a completely different point of view, frozen in a standstill on the path of his life when he’s thrown himself into the journey with vigour every year leading up to now, and now the passing events seem to echo around his head, having stolen all the joy and excitement that’d once stemmed so abundantly from within him.
The prospect of the match ahead weighs heavy and cold in his gut that morning, when he’d always been itching to start it and go in, guns blazing, for the win. Apparently the rest of his team can sense it too because his captain even drags him aside for a firm talk before the match, warning him of the potential consequences of letting one’s emotions affect them in the midst of important events like these, but all it does is make the sickness in the pit of Jackson’s stomach worse. Had Mark always been less important than Quidditch to him prior to this? Just what else has he been prioritising over his boyfriend?
Somehow the thought stays with him all the way until kick off, when he’s standing with his broom in the field, barely hearing the deafening screams of the crowd at the most-awaited match of every season. The sneers and staring challenges of the opposing team fall on deaf eyes and blind ears, because Jackson’s only craning his neck to scan the sea of blue, stomach sinking when he can’t find what he’s looking for, though by now he knows he probably shouldn’t be surprised.
Needless to say, the match that follows isn’t his best.
*
Gryffindor wins. Wins the Quidditch Cup, probably the House Cup, wins the affection and adoration of the school population, and Jackson walks out of the post-match celebration in his Quidditch uniform, leaving his broom with a semi-drunk Jaebum and a trail of melting slush in his wake.
Halfway up the stairs, a group of Slytherin girls look like they’re about to give him the stink-eye, before seeing the look on his face and parting slowly to let him walk past, puzzled. Six years of being in this school, one year of being Mark’s boyfriend, and this is the second time he’s gone up to the Ravenclaw dorm, he realises.
He barely notices the familiar uniform at the foot of the spiral staircase, so it’s only when he physically bumps into the person, mumbling out sorrys and just passing through, that he actually sees who it is.
“What are you doing here?” Jinyoung asks, viridian Quidditch uniform speckled similarly with mud and damp with icy water. The question isn’t particularly unkind- just blank, slightly cautious, and Jackson gets the uncomfortable feeling that the Slytherin boy knows something he doesn’t.
“I’m looking for Mark,” he decides he might as well be upfront about it at this point, but instead of the condescending laugh or snicker he’d been expecting, Jinyoung just looks slightly surprised.
Somehow that makes everything ten times worse.
“He hasn’t told you?” Jinyoung asks- his voice has this ability to maintain every bit of clarity despite the way it seems to tread quietly through the mess in Jackson’s head, every syllable sinking little anchors in his mind.
Jackson doesn’t open his mouth to ask.
Predictably, Jinyoung tells him everything anyway.
*
That morning’s air is the kind that crystallises and leaves little icebergs in one’s lungs, in one’s throat, between their teeth- they stay just long enough to pierce you, leave a thousand tiny flesh wounds all over you before they melt, stealing your breath as they go, before the moment passes and it’s like they were never there at all.
Mark keeps breathing, though.
He’d conjure a warming spell if he had the energy to reach out from his bed and find his wand, but that’s out of the question right now with how he feels like one gust of wind would be enough to do him over. Besides, getting out would mean letting the drafts in from between the drapes of his four poster, and he isn’t sure he’s ready to face the elements again to such an extent yet.
Speaking of the cold- a sliver of it manages to worm its way through the drapes to strike his lower back, somehow, and Mark frowns, eyes still closed, shifting in discomfort as he draws a laboured breath through his stuffy nose, but then it’s quickly replaced by a slow warmth that spreads from the same spot through the entire four poster, until it’s nicely toasty where Mark is, and he lets out a breath, relieved when his headache eases, along with all the other slow aches in his body.
It takes him a while, through his sickness-induced state, but he recognises it anyway: it’s a magical warmth- he can feel the tendrils of it wrapping gently around his arms and legs, soothing the sore spots that have buried themselves in his muscles and bones, and he smiles slightly, turning sleepily to give the person responsible (probably Youngjae or Bambam, if he’s managed to get up here from the fifth year dorms) a word of thanks.
Then he stops, squinting, because he’s quite sure who he’s seeing isn’t either of them.
Mark hesitates, a lot more than he probably should.
“Jacks…on?” he croaks out, shifting in his bed, blinking in the rays of the afternoon sun, but even now it feels near impossible to get up- his head is hurting, eyes stinging in the cold air, throat feeling like it’s been impaled by a thousand tiny needles just from forcing out those two syllables. He coughs once, twice, draws a breath that sounds awful through his nose, and the figure in the light shifts, arms outstretched.
“Hey,” Jackson’s reaching over to nudge Mark back down on the mattress, tugging the blanket back up, touch fluttering, hesitant, against Mark’s collarbones, as Jackson’s adjusts the fabric so the older boy stays warm. Mark’s eyes are adjusting to the light now, and it isn’t as bright as he remembers it being when Youngjae bade him goodbye this morning- it must be late in the afternoon now, when the sun’s pouring into the other side of the tower.
“How are you?”
Mark blinks away the tears that’d crept into his eyes from the light, wondering if he’s heard correctly. He gathers the sheets under his chin, inhaling slowly again, slightly embarrassed by how he must look right now- puffy-eyed, hair in a mess, nose runny and red.
“Better than I was last night,” Mark tries to laugh, but ends up coughing pathetically, and the pain in his throat spikes exponentially.
“Want some water?” Jackson asks quickly, shifting back from the bed.
Mark nods uncertainly, still trying to focus on Jackson’s face to see what’s wrong, before there’s a hand, gentle against the back of his head, supporting him, and the cool pressure of glass against his lips, and he sips at the water, slightly puzzled and slightly in awe.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t go this morning,” he barely manages a whisper once he’s done, but Jackson must’ve heard it anyway because he’s shaking his head.
“What? No, look at you, you can barely move, you would’ve died out there,” Jackson’s fiddling with the stray threads in Mark’s drapes once he puts down the glass, like he’s not quite sure if he should let his fingers wander. Mark remembers the way those same fingers used to run through his hair, intertwine themselves with his, wrap around his wrist and drag him after their owner in high-spirited pursuit of whatever else in life beckoned, and wonders where all that has gone, for a moment.
A pause, then-…
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mark winces- he’d been expecting that question.
“I didn’t want to distract you,” he mumbles. “You were busy.”
To be honest, that’s only half of it- Mark had just needed a moment to himself after yesterday, needed time to think over everything between him and Jackson. It was like yesterday had been the straw that broke the metaphorical camel’s back, and Mark could only do what he did best- isolate himself to think everything over with the care and value that something like this deserves. And it’d helped, because at least he knows what he’s going to do from now on.
Now, though, now he can hear every breath entering and exiting Jackson’s lungs, can see the smooth rise and fall in his shoulders every time that happens, and braces for impact, waits for the explosive that’s not important and do you know how worried I was and never do that to me again.
“I’m sorry.”
Mark only realises he’s shaking when Jackson’s hand comes to rest on his.
“What?”
“For yesterday,” Mark expects Jackson to sound uncomfortable, or hesitant, and it alarms him, just how tired Jackson sounds. “I’m sorry for forgetting. I’m sorry you stood out in the cold for so long.”
The older boy focuses on breathing evenly, looking up at Jackson, like he’s measuring his reaction with the scales of logic and reason that he’s always able to bring so easily to mind.
“It’s okay. You had important things to do.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” Jackson’s head is lowered, and Mark looks on warily, hands still folded weakly around Jackson’s.
He waits, letting the silence drag on, watching the distant look on Jackson’s face with some degree of uncertainty, feeling the dread start to pool at the pit of his stomach.
“Jackson?” he half-coughs out, voice cracking shamefully at the second syllable, betraying every bit of apprehension that’s currently weighing him down, because there’s something about the way Jackson looks so lost that frightens him. “It’s okay, really, I don’t-…”
“Mark, do you want to break up with me?”
Mark freezes halfway through his sentence, blinking once, twice, up at Jackson, and the silence seems to stretch the narrow distance between them, setting them on different planes entirely. He chokes out another cough, wondering why this has caught him off guard when really, he should’ve expected it since the day Jackson asked him out. He barely comprehends the murkiness in his sight until he blinks again, and warmth streams out from his eyes down the sides of his face.
“Why?”
Jackson isn’t even looking him in the eye, head lowered, both hands now wrapped around Mark’s. “Look at me,” he gives a weak laugh. “I didn’t make it for your competitions, I’ve been expecting you to help me out in my homework this entire year, I missed our date yesterday- I’m such a piece of shit, Mark, I don’t know why you still even let me in this morning. I didn’t deserve anything you ever did for me.”
Mark doesn’t speak- it’s true, those things had worn him down, each in their own way, but seeing Jackson so overwhelmed by everything he took in his stride had always made him worry, made him want to do what he could to alleviate even a little of the strain that the vitality of Jackson’s passions put upon his body. He’d been simultaneously inspired and exhausted by the extent to which Jackson invested himself in life, and maybe that’s the reason why he felt the obligation to try to take as much of it upon himself as he could, where he could.
“You didn’t have to help me or be okay with it when I messed up all those times,” he says, voice low, quiet, like Mark has never heard it before. “I’m so, so sorry, Mark, I shouldn’t have-…”
“You’re not.”
Jackson looks up at him, and in that moment Mark properly sees the bruised bags hanging under his eyes, lines fine as thread that have woven themselves into his face, nothing but shadows of everything he’d once known Jackson to be, and somehow it’s this, this, that spurs him to continue.
“Then don’t break up with me,” Mark tightens his grip on Jackson’s fingers the best he can, despite the fact he can barely move without getting a migraine. “Fix this. Don’t run away from this, Jackson.”
“How can I fix this?” there’s no mistaking the choke in Jackson’s voice. “I don’t even know what else I’ve done, Mark, how can I fix everything?”
“We’ll fix it. Once you’re in this there’s no more you, Jackson, it’s us,” Mark pulls Jackson’s hand closer, looking straight into his eyes, voice as strong as his throat allows. “We can do this. Give us a few months before we decide anything.”
“What if I mess up again?” Jackson seems paralysed by the idea, almost. “What if I never realise it?”
“Jackson,” Mark says firmly. “Look, I-…I thought this over last night too. Yes, I was hurt by all the things you did, but I know you never did any of those things because you genuinely didn’t care, and to be honest, it was my fault too, for never telling you how I felt and letting it build up to this. I guess the two of us just didn’t know how to deal with this relationship back then, but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn, right?”
“Hey, I’m from Gryffindor, remember?” Jackson says weakly. “Learning isn’t really my strong suit.”
“Then you’re lucky you have me,” Mark’s relieved to hear the Jackson he knows and loves somewhere in those words, muscles slackening against the pillow, already worn from the measly few minutes of exertion. “Let’s not jump to conclusions anymore, alright?” he leans forward a little to look Jackson in the eye, holding his gaze worriedly. “Can we start over?”
“If I do anything wrong-…” Jackson’s anxious, now, glancing away and back, but Mark’s just glad to know he’s hopeful. “You’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“Only if you tell me when I do something wrong too?” Mark adjusts their hands so their fingers are intertwined, eyes on Jackson, smile bordering on mirthful.
“You know-…” Jackson says, words tumbling over one another in hesitation. “You know I-…I really like you, right?”
A slow warmth, sweeter than the heat charm Jackson had cast just now, blossoms from the bottom of Mark’s heart, spreading within him, and he really smiles, gaze softening, somehow knowing with a warm certainty that things are going to get better, will be better, from now onwards.
“I love you too, Jackson.”
*
Sneakers stumble over robes and shoes as a Hufflepuff boy makes his way crossly to the side of the Quidditch pitch, bumping into a Ravenclaw girl as he does so.
“Good grief, I almost died on the way here, this had better be great-…”
“Shush,” the girl tells him absently. “Final round’s about to start.”
Both of them stare, one grumpily, one in admiration, as the two students take their positions on centre stage in the middle of the modified pitch. One of them wears the dark Durmstrang uniform, features sharp and confident, long fingers loosely playing with the wand in his hand, while the other, the Hogwarts boy, in blue robes, red hair striking against his pale skin, stands opposite, his face the picture of calm.
The teacher standing at the side, between them, raises her wand, looking at both of them for confirmation. It’s another second before she nods and lets loose the red flare from her wand, and after a breathtaking moment when both boys raise their wands, red and green clash immediately, loudly, from opposite ends of the platform, as she disappears to let the duel take place.
The Hufflepuff wrinkles his nose as he watches the light show on display. “You dragged me out here to see this?”
“Quiet,” The Ravenclaw girl snaps. “That’s Mark Tuan up there, the only guy in ten years who’s given Hogwarts a chance at winning the National Junior Wizarding Duels, so you’d better at least cheer if you’re not going to pay attention.”
There’s a collective gasp as the Durmstrang boy deflects one of the spells, sending it flying towards the crowd, only to disappear as it’s absorbed into the invisible force field separating the students from the match.
“I could be repotting my Puffapods right now,” the Hufflepuff gripes, as Mark ducks a blue flash of light, sending a red spell back that’s defended against quickly.
“Oh, give it a rest about the stupid Puffapods, will you,” the Ravenclaw implores. “This is a once in a lifetime match and you’re complaining about your plants?”
A bubble of excited chattering starts, before growing quickly, as Mark seems to conjure some sort of giant icicle from his wand while his opponent’s recovering from the last smoke hex, growing like ivy over the floor and stretching upwards between them in a way only magic can explain, probably as some sort of shield.
“They’ve missed their two o’clock watering!” the Hufflepuff protests. “That’s the most important one!”
“Oh for crying out loud, just shut up and go water them if you have to,” the girl almost stomps her foot. “This is the most important part of the match!”
The Durmstrang boy is casting dubious looks in the direction of the huge iceberg, almost like he’s inclined to laugh, even. The Hufflepuff pouts, looking reluctantly at the match in front of them.
“And what’s the point of all that ice?” he mutters, wounded, in a sore attempt at trying to show interest in the duel. “The other guy’s just going to shatter it, isn’t he?”
There’s a breathless silence as the glassy structure grows, sunlight glancing off its many facets through the force field.
“It’s not ice,” the girl replies after a moment, previous conflict forgotten in her awe. “It’s crystal.”
The Hufflepuff is about to ask what the difference even is when the Durmstrang boy seems to have decided he’s lost enough time waiting for Mark to finish, and raises his wand, triumphantly letting a red bolt of light fly.
The light hits the surface of the crystal, looking like it’s about to just slice through the transparent surface for a moment, before something changes-…
And the light looks like it’s exploded, billions of little rays refracted and shooting out from the crystal like a firework show, probably taking the Durmstrang boy by complete surprise, because three of them catch him in the stomach, forcing him to double over.
All eyes are on Mark, standing nonchalantly behind his crystal, having cast a deflective spell right after the other boy had let loose his last hex, and there’s a moment of silence, before the witch reappears, casting one look at the Durmstrang student, before lifting her wand hand up on Mark’s side.
Then the right side of the pitch seems to explode just like the light had, hundreds of students stomping and cheering and screaming, as the forcefield goes down and the teacher reverses the spell on the Durmstrang student, and Mark turns to the Hogwarts student body, a windswept grin on his face.
“Wait, so what happened,” the Hufflepuff says cautiously, and he’s bopped rather fiercely on the back of the head by the Ravenclaw.
“We won, that’s what happened!” she’s screaming, jumping up and down. “The first time in ten years! We won!”
“Okay,” the Hufflepuff mutters, slightly bitter that the Gardening and Herbology annual competitions are never paid as much attention as this. These people don’t know what they’re missing out on, seriously.
But then he tiptoes a little to look at this apparent hero who’s saved them from a ten year Duelling Championship drought, and speaking of attention-…
“Geez, who’s that guy in front,” he groans, eyes on the familiar looking seventh-year all the way at the front, yelling and doing some weird tribal dance-looking thing in the narrow space, clearly outstripping his neighbours in the extent of his cheering. “Is that a banner with Tuan All The Way on it, good grief-…”
“Oh, that’s Jackson Wang,” the Ravenclaw girl says dismissively. “Boyfriend, I think. He was watching the competition since the qualifiers in March.”
“Jackson?” the boy squints. “Isn’t he like, that jock from Gryffindor, or something? Why’s he wearing the Ravenclaw scarf? I thought the guy loved his house colours.”
“Why’re you asking me?” the girl rolls her eyes. “Probably some couple thing, or whatever. What matters is that we won! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have about twenty Galleons’ worth of bet money to collect-…”
“And I’ll be getting back to my Puffapods,” the boy mutters, sending a cross look behind him as someone treads heavily on his toes. “See you at the after party.”
“Don’t forget the weed!” the girl waves, before disappearing into the crowd, attracting the laughter of several guys and girls once they see who she’s talking to.
“Har har,” he mutters. He casts one more glance at the mess of people all crowding in front, a mix of blue, green and red, cringing slightly as Jackson, or whatever his name is, drags Mark in for an apparently breath-taking hug, before they’re smothered by the rest of their friends.
“Definitely going back to the Puffapods,” he mutters, retreating from the field sulkily.
*
(Jackson pins Mark to the wall of the locker room near the Quidditch pitch after the duel and before the party, lips searching his face, his neck, like he can’t get enough of him to be satisfied, and Mark lets his arms rest around Jackson’s shoulders as the other boy starts pulling at his clothes impatiently, laughing in giddiness from the win and the way Jackson’s fumbling with the fabric between them.
“Is this going to be a ritual,” he says in a breathy exhale, and Jackson laughs, the sound making the elation in Mark’s chest balloon impossibly further.
“It could,” he says, pressing his forehead to Mark’s, lips brushing his, tasting the smile at the edge of his mouth. “It could be anything you want it to, babe.”)
(They arrive late to the party, of course, panting and laughing and Mark’s swept away by his crowd of admirers at once, and Jackson sits with a thump beside Jinyoung and Jaebum on the couch, grabbing the drink out of Jaebum’s hands and snickering at the look on his face. He downs half of it as he looks around the room, eyes eventually landing on Mark, who’s with a few of his friends from the other side of the room, a couple of Ice Mice (his favourite sweet treat, Jackson had learned a couple months before) in his hands, laughing, eyes bright, relieved that the duel’s over and happy to be with his friends again.
And Jackson smiles.)
.