Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all started with a coincidence, really. A convenient coincidence, Jackson would say.

The group had just finished a recording session that lasted longer than they had planned it to be, because it was Jinyoung’s song and Jinyoung doesn’t accept anything less than perfect (Hyung’s a fucking tyrant, Yugyeom had whispered to Jackson once, only to get smacked on the back of the head by Jinyoung a beat later because apparently God loves Jinyoung so much to also add superhuman hearing to Jinyoung’s extensive list of aptitudes).

They all made a beeline to separate cars—Jaebum, Jinyoung and the maknaes piled into one car because Jaebum and Bambam needed to record a scheduled Vlive together and the four wanted to grab dinner afterwards, and Youngjae climbed into his sister’s car who was kind enough to pick him up as the recording studio was in her route home. Which left Jackson and Mark, who were both a bit homesick for not going home for so long that they craved one of their homeland’s delicacies. “It’s Chinese bonding night,” Jackson had proudly announced to the group, completely ignoring Mark’s jab of “I’m kinda legally American” as he practically dragged the lankier boy to the basement where he parked his trusty Lexus.

As Jackson unlocked his car with a beep, Mark incredulously gaped at him when he saw Jackson opening the passenger door and slid into the right side of the car instead. “Last time I checked, I am the guest,” Mark deadpanned, opening the door on the driver’s side and sat himself down with a dramatic huff. Jackson tried his best to feign innocence, but failed when he saw Mark desperately trying to come off angry yet ended up grimacing when he tried to hold back his laughter.

“But I provide the car, so you drive,” Jackson replied.

“That doesn’t even make any fucking sense.”

Jackson blinked up at him, mustering the most pleading puppy eyes he could manage, because he knew the technique is powerful enough to even make his best friend of six years melt at his gaze.

And sure enough, Mark’s jokingly accusing glare softened. “That’s not fair.”

Jackson smiled, slotting his seatbelt into place. “You love it.”

Mark snorted at that, but started the engine anyway. “But I get the aux cord.” Jackson just shrugged, a little smile dancing on his face as he scrolled down the notifications on his phone.

Suddenly, Jay Chou’s Silence blasted through the speakers and Jackson swore his head snapped up from the blue light of his phone so quick to find Mark grinning, all cute canines showing without taking his eyes off the road.

“It’s Chinese bonding night,” Mark supplied, and Jackson laughed uproariously at his friend’s attempt to hit the high notes. Mark sounded like a fucking horse.

“You sound like a fucking horse.” Jackson’s brain-to-mouth filter worked a beat too late, as usual.

“That’s still tragic but it’s an upgrade from Bambam’s claim of me sounding like a comatose whale, so I’ll take it,” Mark quipped back, nonchalantly. Jackson really didn’t understand the comments he’d seen online about Mark being dull and boring. His friend can be ridiculously hilarious if he wanted to.

Another high note in the song was nearing and Jackson could see Mark inhaling in preparation. And Jackson was glad he wasn’t the one driving because Mark’s scream some seconds later sounded almost ultrasonic he would’ve swerved their car onto a tree. “Oh my god, just stick to rapping,” Jackson grumbled as he reached down to pick up his phone, which he might or might not accidentally threw into the air in appreciation (or shock) of his friend’s…impeccable talent.

If the Korean music industry failed Mark, he would have no problems doing screamo in like some rock band or something.

Mark cackled, and schooled his face back into a deadpan expression as he glanced to Jackson when he said, “yeah. Wouldn’t want Jaebum or Youngjae to lose their job if I were to seriously take up singing, would we?”

“You’re insufferable,” Jackson dramatically slumped in his seat as Mark drew his attention back to the road, laughing even harder as he pressed the rewind button to the same Jay Chou song and at Jackson’s attempt on throwing himself out the car window.

-

Dinner itself was pretty uneventful, actually. They went to their favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant where they visit often enough to be considered regulars. The owner was the one who greeted him that night, and they were thankful to be escorted into a private room without them asking to.

They chatted idly about, well, everything, as Jackson ordered his third bowl of wonton and Mark practically inhaling the dimsums. They always do this, Mark and him, Jackson thought, as he watched his usually docile friend chatting animatedly over his dinner, talking about something from Overwatch that Jackson didn’t really care about. But talking Mark is a happy Mark, and a happy Mark brings a happy Jackson so Jackson let him drawl on.

Hours later, Jackson drove a sleepy, contented Mark home, smiling as his friend practically dozed off right after his butt hit the passenger seat. But then Jackson heard a rumble, and another, and suddenly the drip, drip, crash of torrential rain obscuring his view from his windshield.

The particularly loud thunder probably woke Mark up too, as Jackson heard rustling from the seat beside him. He turned his head to find a bleary-eyed Mark staring sleepily at him, and then the windshield. “Fuck,” Mark croaked, eyeing the heavy traffic ahead. Jackson nodded in agreement.

Jackson pulled up the maps on his phone to find that they were only a short fifteen minutes away from his apartment. “Do you wanna just crash at my place?” Jackson suggested to Mark, who was fiddling with the tangled aux cord. He dropped the cable, suddenly clutching the area where his heart is as he gasps dramatically. “My prince,” Mark sighed, dreamily, and Jackson threw a light punch to his arm.

“I don’t think anyone in the dorm has ever gone to your new place before,” Mark quipped after a while, a slow, lazy ballad playing in the background. Jackson hummed. “Yeah, I’ve only gotten all the furniture installed, like, a week ago and I haven’t sorted everything yet. I think I saw my boxers on top of the fridge this morning. Don’t ask,” Jackson interrupted quickly as Mark giggled at the mental image.

“The one Younghyun bought you because you lost that dare? The one with Pororo’s face smack dab on the crotch?” Mark cackled even harder as Jackson let out a long oh my gooooood while smacking his forehead onto the steering wheel. “Shut up, Jaebum has a Bart Simpson boxer in piss yellow color. And he bought it himself, with his own consent,” Jackson screamed, incredulous as he recounted that episode where he caught their leader red-handed while trying to stuff the damned boxer onto the very bottom of the laundry basket. He could never forget the look on Jaebum’s face then, he looked like he actually kicked Youngjae out of the dorm on purpose to raise three cats and felt guilty about it (and no, Jaebum didn’t kick Youngjae out for cats. He just wished it was Bambam who was allergic to cats so he could claim that he really kicked the Thai guy out instead.) “And anyways, it’s not that boxer, it’s the one with Winnie the Po—why am I even telling you this,” Jackson groaned and Mark was practically wheezing.

They made it to Jackson’s apartment a bit longer than fifteen minutes because of the rain, but they made it there in one piece. Mark smiled politely at the guard and Jackson gave the man a little friendly wave before they both step into the elevator.

”I’m actually honored that I’ll be the first one of the kids to step inside your apartment,” Mark said as the elevator dinged on one of the top floors. Jackson swatted his hand. “Don’t be dramatic, it’s just a single guy apartment,” he said, gaze flicking to meet Mark’s, “don’t put your expectations up too high.” But Mark has known him for years for Jackson to know that he sensed the bubbling feeling to show off a bit, and Mark didn’t comment on that except for a small smile on his lips.

As Jackson tapped his keycard and punched in the password onto the dial on his door, Mark held his breath expectantly while waiting for Jackson to push the door open. Jackson flicked the lights on, and he couldn’t hide his grin when he heard Mark exhaling in awe.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he teased, and Mark rolled his eyes because nothing from the tone of Jackson’s voice sounded humble at all.

And Jackson had pretty much all the right to brag, anyway, because his apartment is actually a more than decent bachelor pad, spacious and homely with the combination of white, grey, and brown. The walls are decorated with wooden panels and a bit of suede, while the floors have natural stone and oak finishes. The dynamics in colors—the subtle white, light brown, and beige tones—are prominent and contrasted with a burst of green from the houseplants by the dining area and the hallway to the bedroom. A huge TV is mounted on the wall opposite of the plush, light grey sofas with a long credenza underneath it where Jackson put frames and frames of his family pictures. Families, Jackson corrected himself under his breath, he has two families now, one back in Hongkong and one whom he sees in Korea everyday.

The kitchen area had a white, sleek counter with two chairs with a window overlooking the bustling streets of the city below while also filtering in the soft moonlight beneath the blinds. Jackson smiled softly at how Mark didn’t even try to mask his amazement, but then Jackson glanced to the direction of the fridge and groaned as he spotted the offending Winnie the Pooh boxer still on top of it. He was moving to pick it up but Mark, the ever perceptive Mark, let out a shrill sound between a scream and a cackle before making a mad dash past Jackson to grab said boxer. He stared at Jackson, and back to the boxer in his hand, the monstrous combination of red and yellow and the prints of Pooh licking his paw full of honey (who the fuck designs these things) staring back at him.

“Okay, before you say anyth—mmpf,” Jackson didn’t even get to finish his sentence before Mark wadded the offending garment and threw it square in his face. Jackson opened his eyes to an absolutely wheezing Mark, the red-haired sinking down on the floor clutching his stomach, his mouth open with silent laughter, and as much as Jackson wanted to stay mad at him, he couldn’t because it was actually one of the most beautiful sights Jackson had ever seen in his life.

“You can never—” Mark managed between his breaths, grinning so hard Jackson couldn’t stop the smile creeping up to his face too, “—ever mock Jaebum about his Bart Simpsons boxers ever again because this is far worse than anything I’ve ever seen in my life.” Jackson playfully grumbled as he threw the stupid garment back to Mark, which he completely avoided with agile, deer-like grace. “Fucking loser,” Mark sing-sang as he slinked back into Jackson’s living room.

His slipper-clad feet padded on the warm floor, and he arrived just in time to witness Mark throwing himself onto one of his brand new sofas, his body bouncing as he did so. “You sly bastard,” Mark said from his place on the couch, “now I know why you’ve been keeping this place to yourself—and us out of it. The kids would literally have a field day here in this, this—” Jackson watched as Mark flapped his arms around almost comically, looking for the right word to say, “—this castle. This is every young man’s dream, I can’t believe you, holy shit.” Mark then piped up. “Oh, better shoot Jaebum a text that I’m staying over,” he said, already pulling his phone out and tapped on the screen.

Jackson’s phone dinged, because Mark sent the message into the groupchat, along with a selfie of him with his thumbs up and Jackson’s lush living room in the background. dont wait up, im staying over @ jacks, the text read, and the rest of the group sent an affirmative (well, except Yugyeom, because he sent that fucking weird dancing sticker that no one likes but there is kind of an unspoken rule in GOT7 that maknaes reign supreme, although no one in the hyungline would admit that as long as they’re alive), but Bambam sent back a single side-eyes emoji that Jackson wouldn’t want to know what the younger was implying at.

Jackson let his gaze linger a few beats longer on his best friend, who was then back to admiring his huge flat screen TV and babbling about a PS4 is the only thing missing from his otherwise perfect living room. Mark is such a fucking game nerd, and Jackson couldn’t help but find it adorable.

Adorable? Jackson shook his head. Huh.

“You haven’t even seen the best part yet,” Jackson said instead, and Mark stopped talking, turning his head so quick Jackson swore he could’ve snapped his neck.

Jackson snorted. If Mark were a puppy, he would’ve had his tongue out in a very expectant expression with his tail wagging incessantly, like a puppy waiting for a treat. He then gestured for Mark to follow as he made his way down the hall and opened the door to the far right.

He found himself letting out a gasp along with Mark as he flicked the lights on, even though he himself was the one who designed the room. He felt a surge of pride as his eyes roamed, taking in the entirety of his creation. Jackson really didn’t mean to brag but this room is literally his masterpiece. His haven.

The room is his own home studio, the very first room he planned and designed when he decided that he wanted to try living on his own. The room was warmly lit, the dim glow reflected on the spotless iMac screen that greeted them opposite the door. It sat on a sleek, mahogany table, with two speakers sitting on either sides of the screen. On the right is a table microphone, Bose headphones on his its left. A swivel office chair was parked in front of the table, making whoever uses the studio easy to transport himself around the room without even getting up from the chair.

The rest of the room is filled with other recording essentials, and Jackson tried not to stare as Mark ran his pretty fingers on the pristine ivory of his keyboard. Has Mark always had pretty hands?

Jackson mentally slapped himself. He swore the restaurant’s chef put something funny in his wonton today.

“I’m going to say this again, I’m truly honored to be the first one among GOT7 to witness…this,” Mark mumbled, an honest awe lacing every word that tumbled out of his mouth. Jackson’s heart swelled at his friend’s honest display of emotions.

“Comments?” Jackson teased, wanting to see whether he could fish any more reactions from him. Mark looked at him fleetingly, but Jackson knew the glint in Mark’s eyes and he suddenly regretted asking.

“Well,” Mark drawled, trying to hide the smirk forming on his lips as he schooled his expression to one that made him look like he’s thinking long and hard, “this is a great studio and all but the red walls kinda remind me of the playroom in Fifty Shades of G—”

Jackson locked Mark in the studio, incredulous at how Mark’s cackle and yells of half-assed apology still could permeate through his soundproof studio walls.

-

Jackson absentmindedly scrolled down his Instagram feed, and liked some of his tagged photos from the music show prerecording earlier that day. A notification popped up that Yugyeom had just shared a post, and a tuft of mustard blonde hair took up a square space on his screen as soon as he clicked it. It was a selfie, the youngest taking it from his signature angle and tilted his camera in a way that it teasingly showcased his bare shoulder. Jackson snorted. The fans would have a field day over that.

He quickly typed in a cheeky comment along the lines of “This brat…setting a bad example >:( Don’t forget to bundle up for the Fall weather, Ahgases! My heart hurts to see you getting cold ♥”, chuckling to himself as he pressed send. He could be cheesy as fuck if he wanted to, and people would still swoon no matter how cringy it is anyway.

He turned to his left side under his warm duvet, just in time to see Mark stepping out of the bathroom. “Hey, I found a travel toothbrush in your cabinet so I used it, hope you don’t mind,” Mark said, closing the bathroom door behind him. He was shirtless, only clad in Jackson’s sweatpants as he dried his hair with (also) a borrowed towel. Jackson couldn’t help but let his gaze linger and roam along Mark’s lithe frame. Mark might look especially skinny, but Jackson swore that beneath all those oversized clothing he wears, Mark’s body was all but. His muscles are firm and taut in all the right places, but he’s just naturally slim and slender that it kind of takes double the effort for him to buff up.

Mark’s back was facing Jackson now and wow, man, holy shit, Jackson thought, I would absolutely love to map all those muscles and veins beneath my own fingers and feel him shudder beneath m—

“I will never go to that Chinese restaurant ever again,” Jackson said, and it took a beat to realize that he just said that out loud. Mark stopped rubbing his hair furiously to stare at his best friend on the bed. “Impossible. You love that place. Mrs. Chang also treats you like her own son at this point that you get free pudding every time you visit.” He scrunched his nose, “and what’s that got to do with the toothbrush?”

Mark has a point and Jackson wanted to throw a pillow at him for it.

“The food there makes my brain act funny,” Jackson pouted, suddenly feeling like he wanted to be babied. Mark’s eyebrow knitted at that, and he opened the wardrobe door before disappearing behind it.

“Huh,” Mark replies nonchalantly, “probably the MSG.”

After rummaging Jackson’s closet for clothes he could borrow for the night for what seemed like hours, Jackson heard Mark make a satisfied hum as he closed the wardrobe door. Now that Mark was in full view, Jackson could see that Mark was—

Oh. Oh.

The first thing Jackson noticed was how Mark ended up choosing a hoodie that matched the color of his hair. Mark was literally glaring red, such a contrast to his otherwise white and light brown-themed bedroom. The symbol of the five-petal orchid one can find on the flag of Hongkong was embroidered on the left chest of Mark’s hoodie, which was why it was one of Jackson’s favorites as it reminds him of home, other than the fact that the cotton was especially soft against his skin.

Okay, that, Jackson could handle. Mark is just his best friend, staying over for the night, dressed in his favorite hoodie and is waddling his way sleepily to climb onto bed with him, no big deal, right, where’s the wrong in that?

What Jackson could not handle was the fact that Mark was practically drowning in it. Jackson’s heart did a funny flip—he swore he’s left martial arts tricking for years, the fuck—when he saw Mark rubbing his eyes sleepily with the sleeve of his hoodie, and Jackson wanted to scream at how soft and cute his friend looked right there and then.

Mark dropped his hand back to his side, blinking blearily before giving a soft smile to Jackson’s direction. Jackson looked anywhere but Mark’s eyes, and he knew he made a mistake when his gaze dropped to the sleeves of Mark’s hoodie.

Mark’s fingers didn’t even go past the sleeves, and Jackson kinda wanted to die.

“Fucking MSG,” Jackson cursed under his breath, but apparently it was still loud enough for Mark to hear.

“Can you stop being weird in like—” Mark grumbled as he pressed the button on his phone, making his lock screen light up—Jackson stole a glance and it was a picture of Mark himself, in one of his latest magazine shoots, “—ugh, 11:44 in the evening?”

Jackson couldn’t help but shot back. “You usually stay up with Youngjae until like 4 for Overwatch.” His tone was strange when the sentence came out of his mouth. What was that? A hint of…jealousy?

Jackson felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment, and he locked gazes with Mark to see whether he picked up on that as well. But Mark just blinked sleepily at him, once, and plopped almost completely face down on Jackson’s plush pillow.

“Mhm,” Mark mumbled, sounding oddly content, “but not tonight. M’sleepy. Warm. This pillow smells good.” He nuzzled his nose further. “You smell good.”

“Alright,” Jackson snapped, and he didn’t know whether he was saying it to Mark or himself, “that’s it, bedtime.” He rose up from his comfortable position to cover Mark with the duvet, as the other seemed to not have it in himself to do it, especially when he was already drifting off like that.

But as Jackson settled back to a comfortable position on his side of the bed, Mark suddenly turned to face him with surprising clarity in his hazel eyes. “Thanks for letting me stay the night, Jiaer.”

Jackson’s heart melted at the sound of his Chinese name rolling out of the other’s tongue. “You would do the same,” Jackson replied, gazing fondly at Mark who was clearly on the verge of falling asleep, again.

Mark hummed. “I would. But I still feel like I’m intruding, since you never invite anyone up here that I thought maybe you want this place to be your private little bubble and then just, well,” Mark’s hand made a weird weak gesture, “here I am.”

A strand of hair fell in front of Mark’s eyes, and it took an ample amount of willpower for Jackson not to gently brush it away from his forehead.

“Yien, I was the one who asked you to stay,” Jackson said next, slipping into Chinese, and the soft smile Mark was wearing spread a little bit wider. The sentence besides, if I were to invite anyone up here, I would only want it to be you got stuck in his throat, so he didn’t say it.

“Okay,” Mark settled, as soft as a whisper after a few beats of silence, because all they did was stare into each other’s eyes. Jackson couldn’t even start to make himself to look away. “Then I’ll definitely come back next time.”

And just like that, Mark drifted off into slumber, a small smile still on his lips. A fleeting curiosity of what that smile would taste like passed through Jackson’s mind, and he blamed it, again, on the fucking MSG.

As expected, Jackson couldn’t get any sleep that night, his head swimming with the thoughts of what he had been feeling for the better part of the day. Jackson mentally chided himself.

There was nothing weird about the situation he was in at that moment—Mark is his best friend since, well, practically forever, the first person he had spoken to when he first stepped foot on the Korean soil. He was his first dance practice partner, also his first roommate. Jackson recounted the time when he learnt that Mark was also of Chinese descent, how a simple, soft-spoken 你好 from the older could lift the invisible burden Jackson didn’t know he had been carrying. Jackson remembered excusing himself to JYP’s company restroom instead of taking up his new friends’ offer to take him out to lunch, and tried very hard to restrain his otherwise uncontrollable sobs as he cried at such a simple, familiar phrase. He thought of home, of sunny, sunny Hong Kong, of his mother’s homemade stew, and of the quiet boy who offered him said greeting in the language he knew all too well.

Mark Tuan. Tuan Yien.

If Jackson wasn’t that afraid of needles, he would’ve tattooed Mark’s name, small, on the inside of his wrist, so that he could have something to ground himself with whenever he felt he was drifting too far.

Mark and Jackson had been inseparable ever since. Attached by the hip, people said. They had spent a ridiculous amount of time together, just the two of them, one for the familiarity, the other for comfort, for someone who wouldn’t laugh whenever he gets his tongue twisted trying to say a foreign Korean phrase.

Mark took Jackson home to LA. Jackson took Mark home to Hong Kong. No big deal.

Mark’s family absolutely loved him. Jackson’s mom took Mark in like his own son as soon as she saw him fumbling by Jackson’s doorway. (She doted on Mark just a little more than she did Jackson but he would never admit it.)

Jackson had known Mark for years. Nothing should be weird…right?

Jackson tossed and turned, huffing out his breath as he realized he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep at all.

Seeing Mark in his house today was just…overwhelming, as Jackson lacked a better word. Mark was right, Jackson had promised himself not to bring anyone to his private haven, his solitary bubble. Well, at least for a few months after he got everything in his apartment installed and sorted. Their line of work required them to interact and work with swarms of different people, everyday, and even a social butterfly like Jackson needed some time on his own.

But then there was Mark, bustling about in his apartment and Jackson surprisingly (or unsurprisingly) didn’t find anything out of place about it. He didn’t find it weird to learn that Mark just knew where to find anything and everything, as if he had been living here even before Jackson did. He also didn’t find it weird to see Mark, with his obnoxious red hair and his obnoxious red hoodie he was drowning in, sleeping soundly just an arm’s length away from him, making little to no noise save for the little puffs of breath from between his slightly open plump lips.

It was as if Mark just belonged there all along.

Jackson’s heart did a funny flip again, as he squeezed his eye shut to try and forget the sleepy lilt of Mark’s mumbled good night just before he fell asleep. Don’t think about Mark, Jackson you dickwad, go to sleep, stop thinking about him, stop thinking abou—

Jackson didn’t know when Mark had scooted closer to his side of the bed, but as he looked down, he found a soft tuft of red hair tickling his nose as Mark snuggled further onto Jackson’s chest.

“Um,” Jackson croaked. Mark was too dead to the world to notice.

Jackson let out a breath after what felt like forever, the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, and he made a mistake of inhaling a whiff of Mark’s hair.

Mark’s hair smelled exactly like Jackson’s shampoo.

The amount of willpower he needed not to fling himself off his window was amazing.

His left hand hovered awkwardly over Mark’s shoulder as he contemplated the pros and cons of the two things he could do at that moment. He could either tuck Mark back into his original position on his pillow (and miss Mark’s warmth curling against his side), or simply try to ignore said boy on his chest and get some sleep. It wasn’t rocket science, really, Jackson knew the right thing to do was to return Mark to his own pillow (however missing his warmth in the process). And Jackson was a just man, so he would do whatever is right.

But then Jackson took another involuntary whiff and well, there goes his ability to reason! Having Mark, his best friend, in his hoodie, smelling exactly like him, on his chest, in his own apartment made his brain temporarily short-circuit.

Mark let out a soft hum of appreciation when Jackson finally cuddled back to him, his clutch on Jackson’s shirt (which Jackson couldn’t see because fuck, the fucking sweater paws, man) tightening involuntarily because of his action. Jackson just hoped Mark wouldn’t wake up from the hammering of his heart against his ribcage.

Sleep finally overtook him, and he thought about how Mark’s voice would sound like the next morning as he started to fall into slumber.