Chapter Text
The night is cold and crisp, frost nipping at the edges of Jackson’s windows in intricate swirls and stars. He has three blankets piled high to fight the frigid temperatures outside doing their utmost to creep in through the left window that never fully closes. Night’s like these are the absolute worst in his small dorm, especially when the heating is always on the fritz in mid-winter. He tosses and turns, grumbling as he curls in to preserve heat. No matter what he tries, his feet stay freezing, occupying his mind to the point where he just can’t seem to fall asleep. He decides to turn again, shuffling under his sheets and twisting his legs so that his own calves can warm the lumps of ice posing as his feet. The pillow is soft and warm in his face, muffling all the sounds and lights as he closes his eyes determinedly.
Sleep will come if he simply wills it.
It’s for this reason he misses the room light up while the phone on his nightstand stays silent. Jackson is turned towards the wall, unaware and lingering between a state of asleep and awake that blurs all the hours between midnight and morning into a series of vague, dark moments. The phone, which would have never been on silent if Jinyoung hadn’t threatened to drug Jackson if he didn’t get at least six hours of sleep every night, lights up intermittently, before going completely dark some seventeen minutes after midnight.
Jackson finally falls into a fitful sleep before the clock strikes one.
Mark’s fingers are frozen. It takes three tries to dial Jackson, then two more to press the call button. The alley he’s in is void of streetlight, nothing but the moon and whatever stars make it through the light pollution to show his destitute surroundings. A small pile of wooden crates stands all the way at the dead end, some black bags of garbage right next to them. Closer to the mouth of the alley is a green dumpster, ripped cardboard boxes thrown on a haphazard pile next to it. The cardboard does Mark the tiniest of pleasures, ensuring he’s not lying on the freezing asphalt, but the dumpster hides him from whoever would pass the alley. Moving throws him into agony, his legs losing their strength if he so much as breathes wrong. The darkness hides his tears while the cardboard underneath him soaks up the blood leaking from his right side. Mark can feel the knife moving, the edge of the blade cutting into his fingers as he attempts to keep the blood from leaking out passed the blade.
Taking the knife out will kill him faster, but there’s no denying that he’s already dying. This alley will probably be the last thing he ever sees, his own gasping breaths all to accompany him as he faces the worst terror he’s ever felt battling his heart.
The phone keeps ringing. It takes effort to keep it against his ear, pain and exhaustion making him tremble. His legs spasm when a cold gust of air makes him shiver, sending his thoughts into a spiral of painhelpIdon’twanttodie!!
“Heya, you’ve reached Jackson Wang!” The recorded message rings into his ear. “Leave a message, or text me if it’s urgent.”
The sob comes unbidden, tears blurring his poor vision. He pulls the phone back and presses re-dial. “Jackson,” he pleads, the name a prayer and a wish. He puts the phone back to his ear, warm blood leaking onto his arm as his legs go strangely numb. Everything is on fire, pain shooting through him with every breath, but a darkness is creeping in, a coldness coming from within his own bones.
Blinking passed his tears he tries to focus on the small strip of light he can see falling on the wall opposite him, tries to crane his head around the dumpster, and yells breathlessly. “Help! Help me!”
“Heya, you’ve reached Jackson Wang! Leave a message, or text me if it’s urgent.”
“Jacks, pick up,” Mark begs, the pain getting both better and worse as that strange frigidness keeps creeping in from inside. Staring at the wall is all he can do to keep from going under and the thought rips a sob from his throat. “I need to talk to you, Jackson, I just- I want to hear your voice. Please, please, just pick up. I just wanna talk to you. I’m- I’m scared and-“
Reality sets in like a falling brick, swallowing pride and reason as a black hole gapes at the end of every blink.
“I don’t wanna die,” he gasps, using the pain in his side that’s threatening to pull him under as an anchor to keep him sane. “I don’t wanna die in this stupid alley without ever telling you that I love you, that I’m in love with you. That all I ever want to do is make you laugh because it’s the best sound in the world. That you’re beautiful and- you’re gorgeous, Jackson, so gorgeous, I-“
It’s so cold. The world is darker. His arm is numb.
“I’m not scared when you’re with me,” he whispers through his tears. “I’m not scared when you-when you-” his voice breaks. Everything breaks because he’s talking to a voicemail and knows, is as certain as the knife in his side, that Jackson isn’t going to pick up, isn’t going to talk to him.
Mark is alone. Mark is scared.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks, fighting the tears in his voice so much it causes his throat to become sand-paper. “I’m so sorry, Jackson. I love you and I thought I had time to figure out if you felt the same way, to just- I thought I had time to tell you. I thought- I thought I had a lifetime to tell you, even if you don’t-even if- if you don’t love me, I- … I’m sorry. I love you.”
The phone slides off his cheek, then he hangs up with eyes squinting to find the right placement for his finger. Without thinking he re-dials, presses speaker. Then he waits and hangs on to every single dial tone, any other sound of the world drowned out by the only thing that matters. Mark focuses on the blurry picture of Jackson Wang, of the boy with the endless snapbacks who pulled Mark in like a moth to a flame, of the boy with ceaseless smiles who broke Mark’s shell with nothing but warmth and friendship. It’s the man Mark fell for without wanting to or trying.
The picture is smudged with bloody fingerprints, and exhaustion plays havoc on Mark’s eyesight, but he knows the other’s image by heart. Auburn hair and a dimpled smile, eyes in crescents and hand up in the air to shove the photographer.
Mark smiles despite everything when the voicemail kicks in.
“Heya, you’ve reached Jackson Wang. Leave a message, or text me if it’s urgent.”
Mark indulges himself, imagines Jackson’s smile, teeth and all, as he cradles his phone in a trembling hand and whispers. “I love you.”
Then he hangs up and does it again. Waiting, endlessly waiting, for the voicemail, for the voice, for the pretense of Jackson being right beside him, for the soft confession of his most precious secret.
At the end, his thumb spasms and drags across the screen, hitting five buttons at the same time and throwing everything back to the home screen. Pain engulfs his midsection, breaths agony, while frigid veins have spread throughout the rest of his body.
“Jackson,” he whispers. The phone stays still. “Jackson.” Tears drip into his sweat-logged hair. Terror batters into his ribcage, no sound or view to help keep it at bay. Nothing but a memory and a name.
“Jackson.” Mark says it again and again, sobs breaking it in two as his eyes slide shut for the last time.
The darkness is greedy and pulls Mark in.
“Jacks-”
By the time the paramedics arrive, the boy in the grey sweater has pale blue lips and frozen tears on his face.
Yelling and pounding on Jackson’s door has him sitting up before he’s awake, scrambling to squint at his phone because he’s surely forgetting something important if Jaebeom is willing to almost break his door for it. There is no alarm or any notifications saying he’s missed class, a test, or a deadline, just a bunch of missed calls Jackson guesses are from his friend who’s about to be murdered for waking him up on one of his precious free days.
“What!” He shouts irritably, gingerly pulling out from under his warm cocoon and doing a full body shiver as the cold air hits his blessedly warm extremities.
“Jackson!” Jaebeom finally ceases his incessant banging. “Open up! Something’s happened!”
The cogs in Jackson’s head are slow, but he’s alert enough to catch the choked-up voice. He narrows his eyes at the door, grabbing the nearest hoodie to stave off the cold and stuffing his phone in the front pocket before making three quick steps to the door and unlocking it. Then he’s staring at a fresh-out-of-bed Jaebeom, hair sticking up on the side and wearing that one brown sweater Jinyoung has threatened to burn over a dozen times because ‘it’s got actual holes in the hem, hyung, you look like a hobo!’.
Jackson quirks an eyebrow, instantly worried. “What do you mean, ‘something’s happened’?”
“Mark’s at the hospital,” Jaebeom croaks.
It’s not like Jaebeom to forget honorifics. It’s not like Jaebeom to pound on Jackson’s door at dawn without any shoes on. It’s not like Jaebeom to look completely lost with a wetness in his eyes.
“I’m dreaming,” Jackson whispers. It’s the only logical explanation, the only way something this incongruent could ever make sense.
Jaebeom grimaces and grabs his arm. It hurts.
“You’re not dreaming!” Jaebeom’s angry but there are tears and Jackson feels more lost than ever.
“Hyung’s in the hospital. The police came by this morning because I’m written down as his next of kin and-“
Jaebeom stops. He licks his lips, hand still squeezing the life out of Jackson but the pain is barely an issue.
“And what?” Jackson presses hollowly. He can’t take his eyes off of Jaebeom, think passed the desperation of his hyung’s actions or stay away from what all of this evidence might point towards.
Police, hospital, what?
His next words are loud and angry, bordering on manic. “And ‘what’, Jaebeom-hyung!”
Jaebeom shakes his head, an apology on his face. “And he got stabbed, and he lost a lot of blood and-” his voice falls to nothing but a whisper,- “and they’re saying he might not make it.”
Anger is a fiery pressure that forces Jackson into action. Joy is a tickle in his belly that generates easy laughter. Sadness is a weight on his lungs and his heart.
This.
Jackson stares at Jaebeom with wide eyes, breathing but not breathing, seeing but not seeing.
This is none of the above.
This is cold. This is nothing. This is a room with no windows and no doors and him huddling in the corner, as insignificant as the dust motes in the air. This is a nightmare Jackson wants to throttle until he wakes up, but Jaebeom’s hand still on his arm reminds him that’s not possible.
Jackson opens his mouth (what happened, what exactly did they say, where is he, can we visit him, who did it, can I help) only to whisper a single word. “Mark.”
Jaebeom clears his throat. “Namjoon-ah is going to take us. He’s waiting dow-”
The sentence continues but Jackson barely listens. A pair of black sneakers stand next to the door and he stuffs his feet in, grey pajama pants pooling at his ankles. Then he grabs his keys and wallet, stuffs them in his sweater, and slams the door.
Then he runs.
He starts at his door, down the stairs and into Namjoon’s waiting car, Jaebeom barely two steps behind, but Jackson never stops running. His heart keeps pounding, lungs fighting to bring air in while he stares out the window and sees nothing. He must keep running, keep going, keep moving, because stopping feels like giving up. Stopping feels like Mark might stop too, and that…
That is not this.
The thought alone causes two tears to slide down Jackson’s cheek, clinging to his stubble and dripping onto his lap.
This is cold and dark and pain. But that … Mark dying.
Jackson sucks in air through his teeth, a jolt seizing his body in a physical manifestation of mental anguish. The world spins away from him, strong waves pushing him out to sea without an anchor. He grabs the door and holds on, closes his eyes to force in breath after breath.
“Mark will be okay.” He mumbles the words over and over, desperate to convince himself lest the last tenuous line inside breaks. “Mark will be okay. Mark will be okay.”
Namjoon lets them out right at the doorstep of the hospital.
Jaebeom asks the nurse where they need to go.
Jackson keeps running.
His mind keeps turning and flipping, eyes barely seeing the floor numbers as they stand in the elevator, a bubble of grim silence dogging their steps.
Mark will be okay. Mark will be okay. Mark will be okay.
The ICU. Jackson turns to stare at Jaebeom’s white face. The older’s hands are shaking. Jackson turns back. Takes a breath.
The ICU is not a good place to be.
Mark will be okay.
They make it to the room near the end, two nurses and an orderly nodding respectfully even while Jackson ignores them completely. The room holds four beds. Two are occupied. One is awake. The other-
Jackson’s feet freeze two steps from the bed. From Mark’s bed. From Mark.
Mark will be okay.
“Oh god, hyung.” Jaebeom grabs the railing at the foot of Mark’s bed (hospital bed, Mark’s in a hospital) and leans on it with a shuddering breath.
A very high-pitched sound hitches out of Jackson’s throat and he blinks. “That’s not Mark.” His voice is gravel, the wetness on his face lowering the tone. Jaebeom regards him with tired eyes.
“Jackson-”
“He was fine,” Jackson wrestles the words out, breathes faster and faster as he wants to hide from the monstrous contraption next to Mark’s bed that’s feeding the older man oxygen through a terrifying tube. “Yesterday, after class, he was fine.”
It feels important, crucial even, to say the words out loud. To make the universe understand that Mark can’t be like this because he’d been laughing at Jackson’s lame jokes just yesterday, had been eating his cookies dipped in milk with that ridiculous happy giggle and Mark had been fine.
“He was with me,” Jackson stresses, his words wobbly. “He was with me yesterday for lunch and he was fine.”
Jaebeom stares at Mark’s feet. He gulps and his voice comes out pained. “They said it happened around midnight, near campus. He-his money was gone so … a mugging gone wrong, probably. He-” Jaebeom drags in a large breath,- “he called the ambulance himself, but after- there was no one around to-”
Jackson prays Jaebeom won’t finish that sentence, heart breaking at the stillness and whiteness and wrongness of Mark lying so delicately in a hospital bed. But wishes on a star never saved anyone.
Jaebeom grits his teeth and brings his head up to look at Mark, expression hard but tear tracks visible on his face. “There was no one around to help stop the bleeding,” he confesses. “He almost bled out and they lost him twice in surgery and now he- his chances of waking up are slim if he doesn’t start breathing on his own again.”
There’s bile at the back of Jackson’s throat, heart still pounding, world still spinning, mind still running, running, running.
Unconsciously he’s stepping backwards. “Stay with him,” he begs. Jeabeom’s head snaps to him and Jackson has too many unshed tears in his eyes to see if the other is disappointed or angry. “Please,” he grates, pointing a blind hand at the hallway. “Bathroom.”
He’s out before Jaebeom can say anything, before the other can yell or curse or say anything else to make Jackson’s world crumble. The hallway sways, his stomach roiling as he stumbles to the nearest bathroom. It’s empty, stalls all open and freshly cleaned, lights reflecting off of the typically white hospital tiles. A line of mirrors decorate the right hand wall along with four large sinks, and Jackson grabs one to keep standing in whatever chaos his world just became.
Looking up reveals a pale and shaking man, brown hair sticking up in the front and lifeless at the back. Deep lines underscore his eyes, veins creeping in the ashen skin of his forehead. “Who the fuck are you,” he croaks at his reflection.
The answer is obvious and Jackson hangs his head, dragging in breath after breath to stay standing on shaky legs.
He’s a useless coward, running because the sight of Mark in a hospital bed drags rusted nails over his heart and soul.
Where were you!
He grabs the sink tighter and squeezes his eyes shut.
Where were you when Mark needed you! Where were you when they hurt him!
Desolate eyes stare at the sink. Words he no longer believes come out in a monotone mumble. “Mark will be okay. Mark will be okay.”
The pressing silence around him is loud in how it doesn’t believe that.
A light from his sweater pouch draws his waning attention, his right hand slowly pulling out his phone. He still hasn’t turned it on, the screen shining with Jinyoung’s sunny smile and sunglasses. It takes a good three seconds before Jackson answers.
His voice slurs. “Jinyoung-ah.”
“Jackson-hyung?” Jinyoung makes a confused sound. “Where are you?”
“Hospital.” Jackson says, eyes still staring at the sink.
The other sighs brokenly. “Is Jaebeom with you? I keep calling him but he doesn’t answer.”
Jackson nods, then clears his throat.
Mark will be okay but maybe Mark won’t be okay.
He blinks away the liquid in his eyes and croaks. “He’s here.”
“Thank god,” Jinyoung whispers, then his voice starts to shake. “Youngjae and I are taking the bus, so we’ll be there in twenty minutes. Yugyeom called and said he and BamBam are being brought by Jungkook. I didn’t-well, I said they couldn’t drive, so-”
It’s sensible really, but Jackson can only nod in response. He grips the phone tighter, hearing Jinyoung clear a wet throat and forces his vocal chords to function.
“Okay.”
A silence falls until Jinyoung questions shakily. “How’s Mark-hyung?”
Jackson almost screams, almost yells at the other how much he can’t answer that because he called the ambulance himself but there was no one around to stop the bleeding. Eventually he bites his lip, rides out the wave that leaves him light-headed, then sighs into the phone.
“Sleeping,” he answers timidly, wishing it truly was as simple as that. “Mark-hyung’s sleeping.”
Jinyoung understands because it’s Jinyoung. “Ah.” His voice breaks. “We’ll-we’ll be there soon, hyung.”
And Jackson truly is the scum of the earth, because all he can say is ‘thank you’ before he hangs up. If the others are here than Jaebeom won’t be alone and Jackson won’t have to leave the bathroom. Jackson won’t have to sit next to Mark, won’t have to watch his world burn from its epicenter, because Jackson never found ‘the right time’ to tell Mark how important he is to Jackson’s very existence.
And now, you probably never will.
Terror and homesickness slice into him, gouging until he flinches from the pain and drops his phone with a harsh clatter into the sink. The screen lights up from the abuse and Jackson snatches it up more out of reflex than anything, turning it on without thought and eyes falling on the missed call symbol at the top of his screen.
Tapping it is a distraction, a temporary break from Mark’s white face swimming in his mind; hollow cheeks, veins popping under his eyes, and a tube disappearing into his mouth to keep him alive. His phone is simply a means to an end to keep the pain at bay.
At least, it was, until Jackson spots the name and time of the calls.
He sinks to the ground with a single painful breath. One hand holds the sink, his forehead leaning into the cold material, while the other cradles what cannot be real.
There are seven missed calls. All from Mark. All between 00:12 and 00:16.
Jaebeom’s words come back to him: they said it happened around midnight.
“No,” Jackson gasps, eyes never leaving the name on his phone, finding six voicemail notifications to go along with the calls. “Mark, what…” Wide-eyed and trembling, kneeling on a bathroom floor, and heart pounding steadily in his head, Jackson clicks the first one. His hand shakes as he brings his phone up, as he stares at nothing when static leaks out of his phone and into his ear, silence for a bit and then … Mark’s voice comes through tight and low, the evidence of tears in his words.
“Jacks, pick up,”
The obvious plea has Jackson breaking, muffling his scream in his arm. Coming undone isn’t even close to describing how something just caves and unravels at hearing Mark sob over the phone.
“I need to talk to you, Jackson, I just- I want to hear your voice. Please, please, just pick up. I just wanna talk to you. I’m- I’m scared and-“
Jackson keens. He can’t stop shaking or crying, can’t stop listening to Mark’s terrified begging from a distance of time that Jackson will never be able to traverse.
All of this has already happened and Jackson slept through it.
Mark called while he was hurt and dying and Jackson slept through it.
“I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die in this stupid alley without ever telling you that I love you, that I’m in love with you. That all I ever want to do is make you laugh because it’s the best sound in the world. That you’re beautiful and- you’re gorgeous, Jackson, so gorgeous. I-I’m not scared when you’re with me.
The confession has Jackson frozen, arms tight and chest bursting with too many emotions because it’s everything he’s ever dreamed of and a waking nightmare all in one.
”I’m not scared when you-when you-”
“I’m here,” Jackson finds himself whispering, uncurling from his arm and leaning his heavy head against the sink; heart bleeding and stomach turned to ice but ultimately so desperate because Mark sounds terrified.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Jackson. I love you and I thought I had time to figure out if you felt the same way, to just- I thought I had time to tell you. I thought- I thought I had a lifetime to tell you, even if you don’t-even if- if you don’t love me, I- … I’m sorry. I love you.”
The voicemail ends and Jackson drops his phone. It cracks on the tiles, scatters away in two pieces as the back pops off, and Jackson stares at the floor, hatred brewing in his ribs.
JackspickupIwannahearyourvooiceI’mscaredI’minlovewithyouI’mnotscaredwhenyou’rewithmeI’msorryIloveyou
With a primal yell he yanks himself up by the sink, hands gripping the cold porcelain as he glares daggers at his reflection. He bristles at the furious snarl he sees mixing with his broken tears. “Who the fuck are you!” he demands.
I’msorryIloveyouI’msorryIloveyou
Within seconds his fist is pulled back, aimed at the useless coward staring back at him, then fissures crack and spiderweb over the mirror, a sharp pain radiating in his right fist. The cracked mirror reveals a patchwork-man, shapes illogical and overlapping. It’s the realest thing Jackson has seen all day, the best visual explanation of who he currently is.
“Idiot!” His voice breaks and echoes, hands back on the sink because he’s staggering in the face of the biggest mistake of his life. "You’re a fucking moron!”
The silence thoroughly agrees with him this time. Slowly, he sinks to the floor again, breaths rattling and vision blurred. The bathroom is cold, but he still leans his head against the sink, trying to focus on the chill around him instead of the ice inside. "I'm an idiot," he whispers, tears still flowing. Because Mark called him, because Mark was scared, because Mark wanted to talk to Jackson so badly, and Jackson simply went to sleep. Guilt rages and guts him, turning the bathroom into his own personal hell.
"I'm sorry," he repeats over and over in a small voice, "I'm sorry, Mark, I'm so sorry." With effort he hangs onto the sink, unseeing eyes staring straight ahead, as the force of his sobs threatens to topple him. The tiles don't offer him advice or comfort, not that Jackson thinks he deserves either of those things anyway.
Jackson has failed the one person he would have given anything to protect, left Mark all alone while the other was hurt and scared, and the guilt of that will forever be etched into his heart.
After an indeterminate amount of time, when the sobs have turned to nothing but painful breathing, his eyes slide to the left, cramped muscles of his body shuddering into movement as he shakily stands to collect his phone. His hand throbs and stings, but movement is still possible and Jackson pieces his phone back together before shoving it back in his sweater. Tears never stop pricking his eyes, throat currently as raspy as a cheese grater, but he forces himself out. Mark’s voice echoes in his head, the naked terror taking up permanent residency.
I’m not scared when I’m with you
Jaebeom doesn’t ask about the red hand, nor the silent entry, and Jackson doesn’t offer an explanation. He simply steals a chair from an unoccupied bed, takes vigilance on Mark’s left side, and vows to never leave. Mark’s hand is limp in his own, not cold per sé, but not nearly as warm as the older usually is, so Jackson wraps it with his own, brings it up to his mouth and gives it a trembling kiss.
“I’m right here,” he promises. “I’m not leaving you alone, Mark. I’m right here.”
Jaebeom never asks. Jackson never offers.
Five minutes later the others file in, tripping over themselves in their haste and worry and tears, and the waiting game truly begins.
They wait and wait, with Jackson always holding Mark’s hand, because Mark will be okay.
He will. He will. He will.