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Admittedly there are few things Mark wouldn’t do for Chenle, or Jisung. He’s no less antsy on the water because of it.
It’s a silly discomfort not pressing enough to be named an actual fear—Mark recalls, bittersweetly now, that time on their honeymoon through southern Europe, Jeno cutting a Venetian figure in a billowing white shirt as they rowed over the Grand Canal in a swaying gondola. No, Mark’s not really afraid of water, the same way he isn’t really afraid of those daunting rollercoasters the hyungs drag him to at Everland, or even the impossible heights of the mountains he’d hiked through with Renjun on their post-grad trip. It’s the lack of control that scares him. Yes, putting his life in something—someone—else’s hands scares Mark very much.
But he’d do it for Chenle and Jisung. Perhaps he should just say Chenle, because the verging-on-ridiculous extravagance of a waterside wedding turned mega yacht reception could only have come from a specifically evil mind. Bridezilla, they’d called Chenle over the past year, but so fondly Mark thinks he’ll miss it. He’d had to remind himself, over that same year, that it’s not weddings he hates, just what they make him think of. And besides there are traces of the seven of them all over this wedding: Jaemin chose the champagne-pink bouquets wrapped around each archway on the boat. Haechan was in charge of the meticulously catered menu. Renjun had designed each of their deep navy suits, tailored to perfection.
So Mark takes a deep breath and walks up the red-carpeted gangway, to the yacht, up the steps, ignoring the hand of a vaguely concerned-looking crew member. Mark could brave the water. Mark could brave a lot of things. Couraguex, he thinks. Yong-gamhan.
Mark has braved a lot of things. When he and Jeno had finally called it quits several months ago, that’s what his mom had said after a long, deep sigh—Minhyungie, you’ll get through it, you’ve always been brave. It was true; as a child he’d thrived despite moving from country to country and city to city, making friends quickly in each new place, leaving a lasting impression on his teachers. He’d braved making a name for himself in the complicated field of political interpreting, braved being gay and out in a conservative country, braved leaving that same country in the name of—sarang. Amour. Not that it mattered anymore. But it was comforting to put words, neat and direct, to the things that scared Mark. The things outside of his control.
“I don’t want to do this for you anymore,” Jeno had said, the night before the morning Mark had called his mom in tears. Mark knew what this meant. The foreign country. The waiting at home. The arguments. The hurt. “It’s not worth it.”
“I’m not worth it, you mean.”
“That’s not—” Jeno had broken himself off with a sigh. He looked pitiful, young even, in the yellowed light of their kitchen, in his thick kevlar uniform adorned with the emblem of the Vancouver Fire Department. His hands were clenched over the edge of the island counter as if he was fighting the urge to do something else with them. “You and your words, hyung. Keep putting them in my mouth until they fit just right. You’re looking for an excuse, anyway.”
“An excuse to what?”
“An excuse to take back control,” Jeno said, and his voice was unusually decisive, as if to say don’t bother denying it. “It’s funny. That you're somehow still convincing yourself that you don’t already have it.”
The waterside wedding, against all odds, was an intimate affair. Like for Mark and Jeno’s all those years ago, the seven of them woke up together, had breakfast and hangover cure smoothies, and got dressed in their fancy tuxes. The house on the water, which Chenle’s family had rented, was undeniably beautiful. There was enough space that each of the groomsmen had been put up in their own beautiful bedroom, even after Mark had to explain to Chenle’s mother in pained whispers that, no, actually we’re not together anymore, and yes, please, the staff can put our stuff in separate rooms.
Two stylists arrived later that morning to touch up their makeup and perfect their hair. One of them sat Jeno and Mark beside each other in the dressing room, unknowing or uncaring of whatever tension one could perceive between them. She tilted Mark’s head back with a touch to his chin, delighting over his cheekbones as she blended concealer beneath his eyes.
“You’re very lucky,” she said in heavily accented English, and Mark had taken the opportunity to explain that actually, he’s fluent in French, that he works as a professional interpreter for the International Court of Justice.
“Vous avez de la chance,” she’d repeated warmly. “And surely you are making some pretty jeune femme lucky, too?”
The angle was weird, but not enough so that Mark missed the emotions that flew across Jeno’s face at the comment. The annoyance over Mark bringing up his job. The innocent—if frustrating—assumption of heterosexuality. The implication that Mark would be with someone else. Mark wants to speak up, say, I’m not into women, actually. He wants to say, the only person I’ve ever wanted to be with is feet away. He wants to say, désolé. Mianhae. He doesn't. Not that brave, after all.
Jisung, to everyone’s surprise, gave his vows in perfect Mandarin. As best man, Mark had stood on Chenle’s side while Jeno stood on Jisung’s side, and for the first time in a very long while the two of them were united for the same purpose, in the name of love. Mark couldn’t help but tear up during the ceremony, but he’s not half as bad as Chenle, who’d stared at his groom in disbelief, sobbing so ugly you couldn’t help but find it beautiful.
Renjun, though, hadn’t cried. Which was—fucking suspicious. And meant—
“You were in on it,” Mark says. The happy couple has disappeared, ushered by their mothers, to get changed into their reception suits. The non-wedding party guests are beginning to board the yacht, chattering happily, snacking on the hors d'oeuvres flowing plentifully from golden trays carried around by waitstaff. Mark passes on a plate of caviar-topped crackers, but gratefully accepts a glass of champagne with a murmured, “Shi shi.”
“Xiè xie,” Renjun tuts, correcting his pronunciation. “They pay you way too much money over at that court for your Chinese to still be so bad.”
Mark rolls his eyes. It's usually the aunties at these events who come up with him asking if he knows how to say this word or that in any random language; even a decade later, they still thought a degree in linguistics meant he somehow knew every language. “We can’t all have gotten help.”
Renjun smiles, a private and smug thing. “He did good, right? Only took me like, ten weeks to whip him into shape. After the vows we went over some extra words too, you know, stuff you’d use in bed…”
“Oh, god,” Mark says, covering his ears. He knew, logically, that Jisung and Chenle were twenty-nine and thirty now respectively, far from the young kids he’d met when first arriving in Seoul. He also knew, logically, that they’d been in a serious relationship for a few years now and were, as of a few hours ago, happily married. He still didn’t want to know a thing about their sex life. “Stop, stop.”
“Hyung, you prude,” Renjun cackles. “What’d you do on your wedding night, play chess?”
Mark takes a sip of his champagne and looks out at the water. The portrait photographers have arrived on the yacht, which honest to god has Chenle’s last name engraved on its stern. The last of the reception guests are in tow. Technically, Chenle and Jisung couldn’t get legally married here—but Mark respects the decision to host the wedding in Shanghai, anyway. Chenle’s home city looms beautifully beneath the last beams of the morning’s sunlight, everything around them shrouded in a glow reflected by the cool Pacific waves.
Mark and Jeno had gotten married in Canada using Mark's citizenship, because Mark had wanted the legitimacy those silly papers would bring them, badly. He’d always liked to organize his life into words.
Renjun’s hand, small but firm, comes up to squeeze Mark’s elbow. “Sorry, hyung, I forgot.”
“It’s fine.” Mark lightly shakes him off. “I forget sometimes, too.”
“It’s only been a few months,” Renjun agrees. “And seeing you guys play best men earlier, well—”
“Yeah,” Mark says, though in truth it feels like he’d blacked out for much of the ceremony, popping back in for the shock of Jisung’s vows, fading out again when Jeno hooked their arms together to follow the grooms down the aisle. Was it an illicit pleasure, getting to pretend they were still together if only for a few hours? Or more torture, that it was only for a few hours? “Yeah.”
Renjun asks, “How is the divorce going? No one tells me anything.”
That was on purpose. When Mark and Jeno had first begun to argue last year, the rest of them had taken sides, if only for their peace of mind. Haechan and Chenle on Mark’s. Jaemin and Jisung with Jeno. Renjun was the only one to remain truly neutral, the group’s placating Switzerland.
“Separation,” Mark says coolly. “It’s a separation.”
Renjun looks surprised. “Still?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Renjun coughs. “I mean, I just—well, it’s been six months. I thought, I mean, we all thought that you guys were coming to some sort of decision. Or something. Whatever, let’s forget it.”
“Did Jeno say something?”
“Let’s forget it,” Renjun repeats.
Mark pinches the space between his eyebrows with his pointer finger and thumb. He mutters, “So much for Switzerland.”
Renjun doesn’t respond, waving down a waitress carrying a tray of shrimp cocktails on ice and taking one with a much smoother, “Xiè xie.” When the waitress is gone he wrinkles his nose. “Seafood apps at the yacht theme wedding. Chenle’s so tacky.”
“He almost went with a Golden State Warriors theme,” a voice behind them says, “but I talked him out of it.”
“Jeno,” Mark breathes, like it's a surprise to see the other best man on the deck of the yacht wedding, where they're supposed to be. He clears his throat, sips his champagne, flushing.
“The lovely brides sent me. It’s time for photos and I think, uh, the best men are supposed to take some together.”
“Right,” Mark says. The sea breeze tousles his hair. He doesn’t meet Jeno’s eyes.
Renjun, thankfully, intercedes, wrapping an easy arm around Jeno’s waist and tugging him into the crowd. “Let’s go, then,” he says, and then something lower, too, something that makes Jeno laugh uneasily.
“Fucking Switzerland,” Mark mutters beneath his own breath, but he follows them.
At their best they were happy, more than happy. After they got married Mark and Jeno settled in Vancouver, where Mark got his first good translation job, his Korean perfect after living in Seoul for years, his French perfected after a university minor in the language. They were young, but happy. Not in the typical way, but a real way that bubbled over and sometimes made it hard for Mark to breathe. Jeno finished his firefighting training within the year and got a job at the local department. He’d studied engineering in college, but his English was choppy and his Korean degrees didn’t match up with Canadian job requirements. He didn’t mind, he claimed, he just wanted to be with Mark. Mark had wanted that too…
They’d lie in bed talking about how lucky they were, how good they had it, having understanding families, having supportive friends, having Mark’s Canadian citizenship. Mark would whisper achingly sweet things into Jeno’s soft hair at night, in every language he knew. His baby. Mon ange. Mark’s sweet jagiya.
The photographers have set up a makeshift studio at the tip of the yacht’s deck—tripods, fresh flowers, those big circular light reflectors. Chenle’s standing at the bow with his arms spread like some bastardized version of Jack Dawson while Jisung blushes beside him, trying to pretend that the cameras aren’t there. It’s—cute. They’re—
“A match made in Heaven,” Jaemin whoops.
Mark has to agree; he’s so happy for his friends, he feels his heart might burst. Aloud he says, “They’re sweet.”
Beside them, Renjun looks disapprovingly over the admittedly excessive rows of groomsmen. “Seriously, they don’t know one woman?”
“Chenle’s sister-in-law?” Jaemin offers.
Renjun huffs while Jeno laughs into his cufflinks, eyes curved and pretty.
“How are you feeling?” Haechan murmurs in Mark’s ear. He cleans up nice, all expensive perfume and neatly pressed shirt. Mark can’t help but remember when Haechan was his own best man at his own wedding, standing beside him on that cool spring altar. That’s a good memory, though. Maybe it’s not so good to repress them all.
“Fine,” Mark replies. “Worry about the happy couple, not me.”
“I think we’re actually supposed to worry about the unhappy couple.”
As if on queue, the photographers call for the next round of photos. “Can the best men join the couple, please?”
On the way to the front, Haechan claps Mark’s shoulder in encouragement as if he’s heading up to compete in a sporting event.
When Jeno and him arrive beneath the bright lights and reflectors, they’re directed to stand beside their respective grooms, pose this way and that. A photographer calls out for them to smile less and look formal, then smile more and look casual. Haechan makes crude gestures behind the camera that makes them all laugh enough for the photographer to get the shot she’s looking for, at least until Jisung’s mom hits him over the head for it. It’s not so bad—until Chenle and Jisung are instructed to go pose in front of the floral backdrop while they get separate pictures of the wedding party. Mark and Jeno first, since they’re already up there, and all the pairs need to take one together, and they’re on a schedule, so if they could just—
“Hurry the fuck up,” Jaemin stage-whispers helpfully.
They do. They’re causing more of a scene by hesitating, and neither of them are scene-causing types.
Jeno wraps his arm around Mark’s shoulders, Mark slides one hand around his waist, their hands falling into place like muscle memory, everything familiar except the lack of rings. They’ve posed for a thousand pictures like this over the years. At parties and events, at their own reception party.
It’s only awkward if they make it so. It just so happens that they’re both incredibly awkward, hadn’t that been one of the things they’d seen eye to eye on? The abject confusion of social events, the stressful nature of having an I as the first letter in your MBTI type?
“Great shot,” the photographer says, with genuine satisfaction. Mark feels the warmth radiating off Jeno’s body so close to his own, and forgets to say thank you.
“If it’s about the money—” Mark says.
“It’s not about the money,” Jeno replies. “Is that really what you think of me?”
They hadn’t gotten a prenup. They were young and stupid and swore they’d be in love forever. Stupid. Mark makes way more money, and Jeno’s tax-collector mom had warned them and warned them. Financially, getting a divorce will be hard later on.
Well, we’re not getting a divorce, Jeno had said, still giddy over the proposal, still young enough to feel the thrill of disobeying his parents. They were so young.
“Then what is it?” Mark asks. “We agreed we didn’t want a divorce, and now I have to hear from Renjun that you're considering—”
“Mark,” Jeno hisses, “Jesus, we’re in public—”
Not really, close enough. They're stood aside from the crowd, which had opened up after Chenle and Jisung’s first dance as a married couple.
For a while they’d said nothing, leaning over the deck with twin glasses of champagne in hand. On the dance floor below them, Chenle watches with heart eyes as Jisung does some sort of arm move that should look stupid but actually looks really smooth. They’re both flushed and tipsy and happy. Looking out at them with Jeno, pale and sober and sad, Mark feels the first small pangs of jealousy he’d warned himself against. It’s not that he isn’t happy for them. He’s just sad for himself.
“You can keep the money, fucking keep it all, I don’t care.”
“This is not. About. Money. I just want this over with,” Jeno says. “I don’t want to spend another year of my life arguing about a divorce settlement, thinking of you every single day because I wake up every single morning to an email from your lawyer on my phone. I want you to let me go! I want you to give us a chance to move on.”
“Okay,” Mark says. “So I let you go? Then what? A year from now, you're happy, just like that? No lawyer emails, perfect mornings, forgetting about me, about us—”
“Don’t you dare,” Jeno says. “You were the one who forgot about us. That was you.”
It plays in Mark's head like a bad tape reel. Late nights pouring over legal documents. One more court justice to type up a translation for. One more. Another. Week-long trips to the Hague to sit trials. Jeno’s pouty pup face when he got home made Mark’s stomach roll, so he went home less. It’d happened so easily. He hadn’t noticed it happening until it was done.
He looks at Jeno now, the figure he cuts in the moonlight. He’d always been so devastatingly beautiful; it was worrying how quickly Mark could forget about that. It’s different in person—nothing like the occasional group chat pictures or even the less common Instagram selfies Mark had studied as if for exams since Jeno left Canada for Korea. In person, every bone in Mark’s body, every muscle in Mark’s face, twitches only for his husband.
“I’m sorry,” Mark says quietly. “Will you believe me? That things would be different if you came home?”
“That isn’t home for me anymore,” Jeno says sadly.
“Then Jeno, I’ll come to you.”
“Mark.”
“Jeno.”
“Mark,” Jeno says, and it’s almost a whine. “I can’t believe you, but I still, I just—
—want you. Naneun neoreul wonhae. Je te veux. You you you. Mark can understand what Jeno means even in the languages he’ll never know. It’s that impossible, persisting feeling: I want you even when I’m mad at you. I want you even when I hate you. I want you even when I don’t.
“There’s gotta be an open room…”
Mark feels like he’s the one in the Titanic movie, sappy, glowing, running across the shiny wood floors after his new lover. He feels young. That’s it—everything feels new.
“This one,” Mark tries shaking the door handle when it won’t budge.
“Mark, it’s locked,” Jeno protests, leaning close to prove so, which is exactly what Mark wants.
He traps Jeno in a kiss, soft sweet, familiar. Mark drags his hands down Jeno’s sides, across his strong back. The older they got—the harder it was to maintain—the prouder Jeno was of his body, its lean lines and firm muscle. It was an impossible body. It was Jeno’s body. In some ways, it was Mark’s.
They do find a room, but not before Jaemin finds them first, walking up to them with a knowing look in their eyes. “Don’t kill each other,” he says. “We’re on a boat. Medical resources are slim.”
“Knowing Chenle, I’m sure there’s a hospital on here somewhere,” Jeno says. “If we need one.”
Jaemin squeezes his arm as he passes them. “Don’t need one.”
They won’t. That’s not their style. They’re bottle-it-uppers. Cry-it-outers. Jeno’s muscle is all for show. Mark apologizes after raising his voice. But maybe that was part of the problem. Neither of them has the stomach for fighting.
Later, the yacht docks. The guests disperse, back to whatever cities and countries they’ve come from. The wedding party tumbles back into that beautiful house on the shore. They wave the happy couple off, blowing kisses until Chenle and Jisung become just two dots on the deck of the yacht. Off to Bali, Phuket, the Maldives, and so on. Mark just hopes that wherever they end up, it’s in a better place than he’s found himself.
In a plain, unadorned Korean, Mark asks Jeno to come back home with him after all this.
In a plainer tone, Jeno says—no.
Mark’s glad, though. Letting someone else take control of what Mark does next, that’s something new for him. He doesn’t have to be scared of the unexpected ways love will change you.
Sometimes, that gives Mark huimang. Espoir.
Other times, when Mark is in bed with Jeno, his mind goes to a place without language at all. He tangles his hands in Jeno’s short hair, feels the strength of the body beneath Jeno’s dress shirt, tastes the unsaid things on Jeno’s lips.
Not everything, he thinks, needs a neat little word to describe it. This thing in Mark’s chest, both new and old, both settled and ready to escape, is wilder than that. Hope.