Chapter Text
Mark remembers his first fight, all those years ago when some smarmy man had seen him get into a brawl in some alleyway and said, “Hey kid, how about you make some money doing that?”
He remembers being scrawny and scared shitless, facing off against a man two inches shorter than him. All Mark had had was his bare knuckles and the shirt on his back when he’d walked into the seedy club filled with the smell of smoke and stale piss and body odor and rust, these bodies packed together while men made a clearing in the center of the room.
Nothing but concrete floor and too-harsh overhead lighting. He’d been hit with a wall of sounds—loud cheering and men placing bets, yelling as the fights went on.
Mark had been shoved into the middle of the ring confused, and overwhelmed, but the man opposite him had laughed in his face, called him weak, and Mark only saw red, red, red.
Red, like his knuckles that had swollen up so badly after making contact with the man’s cheeks over and over until Beard McGraw had collapsed onto the floor, knocked out from Mark’s inexplicable strength.
Red, like the blood that had dripped from his nose onto the five one hundred dollar bills that he held crushed in his fist after winning his first ever fight.
Red, like his eyes when he’d checked in the mirror as he’d snuck back into the apartment, his mother fast asleep.
“Hey, you with me?” Yuta asks, his brows furrowed as crouches in front of Mark.
Mark snaps out of his recollection, brought back into the present by Yuta cuffing him lightly on the knee.
“Y-yeah, sorry, I’m here,” Mark says, finally seeing what’s in Yuta’s hands.
“So we’ll get you there for the weigh in, and then you’re chowing down on these eggs and oats. None of that greasy burger shit,” Yuta says, gesturing to the lunch box he has in his hands. “Johnny made this special. I offered to cook but he told me he wasn’t gonna risk you getting food poisoning, which like, honestly valid,” he laughs. “I’m not great in the kitchen.”
Mark glances over at Johnny who’s still in his office, frowning at his laptop, bags under his eyes. He wonders what time Johnny woke up to make breakfast for Mark, since it’s 6:15 in the morning right now, and Mark flushes inwardly with gratitude. They’re waiting for Donghyuck who should arrive in ten minutes. He’d offered a ride and none of them were about to turn down the chance to turn up at a fight in a Rolls fucking Royce.
“I’ll thank him later,” Mark mutters, taking the lunch box and putting it inside his bag, grateful that it seems like one of those fancy air-tight ones so he doesn’t have to worry about spilling shit.
“It’s gonna be a long-ass day, my dude,” Yuta says, straightening up and clapping Mark on the shoulder. “But you knew this coming in.”
“Yeah, I’m ready for it,” Mark replies, looking up and holding his hand out for Yuta’s fist to bump it.
His phone rings, and Donghyuck tells him he’s nearby, so Mark rises from the bench, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder.
“Hyuck just called, says he’s near,” Mark calls out to Johnny, who looks up, nods, and shuts his laptop before shoving it hastily into his backpack. Even at the match, Johnny’s still going to be working. Mark had told him he hadn’t needed to come, but Johnny had shot him down almost immediately.
“And miss the debut of Seo Gym’s first pro-fighter? I think the fuck not, Markie,” Johnny had said.
The three of them make their way out of the gym and down the hallway, Johnny locking up behind them. Yuta has his arm slung around Mark’s shoulders, giving him reminders based on the videos he’d reviewed of Mark last night, coaching him to anticipate the kinds of fighters he’s meeting today.
It isn’t lost on Mark just how different this pre-fight pep talk feels from the fights he’s used to. He’d always come into his fights alone after having scarfed down some shitty beer or a cheap burger before he’d find himself jostled in the ring of bodies. No one had ever prepared a meal for him specifically with the intention of making sure Mark got enough protein to burn through the first couple of rounds.
He’d built a small following underground, people who cheered him on whenever he’d pull his Fight Club shit and feel his knuckles deal damage to the cartilage of someone’s nose or dig into someone’s gut, but he’d never had people willingly come together with the intention of being there to support him. As it is, Donghyuck’s one of the many people who have offered to help Mark out for today’s fights.
“Hey, chief,” Donghyuck says, leaning against the sleek black car before holding his hand out to slap Johnny's palm, side-stepping each other as they start their handshake, this little jig-hop-slide thing that they do whenever they see each other.
They’re not quite in secret handshake territory yet, but Donghyuck does grab Mark by the hand to dap him, muttering, “Yo, Canada,” his hand firmly patting Mark’s back twice before Mark steps away. “Are you ready to murder these—”
“Donghyuck,” Johnny says warningly while Yuta laughs and gets into the back seat.
“Sorry, sorry,” Donghyuck says, holding both hands up in surrender. “Are you ready to kick ass?”
Mark laughs, shoving Donghyuck a little towards the door to the front seat. “I’m always ready.”
“Cocky, nice,” Donghyuck says, and then gets into the car, Mark following suit.
Yuta whistles, seated by the window and looking around at the interiors of the car—the leather seats, the spacious leg-room, the tinted windows. “God, this is nice,” he remarks. “Thanks for the ride, Hyuck.”
“Anytime, for real,” Donghyuck says, throwing them a smile over his shoulder before settling back in the seat. Mark figures he’s closing his eyes for some shut-eye.
The rest of them sort of do the same, Yuta curling up into the corner to rest his head against the window, but on Mark’s right, Johnny is wide awake, his hands resting on his knees, squeezing a little every couple of minutes.
“I think you’re more nervous than I am,” Mark says softly, catching Johnny’s attention from where he’d been staring out the window. Johnny’s eyes snap back to his, and then he huffs out a small laugh.
“Honestly, yeah, I think so too,” Johnny says. “I mean, I haven’t been to an actual fight in a long time, and I think my body’s sort of remembering what it was like for me when I’d be heading into one. Like it misses it.” Johnny pauses, and then levels Mark with a smile. “But it’s mostly nerves for you.”
“Why?” Mark asks, nudging Johnny’s shoulder with his own. “Where’d your vote of confidence go?”
“It’s there, very firmly in your corner,” Johnny says. “Just. You know. We both know every worst case scenario when we step into a ring.”
It’s clipped but honest. A sliver of vulnerability that Johnny peels back and shows Mark.
“But then again, I forget you’re Wolverine,” Johnny teases, and Mark sees him visibly relax. It’s nice to know that he’s got Johnny on his side, nice to know that whatever jittery sort of crush-hero worship thing he used to have on the man has grown into something that is comfortable, grateful to just spend time in Johnny’s company.
Even if Mark still wants to climb him like a tree.
Mark claps him on the knee twice, and says, “I’ve got this, chief.”
-
Mark weighs in at 63.1 kilograms, putting him nicely in the higher border for the light welterweight class now that he’s built so much muscle already, and once he’s stepped off the scale, he’s whisked away by Yuta and Donghyuck to get to the cluster of chairs that Mark’s camp is seated at.
“All good?” Johnny asks, looking up from his laptop when they arrive.
“All good,” Yuta says. “Now chow down on your breakfast, Markie. You need it.”
They’ve got coolers of food and drink with them, bottles of Pocari Sweat and water and Johnny’s horrible stash of Monster energy drinks for himself. Mark settles next to Johnny at the table with the lunch box he’d prepared for Mark, and when Mark opens it up, he sees that its three layers are filled with everything he needs: a serving of oats and kiwi and mango, an entire level of scrambled eggs with cheese and what looks like turkey slices, and the last tier that has pita and hummus.
It’s not lost on Mark that Johnny’s made a meal for him more than once now, not including the coffee he’s handed Mark on most mornings since Mark’s come to the gym, and he does his best to keep his embarrassing crush under control.
“Thank you for this,” Mark says quietly, despite the roaring noise of the convention center being filled with spectators and fighters.
Johnny doesn’t even look at Mark, his eyes glued to whatever it is Johnny’s writing on screen, but he’s smiling anyway.
“It’s nothing, dude,” Johnny says, even when it’s clear to them both that it’s not just nothing.
Mark’s first fight is in four hours yet, and they really are in for a long, long day. The fights are expected to go all the way past midnight, and they’d been told to anticipate that. It’s a good thing they’d managed to snag a corner of the room that had chairs and the long table so they’re at least comfortable during the wait. Mark feels a little bad that there’s so much lag time where the others have to wait, but when he’d mentioned that, Donghyuck had just told him to shut up and got back to his phone game.
The convention hall is filled with six different rings for the matches, and Mark scans the room for any familiar faces when Jeno and Jaehyun arrive with arms full of what look like takeaway.
“Meals for the gods!” Jeno says, setting them next to Johnny’s laptop before everyone exchanges greetings.
“Hey, Markie,” Jaehyun says before his boyfriend takes a seat next to him and hands him a wrapped burrito.
“How are you feeling?” Jeno asks while he pops a fry in his mouth. Jaehyun busies himself with what looks like the gruelling task of removing onions from Jeno’s tacos.
“Spiteful, right now,” Mark laughs, nodding at all of the food he isn’t allowed to eat right now that they’re parading in front of him.
“Be strong, bro, this is a test of mettle,” Jaehyun replies, patting Mark patronizingly on the arm. Johnny just snorts under his breath.
Mark rolls his eyes, opting to tuck into the breakfast Johnny had made for him before he has to stifle the moan at how fluffy the scrambled eggs are.
“Yo,” Mark says, genuinely shocked at how good something so simple tastes. “Dude, these are like, really fucking good.”
Johnny’s fingers pause over his keyboard as he glances at Mark, a tiny smile on his lips. “Yeah? I’m glad. Nice to know my French ex-girlfriend managed to impart some sort of knowledge before leaving me for a designer haha.”
Mark has an image of Johnny with his arms wrapped around a pretty brunette lady teaching him how to scramble eggs, and wishes that he would grow the fuck up because this schoolyard longing is really starting to grate on him.
“Glad I’m benefitting from it, then,” Mark replies, turning back to his food and refusing to look at Johnny, who barks out a laugh before he tugs on Mark’s ear.
-
Mark’s day passes in a sort of blur after his first fight. His body moves on instinct, taking everything he’s learned from his months of training and his years of fighting to methodically decimate every opponent he’s faced against.
His name moves up in the brackets, progressing every couple of hours, until finally, a little past midnight, Mark sees the final tier: MARK LEE vs. VERNON CHWE.
He’s watched Vernon fight all day, watched his name move up in the ranks as well. Ruthless, mean right hook, really fucking chill when he’s out of the ring. Mark’s gonna enjoy going up against him.
“Mark, come on!” Yuta says, calling Mark over from the massive board that shows the progression of the day’s fights, and Mark hurries back, jogging over to their table. Yuta’s already got a tablet open, and on it, a video of Vernon that looks almost like it’s a Tiktok.
“So, here’s the thing,” Yuta says as Mark huddles in close. Johnny’s set his laptop aside to listen in as well. “Vernon trains under Jihoon, and Jihoon is the meanest motherfucker this side of town—wait, he’s great, like he is a great dude, I respect him a lot—but his training is a lot more rigorous than whatever we’ve put you through here. He’s big on precision, and Vernon’s punches pack power. He’s also a fucking Southpaw.”
“Well,” Mark says, unfazed. “Good thing I’m one, too, then.”
Johnny barks out a laugh, and then slings his arm around Mark’s shoulder while he pulls back and wipes under his eyes. “God, I didn’t think I’d ever meet a cocky sonofabitch who could match me, but then you come along and say shit like that.”
Mark shrugs, riding the high of his consecutive wins, including two knockouts. “I told you the first time we met that I was a good fighter, man. You should really listen to me more.”
Johnny gives Mark an impossibly fond look, and Mark wishes, not for the first time, that he could read Johnny better, parse what this expression means and why it makes Mark’s insides so fucking fluttery all the time now. Hope is such a ridiculous thing to contain when you’re quietly pining for someone, really, but Mark shakes his head and tells himself to focus. This isn’t the time.
“Okay, okay, big shot,” Johnny laughs.
The fight begins in an hour, and Mark spends it mostly leaning back in the seat next to Johnny with his eyes closed, his headphones on, keeping his focus.
He’s trained for nearly two months for this, and every single day that he’s gone to bed with aching muscles and a steady heart, Mark has said a prayer—small, quick, sincere—to ask for help, and now he’s here.
Every person he’s faced off against today had been decisive, Mark throwing exactly the right punches to deal damage to their torso, to their head.
Not once had he seen his father’s face in any of theirs.
Mark has changed so much from who he was before he ever set foot in the Seo Gym, and it’s a maddening realization to make right before his final match of the evening, right before the fight that had been the deciding factor in Mark seeking Johnny and the team out in the first place.
He thinks about the steps that got him here, surrounded by so many of his friends from the gym where prior to, Mark had only really had his casual relationships with the people at the cafe, Mark’s best friend Jaemin having stayed in Canada instead.
Mark doesn’t feel the blind rage anymore. It’s gone, dissipated into the ether now that it’s been replaced with something richer, something more sustainable. He keeps his eyes closed and he runs through all his fights again in his head. He thinks back to Vernon’s fighting, trying to find the openings that Vernon’s opponents had missed.
In what feels like minutes, Mark feels someone shake his arm, and Mark opens his eyes.
“It’s time, Markie,” Yuta says.
“Gotta go get ‘em,” Mark replies, grinning.
-
The thing about a blow to the face is that nothing ever prepares you for it. It’s the same: the momentary stillness of motion, the ringing in your ears, before you realize that something has made contact with your cheek bone, and then you’re falling to the ground. Sometimes, there’s darkness.
Thank fuck there isn’t any right now.
Mark blinks furiously, his vision swimming as he tries to push himself off the mat. His arms are exhausted after consecutive fights, and it’s past fucking midnight. Vernon’s dealt some pretty decent body shots to counter Mark’s own, but Christ, that left hook came out of nowhere, and Mark’s being counted down, but after the third one, he’s back up, holding onto the ropes to roaring cheers and applause, and blessedly, the loud trill of the bell going off, signalling the end of round seven.
The ref helps him up, and he’s striding over to his corner of the ring, dropping onto the little stool, opening his mouth so Yuta can pull his mouth guard out and rinse the blood off, just as Johnny steps into the ring with him, immediately holding ice to Mark’s cheek. Mark’s still woozy, his body heavy, his lungs burning while he gasps for breath after breath. He can feel a cramp in his left leg starting, and he fluxes his foot at the ankle in the hopes of getting the muscle steady enough before it locks up.
“Fuck, he nearly had me there,” Mark says, breathing heavily, closing his eyes to rest his head against the padded corner.
“You’re tiring him out,” Yuta says, leaning in to wipe Mark’s face down and then slinging the towel over his shoulder before Johnny returns with the ice. “You’re doing great. It’s just that he’s the only one today bold enough to come in with a left hook as mean as a fucking wrecking ball, Jesus.”
Mark’s vision swims, the lights glaring behind Johnny’s head as Johnny cups his jaw, makes Mark look up at him. Everything fucking hurts, but he’s not ready to throw in the towel. Not now. Not ever.
“Come on, open up,” Johnny says, holding the water bottle to Mark’s mouth, to which Mark responds with laughter, feeling his second wind coming on. Johnny’s eyes widen in shock, and then soften in amusement.
“Cheeky bastard,” Johnny responds, and squeezes the water while Mark swallows, closing his eyes once again. “You keep dropping your left hand. You need to keep it up, then step off, then go in with your right, got it?”
The minute’s almost up, and Yuta only just has time to get more Vaseline on Mark’s eyebrow and cheek before Yuta's slipping the mouthguard back into his mouth, and he’s standing up again.
“Finish this,” Johnny says, his hands squeezing Mark’s shoulders. Mark nods, and gets back in the game.
He stands in front of Vernon, hopping from right foot to left, assessing what he can. Vernon’s right eye is swollen, worse now from the blow Mark had dealt in round five, and it’s sure to obscure his vision, something Mark files away as they circle each other. Mark drowns out the crowd, drowns out the fear that rises in his belly and up his esophagus. All he hears is his breathing, loud and harsh in his ears as he tracks Vernon like prey.
Mark lunges forward with two jabs in succession, both of which Vernon swerves from, but Mark is ready, coming in with a straight and right hook, causing Vernon to stumble back against the ropes.
Come on, Mark tells himself. Come on. Move faster.
Yuta was right. Vernon’s exhausted. He’d only had two fights go all the way to the final round today. Vernon is power, not stamina, not built to fight fighters like Mark whose breath keeps him steady. Mark pushes forward, leading with his left foot, pivoting when Vernon ducks and leans out of the way, and Mark powers through, forces his fists to make contact with Vernon’s body while Vernon holds his arms close to his torso, trying in vain to prevent Mark from dealing too much damage to his ribs.
Mark hears Vernon growl in frustration when he ducks, missing what would have been another jab to his face if he hadn’t caught the moment, and he blinks the sweat furiously from his eyes, the salt trailing down the sides of his face.
He can see where Vernon’s dropping his guard, keeping his chin tucked, left hand up the more Mark goes in with his right hand, and it all comes rushing back to him, the single-minded focus that he used to have when he’d be bare-knuckling his way through his opponents. Mark pulls in from deep inside of himself and tells himself that that money, that win is his, and his mind clears, as does his vision, stepping back and stepping aside, dancing in the ring as Vernon tries and fails to corner him.
Mark keeps pushing, and Vernon keeps fighting back, both of them desperately trying to keep the other from making contact with each other’s fists to their faces.
Mark ignores the roar of the cheering audience, honing in on the small limp that Vernon has, the way his body is bent to the right, the way his right elbow keeps dropping, and Mark lunges forward, going in with a straight-straight, jab, and two upper lefts, which makes Vernon’s movements stutter, and Mark sees it, his in.
He watches it happen like time slows to a stop, his gloved fist connecting with Vernon’s right eye and cheek as the spray of saliva and blood from his mouth leaves him, his head twisting unnaturally before his body crumples to the ground.
Mark watches as Vernon gets on his knees and falls again, blood pouring freely from the inflamed cut above his right eyebrow, and Mark knows he’s won. There’s no getting up from this, and the crowd is already on its feet while Mark waits and waits for the ten counts to be up. He stays ready, his gloves up to his face in case Vernon manages to get his hand on the ropes.
Eight… nine… ten!
It almost doesn’t register when the referee pulls his hand up, raising it high over their heads as they declare Mark the winner, because his team is running into the ring, Yuta and Johnny and Donghyuck coming in a flurry of limbs and screaming and he’s won.
He did it.
Mark fucking did it.
“And our winner by knockout is…. Mark Lee!” The commentator shouts over the microphone, the convention hall filled with cheering as Yuta and Johnny take both his arms and drag him over to their side of the ring, Mark climbing the ropes and leaning out with his thigh pressed against the padded corner with his hands up in victory, his friends from Seo Gym going absolutely batshit from where they’re seated, and Mark feels joy that is all-encompassing, overwhelming in his relief and emotion.
He makes the sign of the cross, looks up at the ceiling to say thank you to a God he had thought no longer listened to him, and steps down while the people who surround him toss him from hug to hug. There is heat in the air, and hands in his hair, hands on his arms, hands pulling him to the center of the ring where there is a modest shiny belt with blue and red in the center waiting for him, but Mark searches in the sea of bodies to get to the one person he’s looking for. It’s all he knows he needs to do right now, and his head throbs from how desperately he wants it.
Johnny’s standing off to the side, his phone out while he no doubt takes a video of the entire scene, but Mark politely pushes through the swarm of people before he’s knocking Johnny’s phone away from in front of him, and wrapping his arms around Johnny’s neck, standing on tiptoes to catch Johnny’s lips in a kiss that startles the both of them before warmth courses through Mark’s veins as Johnny kisses him back, lips just as plush as every single one of Mark’s day dreams.
Johnny’s tongue brushes against Mark’s own and objectively he knows that they’re doing this in front of an entire fucking crowd, sure, but Mark doesn’t care, not a single bit, because Johnny’s hands are on his waist, uncaring of the sweat that’s pooled there, pulling Mark in close and closer before Johnny breaks the kiss to laugh, and then kisses him again, for good measure.
“Bold, Mark Lee,” Johnny whispers through the smile pressed against Mark’s lips.
“Told you to take a chance on me,” Mark shrugs, and then pulls away before he steps back, his cheeks straining from how hard and wide his smile is before he’s pushed to the center of the ring and jostled for the cameras.
Everything is noise around him, Yuta screaming in his ear while Mark smiles with the belt held up in his hand. This is hardly one of those pay-per-view fights, and he isn’t quite thinking of glory right now, but he’s surrounded by his friends who very quickly became family in the two short months that led up to this point, and Johnny—beautiful, brilliant boxer that he is, who looks as besotted as Mark feels.
He’d come here for the money, for the shot at something that made him feel less unmoored by everything else that had gone wrong in his life. He’d worked for this, yes, but he hadn’t realized just how much more he stood to gain until this very moment, in the middle of a ring, in the middle of the night in a convention center.
Vernon comes up to him, his eyebrow completely swollen now, his eye shut from Mark’s damage. His gloves are off, his fist out for Mark to bump with his still-gloved hand.
“You kicked my ass, man,” Vernon says, laughing under his breath. “Good fight. Mad respect.”
“Back at you, dude,” Mark replies, ignoring the flashes going off around them.
“Let’s face off again, yeah?” Vernon says, clapping Mark on the shoulder before they’re both told to stand side by side for a photo.
“Yeah, for sure,” Mark replies, and elbows Vernon in his side. They smile for the cameras.
-
The chaos doesn’t stop when they get back to Seo Gym, and Mark barely gets a chance to breathe or get a second to himself because Yeri’s called over her friends to throw an impromptu party and one of them comes bearing gifts of way more crates of beer than anyone knows what to do with. Benches are pushed up against the walls of the gym and Johnny brings his speakers down from his apartment and the next thing Mark knows, there’s an entire party where they normally sweat all over the floor doing push-ups and squats.
It’s only when Jeno and Jaehyun start grinding in the middle of it all and Donghyuck’s wolf-whistling at them while he double-fists his beers that Johnny finally, finally tilts his head to gesture them going up the spiral stairs to his place. Everyone is too distracted and too inebriated to care much what their celebrant is doing at this point. They’re all just happy to have a reason to drink too much and not have to pay for it with training hungover the next day.
Johnny leads Mark by the hand, and Mark follows in a sort of trance, the low yellow light making Johnny’s butt look even nicer, though Mark’s never been at eye-level with it until now. The music and the raucous laughter is muted when they reach the top of the stairs, and Mark should have expected it, but it still catches him off-guard when he feels Johnny tug him close, pressing him against the rough exposed brick, though it’s not like Mark minds.
“Hey,” Johnny whispers, right hand on Mark’s hip, left forearm bent by Mark’s head.
“Hey yourself,” Mark replies, his heart racing. This is the first time they’re alone since Mark’s win, since Mark decided to throw caution to the wind and finally take all the victories that he thought were within arm’s reach for him.
“So uh,” Johnny stars, his thumb rubbing circles on Mark’s hipbone, right above the elastic of his sweats and boxer briefs. “Is this—is this okay? Or was earlier one of those like… heat of the moment kind of things?”
Mark studies Johnny’s face, sees the concern there in the fine lines between his eyebrows, the upside down of his lips.
“I think—” Mark swallows, his lips darting out to wet his parched lips. “I think we both know this is more than okay.”
Johnny smiles, slow and small and sweet, and rests his forehead on Mark’s, sighing softly.
“I just wanted to be sure, you know?” Johnny says. “This is kinda scary.” He brings a hand to cup Mark’s jaw, and Mark leans into it, the heat of Johnny’s palm on his cheek. “I like you so much.”
It’s kind of cute, Mark thinks to himself, that they’re two men who spend their time pounding flesh into other men’s flesh, and yet here they are, wound up and skittish over this—over kisses and quietly uttered confessions.
“I like you too, chief,” Mark says, smiling and tilting his chin up so he can look at Johnny directly. “I think I made that clear.”
“Yeah,” Johnny laughs. “We’ve got video footage of it and everything.”
“Mmm, you into that, John Seo?” Mark says, tugging Johnny in close at the hips, making Johnny punch out a laugh that comes straight from his chest before he curses and says, “Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me, huh?”
It’s the first time in Mark’s life that he feels this whole, like the pieces have fallen into place once and for all, and for good, or at least for the time being. Johnny leans in to slide his lips over Mark’s own, and Mark thinks about how he’d come here with nothing but the singular determination to find somewhere safe for himself after hitting rock bottom. Sure, it helps that he’s going home three thousand dollars richer, but more than that, he’s happy, something that he’d felt eluded him for so long.
He thinks he could do this, keep doing all of this: training at Seo Gym, kissing Johnny, letting people like Donghyuck and Jaehyun in, coming home to his mom and Chenle knowing that he’s doing something that he’s really fucking good at, that he really fucking loves. He feels like his entire life has accelerated to get him here, bracketed against the wall above the gym that’s his new home. Finally, he gets a chance to slow down.
“Hey, you with me?” Johnny asks, plush lips pressing into his cheek.
Mark smiles, and hopes Johnny can feel it.
“Yeah, Johnny, I’m with you.”