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anemoia

Summary:

“even in a world where nothing is certain, there is still a dream to hold onto.”

He knew Mark’s dreams. A lot of them, anyway, because the other shared so much and so often. It was a comfortable feeling, to realise you know someone. That you yourself are known by someone.
One of Mark’s dreams was meeting.
Walking through the city streets at night, laughing and dancing. Seeing each other face to face.

aka Yuta misses mark

Notes:

for jay. I know I never replied to your note, I hope this does that instead :))

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

 

Is it possible to miss something you never had?

Yuta doesn’t hesitate a second to answer. It’s been on the tip of his tongue, the edge of his mind, saturating every passing thought and action.

His friends were all sick of him.

They made him a ‘Mark’ jar. Everytime he mentioned the younger boy, he put in a dollar. 

The jar’s been emptied twice so far, and is the reason Doyoung has a playstation. 

“What’s wrong? Is this about Mark again?” 

“...”

He’s been deemed both hopeless and helpless.

But he couldn’t help it, couldn’t help but dream.

Is it possible to miss something you never had?

What other feeling could it be, if not longing, when he sees that bright smile flash across his screen, sure as clockwork?

What else could it be, when his heart raced like the wind and his chest hurt from laughing every time they talked, three measly hours separating them even in the closest of moments?

The world moved fast. Between one thing and another, there was no room to breathe, no time to relax, to slow down and live.

How great would it be, to simply exist, without any expectation? To live for yourself, not the responsibilities crushing you from this way and that.

He was aware it didn’t look like much. He hung out with his friends, attended his classes and came home to the same house every night.

Things could’ve been worse. They could’ve been much much worse. But that didn’t make things good persay. They just made them better than rock bottom.

Mark made them good.

 

Time was a fickle thing in Yuta’s life. It was annoying and mean, never quite fast or slow enough.

The week leading up to finals was too short, and the hour of the exams too long. The dance practices were neverending, but the performance momentary.

How easy, then, in a world so fast, to stray back and be lost, left behind while the 21st century sped ahead, speed and force of a freight train.

And once you’re lost, who’ll find you then?

 

Mark.

 

They met in late summer. Mark might’ve known about him for longer, having been a fan before he was a friend.

There was something that was different about him. The blatant honesty, the way he put things down without a care as to who will pick them up. There was something so dastardly simple about him it made Yuta laugh. Really laugh, leaning back in his chair and wiping the tears from his eyes.

Because Mark was honest. He was busy, and then he was free. He pestered and he pushed, until Yuta turned around and there he was, staring back at him from every corner of his heart.

How did you get here? He wanted to ask, but Mark was the type to shrug and joke it off.

 How could he know, it was Yuta’s heart he was inhabiting, not the other way around.

 

real

/rē(ə)l/

  1. actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact; not imagined or supposed

 

He often got asked the question, the question that plagued him at night; was it real?

The phone call logs were real. Stretching hours, and then hours again, four, give, eight. He could talk to Mark for days, nights, years. 

Their chats, too, were immortalised in his phone forever, in a small folder that grew with every day. From the funny, to the weird. From the sweet, to the random. 

Mark lived in his phone, in his pocket.

Well, not really. Mark lived on the other coast, forty four hours away.  

But he was real.

They both had to be.

Because if what they had wasn’t, Yuta might not need a ‘Mark’ jar anymore. He won’t be needing anything, ever again.

Sue him. He’s been hurt before, and he’ll be damned if he’ll go through the torture again.

 

Love is also fickle thing. It was deep affection, a feeling indescribable by a plain dictionary but seen quite clearly through any other medium.

Love was the way the songs switched but the dancing continued. Love was the whistle, the three bubbles appearing in their chat.

Love was ‘did you eat today?’ and ‘why the hell are you up?!’

It was waking up to a dead phone because of the unceasing notifications. It was sitting at his computer, at every hour of the day, pouring over the words pouring out of his heart.

 

“even in a world where nothing is certain, there is still a dream to hold onto.”

He knew Mark’s dreams. A lot of them, anyway, because the other shared so much and so often. It was a comfortable feeling, to realise you know someone. That you yourself are known by someone.

Yuta didn’t have much use for dreams. Everything in his future has been planned ahead of time, categorised by convenience. The university he’s going to, the grades he’ll be getting, the friends he’ll have, the job he’ll apply for.

Everything neatly typed and printed, stuck on his wall next to the calendar of assignments and the stack of books. The calculator sitting on top, collecting dust.

But Mark was not.

He was just there, unpredictable and welcome in a way not much else was.

Yuta’s had his fair share of rebellions. Mark wasn’t one of them. Rebellions were temporary.

Yuta hoped Mark wasn’t.

 

One of Mark’s dreams was meeting.

Walking through the city streets at night, laughing and dancing. Seeing each other face to face.

It wasn’t a bad dream. It wasn’t as impossible as Mark thought.

Cursed (or blessed) with a helluva of an imagination, Yuta could see the scene almost as soon as he read the words on the page.

It had to be during one of the festivals that came to town, there was so much simplicity and freedom during nights like those. The dusk turning a rose gold as the sun set.

To be able to walk side by side, to see Mark’s smile as soon as it appears, not a few moments later as their connection buffers.

To keep up as the boy talks, waving his hands wildly and turning around to walk backwards, running and slowing down, practically bouncing off the walls.

The streets are nice, cooler at night. The tall buildings loom overhead, signs lighting the way. Advertising cafes and pubs, restaurants and clubs.

They’d have music; they’ve rarely gone without it. If not headphones then Mark’s own voice, blurting a line or two before quieting for a moment.

It would be one of those nights. When time passes slowly, when you savour every moment. At least Yuta knows he would.

The stars would appear one by one, and he’d embarrass himself by trying to name them all, knowing the names in japanese but not english (never english, never the words for what he feels in english). 

And Mark would laugh, and call him a loser, like he wouldn’t do the exact same. Like he hadn’t said some stupider things in the screenshots Yuta stores away in his folder.

It’s one of those endearing things, things Yuta can’t explain, can just feel.

Mark’s dream romanticises the cold air at night, lingers on the warmth, the emotion. He’s always had the words between the two of them.

Yuta loves him for that, he thinks.

Yuta loves him.

 

In Mark’s dream, they walk around together, laughing and dancing like they’re the stars in the sky, not simply another two boys in the big city.

Yuta doesn’t mind. It’s a nice dream. He cried when he first read about it.

He cries a lot lately.

 

They wait a lot.

Mark waits for his dream. Yuta waits for his texts. They both wait for the perfect timing, whatever that be. 

They wait, because waiting is all they can do.

 

Yuta plans. Stupid plans, ones Mark would scold him for if he knew. But Mark doesn’t know, and that’s okay, maybe.

Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t , for while Mark’s dreams are lovely and happy, Yuta’s dreams come in the form of spreadsheets.

Jobs, Expenses.

(how expensive can an apartment be?)

Universities. Scholarships. 

(his dream job is anything that can provide for his friends. passion has long since left the equation, fading away as the brutal truth took its place)

Arguments, excuses, plane tickets. 

His family won’t be happy he’s ready to ditch their plans to go off on their own.

He won’t. It’s just a dream.

(he could…)

He won’t. Dreams are better left to Mark. He’s better at them, anyhow.

 

약속해 몇번을 반복해도 나의 미래 너야

i promise you, no matter how many times i repeat it, my future is you

 

It is. A sobering realisation, and as Yuta turns to tell Doyoung, the other merely hands him the ‘Mark’ jar again.

Yuta’s mouth snaps shut, and he rolls his eyes, reaching for his wallet. “You didn’t even let me speak.” He grumbles.

Doyoung groans. “If I hear that man’s name one more time I’ll delete him off your phone myself.”

Yuta almost wants his friend to try. 

No matter what, he knows they’ll find each other again.

Right Mark?

 

 

 

._.

 

 

 

Notes:

what am I doing with my life I literally should be studying physics rn