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Here is the thing about Haechan: he does not play about his hygiene. His hair? Even when dry and damaged, it is always clean, never outgrown. Jaw? Clean shaven, rarely a stubble in sight. Brows? Plucked. Pits? Shaved. Legs? Always shaved.
A personal preference more than anything when it comes to his hair, one that has little to do with his hygiene, sure, but that isn’t all. Haechan also always smelled incredible. A subtle floral scent to his hair, honey undertones to his caramel skin, sweet vanilla sticking to his clothes. Anyone that had the privilege of being in his vicinity knew this, everyone complimented his perfume, his body wash, his shampoo. The secret, though? Well, it lied in his lotion.
Mark has always known this. Even back when they were young and careless, dismissive of their self care routine at times, Haechan never skipped out on his lotions, on making his skin glow and shine under every spotlight, under every ray of light, be it from the sun or the moon. Mark had noticed, first the preference for shorts, then the preference for no body hair, and lastly, the passion for scents. Sweet, floral, deep, scents that normally Mark would never choose for himself, but that inevitably made his head flip around whenever Haechan stepped into the room, because his perfume would always reach him first, setting a fire within him.
They no longer live together, but weeks, days, hours spent side by side ensure that Mark still knows Haechan in and out. Every little change in his life, every up and down, Mark is there next to him, right by his side, to support him through it all. No one understands them like they understand each other, when it comes down to it. So, he knows Haechan’s routine, something he’s noticed during long months of touring, during sleepovers after never ending schedules, followed by even earlier schedules, when it is just more convenient to spend the night in one apartment than spread out.
Convenience. That has always been what they strived for.
It’s a slip of the tongue when Mark mentions on camera that Haechan’s legs are always so smooth because he uses good lotion. It was a mindless subject, discussing their hygiene and their showering routines, something that had triggered a playful competition between him and Haechan, trying to see who was actually cleaner. Regardless, no one really seemed to pay attention to his remark about the younger man’s lotion, not if he ignored the quick, awkward frown Doyoung threw his way, or the lopsided, questioning smile he received from Haechan. It is all glossed over rather quickly, the comment probably wouldn’t even make the final cut anyway.
Except it does make the cut. And it causes an uproar.
“You know, I meant to ask,” Haechan’s voice rings out, breaking the soft melody coming from the speakers. “When did you even notice I use lotion?”
“What?” Mark hums out, confusion written all over his face.
First of all, he is not even sure what Haechan is talking about. Secondly, the topic is brought up entirely out of the blue. They are both lounging on Haechan’s bed, another one of those nights where it’s just easier to spend it in one place, and they each have a face mask on to soothe their skin after the kilos of makeup they wore for tonight’s event. They’re already in their sleeping clothes (or, well, Haechan’s), with Dean’s music playing on low volume through the speakers, phones in hand, and thumbs mindlessly scrolling through social media. They are mostly monitoring their performances from the show and checking for the fans’ reactions, when Haechan decidedly breaks the silence with his sudden question, catching Mark unaware.
“This,” is all Haechan says then turns the phone so Mark could see. It’s easy enough to remember then, the comment he made about Haechan’s legs, about how the lotion is what helps him keep them so smooth, so soft and shiny. Bummer, he was really hoping they would edit that part out, if only so he wouldn’t have to face this exact exposure.
“How did you know?” Haechan asks again, after Mark is finally caught up.
“I don’t know, I think I noticed on tour? You used it a lot,” he shrugs, trying to sound as dismissive as possible. He never really handled embarrassment well.
“We didn’t room together, though,” Haechan points out.
“But we still hung out at the hotel.”
“Not while I was applying lotion.”
Always the argumentative one. Bickering came easy to them, disagreements, too, and Mark had learned throughout the years to be even more strong headed than before, to hold his ground better and to not let Haechan win every argument solely because Mark’s emotions tended to get the better of him. Yes, sometimes it resulted more into Mark scolding or nagging at Haechan than them actually arguing, at least in more recent years, but it was always their professional disagreements that got the most heated. This one, though? This was just Mark trying to escape an embarrassing situation by lying his way out of it.
Thing is, lying to Haechan was even harder than winning an argument against him. Mark’s voice faltered at times, a subtle shakiness to it, and if the conversation was dire enough, then the tips of his ears would start flushing pink as well. At least his cheeks were covered, his eyes locked onto the phone in his hand solely so Haechan wouldn’t notice his widening pupils.
“I’m sure you did. I remember seeing it.”
Lying through his teeth. Now, Mark isn’t a fan of lying, at all, but sometimes that is better than admitting the shame of the truth. What is he supposed to say? Confess that he could simply tell with a touch when Haechan’s legs were softer and when they felt slightly rougher? That, sometimes, if they laid close enough to each other, he could smell the scent of his lotion in the cramped room? That when he took a shower at Haechan’s place, he could identify each and every product he used, by the scent alone? No, of course he can’t say all that. He would never live it down.
“You couldn’t have. You never saw it, I’m sure of it,” Haechan insists, brows now slightly furrowed. “Why are you lying?”
“What? I’m not. I saw you do it,” he doubles down, something Mark still hasn’t grown out of.
“Hyung,” Haechan sighs out, setting his own phone away. “I always put lotion on in the bathroom. Naked. I think I would remember if you were there, too.”
Oh.
Well, this is why people should not lie. Something Mark vehemently preached, a fan of the blatant truth - except for when it came to Haechan, it seemed.
“Uhh,” he drags on, his brows now furrowing deeper beneath the mask. “I don’t know, dude. Maybe you did it on the bed once?”
"Mark."
Haechan’s voice sounds stern, no longer just curious and confused with Mark’s knowledge but, rather, annoyed that his best friend keeps lying to him. It’s what encourages Mark to finally lock his own phone and place it aside, head turning to face Haechan with a soft sigh.
Big mistake. Somewhere in the midst of their exchange, Haechan had removed his mask, leaving him with glowing, slightly reddened skin in places, brows subtly furrowed and lips pursed in the smallest of pouts. It’s a subconscious expression, something he does all too often when he thinks too hard, and Mark can’t help but reach out to poke the spot between his eyebrows, gently, only to get Haechan to stop frowning.
“Fine, I didn’t see it,” he admits, and Haechan instantly eases down. He seems satisfied now that Mark stopped lying to him, but his eyes are still shifty. He’s still confused and he needs to know the truth, especially when Mark has been trying so hard to hide it.
“So?” he encourages, sitting up a little straighter. Mark has his undivided attention now.
“I mean, I didn’t see you put it on,” he clarifies, clearing his throat as he carefully removes his own face mask. “But I saw the bottle of lotion in your bathroom a couple of times. The scent matches.”
Haechan goes back to frowning. Mark smooths it out with a finger once more, before he’s gently tapping at his own face, trying to help the skin better absorb the leftover moisture of the mask (or to keep himself distracted, one of the two).
“What do you mean?”
“Huh?”
“What do you mean: the scent matches ?” Haechan echoes, no longer able to hide his curiosity.
“I mean,” Mark starts off, awkwardly, and this time the flush on his cheeks no longer has the privilege of being hidden behind a face mask. “I used it once and recognised the scent. You smell like it all the time,” he tries to sound nonchalant. Mark even shrugs and purses his lips into a careless expression, about to reach for his phone again, when Haechan’s voice stops him in his tracks.
“Hyung,” he calls out, and Mark turns around to face him again. “Do you like the way I smell?”
That is not the question Mark was expecting.
“Sorry?” he stutters out. The elder of the two blinks quickly, his brain begins working overtime and he swears he can feel a headache coming on from the sheer power his cells have to use right now. He does not like where this is going.
“Do you like it?” Haechan repeats, calmly, like he has all the time in the world. Like this is the most normal conversation to him.
He is always like that, in a way, the calm and collected one, the more rational thinker of the two, but also the evil genius that plays Mark like a fiddle, pulling from him each and every single reaction that he desires.
“Sure?” An ambiguous answer, one that Haechan doesn’t seem too pleased with. His nose scrunches up, another mindless gesture that is probably far cuter than Haechan wishes to be, then silence falls between them. A beat, another one, and then Haechan is standing from the bed.
For a second, Mark thinks he has finally escaped. He lets out a breath he wasn’t even aware he had been holding in, patting at his cheeks again even though the skin has already absorbed most of the moisture. It is a futile attempt to get them to cool off.
When Haechan returns, plopping back down on the bed by Mark’s side, he does not come empty-handed. Without a word, the younger male stretches out an arm and, surely enough, his fingers are wrapped around the very topic of their discussion: the bottle of lotion.
“What is this?” Mark dumbly asks, as if they don’t both know all too well.
“Smell it.”
Mark is confused but he does as told. There is a vague hesitation to his actions, a subtle twitch of his brow as if to question Haechan’s request, but he so often caves when it comes to his best friend (too often, even). He takes the bottle from the younger man’s hand and pops open the cap, leaning in just to take a small whiff. He keeps his eyes on Haechan, during the act and after, questioning him in silence.
“Do you like it?” Haechan asks again. This time, Mark knows he can’t evade the answer, so he offers a nod of his head, small but curt.
“Yeah, dude, it’s nice.”
“What about on my skin?”
Mark swears one of his synapses breaks in that very moment, causing a sudden electric twinge to shoot through his brain. What is he supposed to say to that? A negative answer is rude, a positive one is borderline creepy. Therefore, Mark does what Mark does best: act a fool.
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, lips curling into a confused smile and brows furrowing. He is giving Haechan a confused look, as if to judge him, to act weirded out, but the man is unbudging. Face expressionless, eyes blank and brows relaxed, the only movement Haechan’s lips do is when he talks.
“Okay, then put it on.”
Mark freezes. He stares, eyes widened, pupils most likely shaking, and his lips subtly parted in shock. If he heard correctly, then what Haechan suggests is madness (for him and his already unsteady mental health). All he can assume is that his ears are still buzzing from the event and he’s hearing things, that he is tired to the point he has started to hallucinate words and phrases. Surely that’s the case.
“Sorry?” he tries, eyes narrowing as he tries to focus better. This time he has to hear the actual words Haechan is saying before he drives himself mad.
“Put the lotion on me and see if you like the smell.”
So, his hearing works just fine. Mark isn’t sure if that’s better or worse, but judging by the way his fingers clench around the bottle of lotion, the way his face first drains of colour then regains too much too quickly, Mark would much rather not be able to hear at all anymore.
“Huh?”
It’s a lame reaction, but that alone seems to satisfy Haechan. After what seems like ages, Haechan’s lips curl up into a cunning smile, eyes narrowing mischievously and he has that glint in them, that look that Mark knows all too well and that only brings forth bad news. Safe to say, Mark is terrified.
And rightfully so. Everything happens too fast for him to react, to even understand what Haechan is up to, before a pair of long, slender legs is draped over his lap, shorts riding higher and exposing skin from the sole of his foot all the way to the very hem of his briefs, now peeking out. Mark stares, not just because it is what he always does when Haechan exposes his legs like this, leaving the older man with a fascination that he likes to categorise as mere wonder over a man having pretty legs and nothing more; but because he does not know what to do. Even if Haechan has already told him exactly what. Twice.
“Come on,” Haechan urges, his small feet wiggling for a moment. “I forgot to apply some after my shower anyway. And you give good massages.”
It finally clicks then. Mark’s expression drops at once, his brows relax, his lips purse in a thin line, and his gaze, entirely unimpressed, finds Haechan’s own.
"That's what this is about? You could’ve just asked for a massage.”
The giggle that Haechan lets out tells him he guessed correctly. Mark is too tired to argue, though, his body still trying to deescalate the waves of shock that had hit him, one after the other, so he complies, with nothing but a sigh. The liquid is sheer and light when he pours some onto his palm and the scent hits him stronger than before: the vanilla is overpowering, but there are warm undertones to it, too, sweet, sugary notes wafting through the air when Mark rubs his palms together, after having carefully set the bottle on the nightstand.
Haechan’s skin is hot to the touch when his hands first meet it. He starts at his shin, spreading the thin liquid over the smooth, unbristled skin, so delicate to the touch even before Mark adds any lotion to it. His fingers dip to his calf, lightly pressing into the muscle there, and the first soft hum escapes Haechan. Mark chances a glance upwards then, but Haechan is already positively gone: head lulled to the side against his shoulder, long lashes dusting over the apples of his cheeks as he keeps them closed, a soft yet most serene smile on his lips. The sight makes Mark smile, too. He knows Haechan likes massages and Mark is good with his hands, always has been, so he might as well be of service to his friend, especially after how hard he’s worked tonight.
When was the last time he even did this for Haechan? Must have been on tour, Mark thinks to himself, as his gaze falls back onto the man’s golden legs. His hands climb higher, spreading the liquid over his knee, then up his thigh, the skin burning even hotter against his palms now, and he can feel Haechan’s muscles tensing for a moment before they go lax against his touches. Mark keeps his touches lighter for now, focusing mostly on lathering the skin with the lotion, his movements long and dragged out, and his lips pursed in thought, for no other sound is heard in the room other than Haechan’s playlist.
He doesn’t remember the last time he gave Haechan a massage. He thought it had to be on tour, but the more he thinks about it, the more Mark realises he and Haechan did not actually spend all that much time together off-stage at all during the past few months. Sure, they went out for meals, but it was usually with the whole team, and if they went sightseeing, it was often done in pairs or small groups: it’s just that Mark and Haechan rarely ended up in the same group. So, considering they barely even went out together during their free time, how could Mark have given him a massage, when they each had their own separate hotel room to begin with?
It’s a mistake he intends to rectify, at the very least. Starting right now. He doesn’t mind giving Haechan massages, after all, especially when he knows just how much his friend enjoys them, relishes in them, and Mark is nothing if not an acts-of-service man.
He tries even harder. His fingers press into Haechan’s calf, dragging up and down, circular motions to help his muscles relax, to work out the tension in them. The sounds he draws out of the younger man are enough to reassure him that he’s doing a good job. Haechan lets out mostly soft hums, sounding appreciative and delighted with the attention he’s receiving, and it’s only now and then that he winces a bit louder, that his face scrunches up for a moment when Mark hits a softer spot, a slightly more painful one.
But Haechan likes it nonetheless.
The sounds grow heavier when Mark’s hands climb up to his thigh again, though. He’s always been more sensitive there, it’s only natural, but the way Mark is working into his skin and muscles doesn’t help either. He’s gentle yet ruthless all at once. The drags of his thumbs over the muscles are not rough, the pressure is just right, but every time he caresses over the skin, the tips of his fingers dip lower, too low. He is not sure Mark notices.
Haechan slowly opens one eye then, enough to peer down at his thigh first, where Mark’s hands are diligently working on helping his muscles relax, but he duly notes that every time he moves further down his thigh, the elder’s fingertips disappear past the hem of his shorts. Haechan’s cheeks flush at the sight; it doesn’t help with his breathing either, which was already growing heavier, the rises and falls of his chest more spaced out. He urges himself to look up, though, both eyes vaguely opened now when he searches for Mark’s face.
Thankfully, Mark doesn’t meet his gaze. No, his leader is far too focused on his legs, on the massage he seems so intent on giving him, that Haechan’s heart stutters in his chest at the sheer care he is shown. He should be used to it by now, he supposes, but Mark has a way of surprising him still, of doting on him and treating him so fondly behind the cameras that Haechan falls prey to it, time and time again.
In the past, he used to scold himself for it. He tried to grow out of it, to snap out of those thoughts and try not to look past Mark’s actions, he urged himself not to look too much into the elder’s intentions, lest his heart would break - but now? Haechan had accepted his fate. This had been the case from the very beginning of their friendship, when Mark seemed too overwhelmed by his intensity while Haechan wanted nothing more than to be in his presence, right by his side, a pillar for Mark to lean on and a lifeline in his times of need. All he managed to be, though, was a thorn in his side.
At least that’s what he had thought of himself, for the longest time, until Mark had openly spoken to him one drunken night. Past midnight, lights dimmed and empty cans of beer around them, they had their first adult heart-to-heart, barely out of their teens, and Mark poured out all of his regrets, all of his thoughts and feelings, all of his gratitude. Haechan was no thorn in his side - even when all they did was fight, Mark never thought of him that way. He was just young and alone in an unfamiliar field, and Haechan’s openness had scared him, at first. But then it became the very fuel that kept him going. Haechan had always been exactly what he had intended to be: Mark’s pillar, his lifeline. His very own soulmate.
That’s why, now, Haechan no longer tries to stop or even question the way he feels. So what if his chest warms up when his best friend shows him affection? Perhaps it is platonic, or perhaps it is not, he no longer cares. Haechan loves him, Mark is his person, his reliable and trustworthy older brother, and he knows Mark loves him back, even if he says it in different ways. Mark loves words, loves writing and speaking, but when it comes to Haechan, the elder has always let his actions speak louder than his words. He knows that now, he understands Mark better, and Haechan appreciates it when he tries to meet him halfway nonetheless.
“What’s on your mind?”
Mark’s voice is low when it breaks Haechan from his train of thought. It has the usual rasp to it, but it somehow sounds warmer than before, gentler, as if he is scared he might disturb Haechan.
“Us,” comes his reply. Maybe he should have filtered himself more, but the flush that spreads across Mark’s cheeks is endearing enough to not make him regret it. Haechan is sure his own cheeks are mirroring Mark’s colour.
“Sometimes it still amazes me how far we’ve come, you know?” Haechan continues. His words are followed by the faintest of whimpers and Mark quickly apologises with a whisper, realising he must have pressed down a bit too hard. After all, his hands had not stopped for a moment.
“I get it,” Mark hums out. “Thank God I’m a patient man,” he then adds, his lips upturned in a playful smile when he spares Haechan a quick glance.
The younger man laughs softly at that, unable to do anything but nod, clearly agreeing with Mark’s words. “Thank God, indeed,” he hums. Haechan then lightly moves his leg to the side, the one that still has Mark’s hands on it, only so he could gently nudge Mark’s stomach with his knee.
“Thank you, really,” he mutters, his voice smaller now, a tad more vulnerable. “You don’t regret it?”
“Of course not.” Mark’s answer comes so quickly that Haechan’s heart skips a beat, again. “Swallowing my pride and deciding to try and get along with you is the best decision I’ve ever made.” Mark is serious when he continues, his voice sincere, and there is no hint of playfulness on his face. His words are not an exaggeration.
“The best one?” Haechan repeats with the slightest hint of disbelief in his tone.
“Yes.” Mark shocks him yet again with how quickly he responds. Haechan is stunned for a few moments, his eyes wider than usual, twinkling under the dim, warm lights in his room to the point Mark swears they’re brighter than any other source of light around them. His lips are parted too, plump and naturally puckered, but there’s no word coming out for once. It seems to happen more often lately, he notes, that Mark manages to actually stun the younger man into silence. Mark likes the power that he holds over him.
“Everything I have in my life right now is because I put up with you when we were kids,” he begins and he can see Haechan immediately deflating.
Of course. Mark’s success, his achievements, even his dreams coming true, they all happened because he did not let that bratty little kid with a messy mop of hair drive him out of the company. But that’s not what Mark is hinting at.
“You called us soulmates first,” Mark continues after a few moments, and Haechan perks up as if on cue. “I would’ve lost my soulmate if I just left back then. That’s a bigger loss than all the material success.”
There it is again, that stutter in Haechan’s chest, that skip of his heart that he knows all too well. They’ve become close friends by now, him and the little hops his heart makes, after all these years of putting up with Mark’s acts of kindness and love, triggering all these emotions in him that he has to swallow down. They are best friends, after all. Soulmates. He does not want to ruin all that by letting his feelings out. No, he’d much rather keep those all to himself and enjoy whatever Mark is willing to give him.
Silence falls between them again, only the music playing softly in the back. The song has switched again and this time it’s a tune that Mark remembers showing to Haechan a while back, a thought that has him smiling to himself when he uncaps the bottle of lotion again, pouring some more onto his hand. He is quiet as he works on Haechan’s other leg now, the soft hums and purrs urging him to continue, to pay more attention to the areas that have Haechan reacting stronger.
“Well?” A few minutes pass before Haechan’s voice reaches him again, mellow, alluring even.
Mark looks up inquisitively. He has one brow arched, his head subtly tilted to one side in a questioning manner, and his hands slow down, barely pressing into the muscles of Haechan’s thigh now. He waits for the younger man to continue, to clarify just what he’s asking, what he wants to know.
“Do you like it?”
The scent. Right. Mark smiles in disbelief at the question, it’s a sheepish type of grin that tugs at his lips and he shakes his head a little, but not because he doesn’t like it.
“I do,” he hums, and the look Haechan gives him is… unreadable. Strange. He usually always reads Haechan like an open book.
“It smells better on my skin, doesn’t it?” he murmurs. His voice has grown quieter and there’s a melody to it, a pull that has Mark entranced. Haechan has always had such a strong grip on him, it’s a feeling he can’t even begin to describe.
“It does,” he agrees. He doesn’t even argue this time. Maybe it’s the late hour, or the vulnerability of their previous conversation, but Mark is at Haechan’s mercy. And they both know it.
“But you already knew that, hyung,” Haechan hums, an all-too-knowing smile present on his lips. Mark flushes redder than before, his fingers perfectly still on Haechan’s leg now, and he knows he’s been caught red-handed. It’s too late to even try and deny it. All he can do is nod, the smallest tilt of his head downwards, and Haechan’s smile widens.
“See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Haechan sits up after that, feeling giddy, proud that he has won their little argument. But his sudden shift makes the room feel stuffy, Mark’s arm brushes against Haechan’s chest, and they almost go cross-eyed due to the lack of distance. Perhaps that’s why their gazes drop, no longer making eye contact, but choosing to look at each other’s lips instead. Surely, that’s the only reason.
“You shouldn’t lie to me, hyung,” his voice is even quieter now, barely above a whisper. Must be the lack of distance. “I always know when you’re looking. Or when you’re trying not to look. Being subtle is the one thing you suck at.”
Haechan is right. Mark has no concept of subtlety, at least not when it comes to Haechan. He thinks he’s being slick, that no one sees, no one notices, but in truth, all he does is draw more attention to himself. Of course Haechan knew he was lying, of course he knew the answers to all his questions from the start. His only goal had been to hear it from Mark himself.
The thing is, though, Mark does try to be subtle. He tries so very hard to hold back, to reel himself in, to control all of his urges: the urge to look, the urge to touch, the urge to kiss.
“Should I stop being subtle?”
The air is thick. Heavy. Mark’s voice feels raspier, a constant itch in his throat that tells him to clear it, while Haechan lets out a soft, shaky breath. Their gazes meet again and Mark’s fingers instinctively dip into Haechan’s calf, squeezing it, holding on tighter. The music grows fainter and fainter, drawn out by the sound of their heartbeats drumming in their ears - perhaps if they paid enough attention, they’d hear them syncing with each passing second.
Haechan doesn’t speak. All he does, all he can do, is nod. A small, subtle tilt of his head, but it’s the only sign Mark needs to close the distance between them. For the first time, it is Mark that takes the leap, that gathers his courage and crosses the final, unspoken barrier between them.