Chapter 32: So Sick
I don't think I'm dying, but I'm pretty sure if I am, this is a pretty scary way to go. I'm all alone in my apartment in nothing but a gray hoodie and red gym shorts with a sore throat and a slight fever. I feel like a mess, my place is a mess, and I don't want to die like this. So I haul myself out of bed to clean the bathroom, change the sheets, and pick up all the mess in the living room that I have been too tired to put away since last week.
*Flashback*
Last night's gig was wild as heck. Jonghan Oppa, the BTS manager I met before, came with Bang PD-nim himself. It inspired me to play BTS songs all night and I was dancing the whole time, sweating because of the heat and the pressure of having the producer's presence in the club. I was screaming back to hardcore ARMYs in front of my booth. Apparently Hongdae is teeming with young, energetic kids and the songs I played unleashed the fan beasts in them. Jonghan approached me after my set and introduced me to his boss who was clad in all-black and was fashionably nursing a glass of whisky. We shook hands and he asked about my real name just like how Park PD-nim did.
In hindsight, I could tell why the man was so successful at turning his small time company into a Big Three contender. From what I gleaned during our conversation about working at JYPE (apparently he once worked as a music producer in my company), the man has all it takes to take the Korean music industry by the balls. He's got the talent sourcing chops of YG, the marketing smarts of SM, and the artistic passion of JYP. By the end of the night, as he was leaving, he handed me his card and told me to contact him if I ever had the time to discuss underground spin battles, something which I've only ever heard of but never had the guts to try. The act reminded me of Namjoon, so I immediately texted him after meeting his boss and I was surprised that he answered at 2AM.
Love: Your boss is so cool!
Namjoon: You met him?
Love: Yes, I just did! He gave me his card.
Namjoon: Oh, that's a good sign.
Love: Why?
Namjoon: He did that to me too.
Namjoon: Does this mean we're we going to be labelmates soon?
Love: No, no, there wasn't anything like that. He just told me about underground spin battles but I don't think I'm good enough for that so...
Love: Should I even ask why you're awake at this hour?
Namjoon: I think you're just being humble, but I'd love to witness you perform for once.
Namjoon: Hahah, Yeah, I'm at Suga's Studio. We're just composing stuff.
Love: LOL Perform is too huge of a word. I don't think it's for me. I'm not like you guys.
Namjoon: I used to think like that too...
Namjoon: Think about it, Love. Real talent shouldn't be doubted.
Love: Okay I will.
Love: I'm about to drive home now, you guys keep up the awesome work.
Namjoon: Drive safely. Oh and thanks for playing our songs tonight, saw videos on Twitter.
Love: No problem, it was fun!
*Flashfoward*
It WAS fun.
And exhausting. So exhausting I can't even lift my arms properly now. I try to continue vacuuming though, because if there's anything I learned about living on my own it's that nobody's going to do the dirty work for me. I fix the stuffed Pikachus and line them up neatly on the sofa, take the throw blanket, and toss it into the laundry basket. The loud whirring of the vacuum cleaner drowns out the sound of the door opening. "What the are you doing?!" Mark's voice makes me jump out of my skin.
"Oh my god!" I clutch my chest, feeling faint. I turn the vacuum off and just stand there, staring up at him as he comes near me. "Mark? What— Why—" He places a hand on my forehead and my cheek, dark brown eyes peering at me worriedly.
"You weren't at the fansign so I asked Mina about you and she said you're sick. So why the hell are you cleaning?!" He asks, face just a few inches away from mine. My heart starts beating wildly again.
"I—I don't have any other time to clean up so I..."
"Sit down and don't move." He orders harshly after a long sigh. I follow meekly, taking my place beside the fluffy Pikachus on the sofa. He goes straight to the kitchen with a massive paper bag, takes out a container filled with soup and pours some of it into a bowl. He heats it up in the microwave, takes a spoon, and sets the bowl with it on the side table. "Eat. There are meds on the kitchen counter."
"T-Thank you..." I stutter.
"You're not allowed to work anymore." He tells me. I watch Mark pick up the vacuum nozzle to continue the task, his eyebrows straight in utter concentration. His face is hard and stoic, like a perfectly carved marble incapable of feeling. We don't talk. We just steal glances at each other, making quick eye contact just to know that the other is doing fine. I don't know why he took the time to feed me and bring me medicines even after a long day at work. I don't know how he's cleaning my house with the same precision as I would even though he never stayed long enough to see me clean up. All I know is that he's mad.
Mark is a very hard puzzle to figure. He is sweet as heck to the people he cares for, and his patience makes it almost impossible to make him angry. But if he's mad, you'll know it. His bright eyes are suddenly dark, and brooding, sometimes even sad. His blinding smile is nowhere to be seen.
Whatever BamBam and Jinyoung told me a few weeks ago about Mark and Jackson possibly fighting, Youngjae somehow confirmed for me. One afternoon, while helping him on his English essay, I asked how the two are doing and Youngjae went silent. Instead of telling me directly what happened he let me picture what Mark's like when he's mad. "I've seen him angry many times. You wouldn't want to get to know that side of him, Noona" He said, eyes solemnly fixed on the worksheet before him. He said Mark won't talk about the issue if he can avoid it, but even his short arguments can break the toughest person in the room. He's physical. VERY physical. Youngjae said he once broke the company van's AC when he punched the ceiling after a fight with JB. It was the first time I've ever seen Youngjae so serious. He's a ball of bright sunshine but when it comes to Mark, he's often calmer, more serious, even sweeter.
Even Jackson is different when he's with this man. On good days, Jackson and Mark are inseparable. He was the first person Jackson confided in, trusted, befriended on his first day in South Korea. He remembered every single detail about that night and he told me that story with such a passion that it now breaks my heart to realize I've caused a rift between them. I have been talking constantly to Jackson and after prodding several times he finally confessed that he told Mark about the kiss and the man almost punched him in the gut, if Youngjae and JB didn't stop him.
The fact that Mark came for me even though he's obviously mad is still a mystery. There he is, vacuuming a spot I forgot to clean when I started, as if it's the most important thing in the world. I stand up, walk barefoot to the kitchen, and cringed at the feeling of the cold tiles under my feet. I feel like everything around me is frozen, cold to the touch. Maybe it's my fever. Maybe it's Mark and his angry glare. I take a look inside the paper bag to find a bunch of pills and tablets. He bought some paracetamol, painkillers, vitamins, and even herbal supplements. I take a paracetamol with a glass of water, then moved towards the sink to wash the pile of dishes from the last two days.
Not even halfway through the task, Mark holds my wrist to stop me from soaping the dishes. "I told you you're not allowed to work. How hard is it to listen?!" He says, voice hard as steel as he pushes his sleeves upwards, taking the dish and scrubber from my hands. "Go to bed and wait for me there," He adds.
I try not to hiss audibly, to not give in to the temptation of letting out a snarky reply. I move away from him to wipe my hands on the kitchen towel and sit on the bar stool to watch him work. He feels my presence looming behind him still and he stops, sighing heavily. "If you're not gonna listen to me, I'll leave the minute I'm done with this ."
I stay silent for the most part, just because I'm getting scared of the spiteful tone in his voice. But the feeling of not knowing what he's thinking is suffocating me more than anything else so I speak up. "Why are you even here if you're mad at me?" I ask as softly as I can, hoping it would change his foul mood.
"Oh I don't know, probably because I'm not an who doesn't give a about other people's feelings?" He answers, all snarky and fake. I must admit that hurt a bit. Okay, a lot. I want to lash out but I know I shouldn't, at least not when he's acting like this.
"Mark..." I say, almost a whisper. "I get that you're hurt but isn't this a bit too much?"
"Too much?!" He lets out a short, bitter laugh and turns the water off despite the fact that he's not done rinsing the glass in his hand. "Is it too much to ask of you not to fool around with Jackson? Because in case you missed it he's actually MY ING BEST FRIEND!" Without warning Mark throws the glass to the wall before him and it smashes into pieces, falling into the sink. The sound makes my knees feel weak.
I stand as he turns to me with hooded eyes, his white shirt wet with water. I notice red dots and lines painting his hand. "Oh my god, you're bleeding!" Still feeling dizzy, I make my way to him, checking the floor carefully for shards of glass. "Mark," I try to hold his hand but he pulls away.
"I'm fine." His voice is deeper. Quieter. His shoulders are slumped lower than they were a minute ago and his eyes are downcast.
"Can you please just let me..." I say forcefully, taking his hand in mine to inspect the damage. A few tiny shards of glass are stuck in his wounds and his knuckles are paling with the way he clenches his fist. I swear I feel like fainting. He sees the color slowly draining from my face so he moves away from me to pull the shards out by himself and wash the blood from his hands. "I-I'll go get the first aid kit upstairs, just wait here, okay?"
"I'll come with you." He says drying his hand and inspecting it, making sure no shards are left on his skin. As we walk away from the kitchen, I throw one last look towards the sink, the broken glass still sitting there, forlorn.
We make our way upstairs, him padding behind me in his pink socks. He sits on my bed with a huff and lies down, his long limbs dangling off the end of the bed, his eyes cast towards the ceiling. I sit beside him, take his hand gently and pull the red speckled fabric of his shirt upwards to put medicine on his cuts. "I hope you're feeling a bit better now that you've taken your anger on something else."
"I'm sorry, I'll get you a new glass."
"And I'm sorry but this is going to hurt too." I pour hydrogen peroxide on his wounds and he cries out in pain so I blow air onto his hand, cooing to him like a baby. "Oh, mian, mian, mianhe aegi-yah..." I gently clean up his wounds, apply some ointment on the cuts, and put colorful Band-Aids on each of them. I kiss each plastered wound tenderly, hoping it'll make him feel better—not just from the glass cuts, but also from the jealousy rage. He stares at me with his brown eyes and pulls me down to lie beside him.