#author:phi

[7fics]

Ot7 medival time period au with jinyoung as a prince and the rest of got7 as his advisors and friends please!

Warnings: None

Authors: TJ, Chewy, Mia, Phi, Jessica, Keannah, Qi, Miranda, Jenni, Jo, Sally, Angel

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: As you can all tell by the long list of authors, we decided to do a special collab for this prompt! We put a lot of serious effort into this, so we hope you enjoy~ ^^

Edit: Happy April Fools’ 2017! This is a fake prompt and joke fic that we wrote together this year! Each author contributed around 100 words, and we were only allowed to see the last sentence of what was written before our turn. This was the result, we hope you enjoyed the crack-y fun~

~~

“Have you heard? They’re holding a competition with all the neighboring kingdoms to see who can win our Prince’s hand in marriage!” Youngjae was slightly out of breath as he came to a halt in front of the stables, eyes shining with excitement at the news.

The other stablehand, however, didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm, not even bothering to look up from the pile of dung he was currently shoveling.

“They’re trying to find a suitor for Prince Jinyoung?” Yugyeom wrinkled his nose, clearly unimpressed, “Would anyone even want to marry him?”

“Why would anybody not want to marry him?” Youngjae sighed. “He’s so pretty, and sweet, yet also a little bit sharp. Like a perfect tart!”

“Ugh,” Yugyeom groaned, snatching away the small engraving of Jinyoung’s profile Youngjae was drooling over. “All you have to do I bake him some sweets when he asks. I have to clean his room.”

“It would be an honor to clean the Prince’s room!” Youngjae pouted. “I bet it smells like roses.”

“It’s a pigsty,” Yugyeom deadpanned.

Youngjae gasped, “Do not slander the great Prince Jinyoung’s name!”

“I’m sorry, what about my name?” a new voice inquired.

It was the same voice that Jinyoung heard in his nightmares. The ones where he’s pantless in front of his high school crush, slave to a village of unicorns, or some other acid dream he had after binging anime while eating ice cream straight from the bucket and fell asleep on the couch.

But Jinyoung wasn’t dreaming. He’s standing in the kitchen, smuggling ramen from the cabinets, stuffing them in his shirt in preparation of his all-night cram session for Psych. And the new voice wasn’t a dream-like apparition, but a breathing body waiting for some type of explanation.

When Jinyoung turned back to greet the new voice with a sinking sense of something like regret and guilt morphed together, he dropped all his ramen and gaped because he was not expecting that.

He’s not quite sure if anything could’ve prepared him for whatever strange thing was lurching in front of him, his heart hesitating just as his bowl shattered to the ground. Jinyoung vaguely registered something hot against his feet, barely protected by thin socks covered in faded thread and dust, and he blinked. His eyes were frozen wide, unblinkingly caught between gears as his mind worked desperately to apply logic to the situation. It was impossible, he knew that, but he’d always been a skeptic. Panic started to filter into Jinyoung’s thoughts as the figure stalked forward, feet scraping against the ground.

He quickly turned to run, the sound of his steps echoing against the pavement. It only took him a moment to realize that whoever was following him had begun to chase after him as well. He willed himself to run faster, desperately trying to ignore the burning in his lungs and the way his legs began to protest with each step, but it was so hard. His body began to slow down, despite his internal pleading, and soon he was collapsing onto the pavement with a pained gasp, tears already springing to his eyes.

“Please,” he whispered as they approach, feeling the eerie presence of the figure staring down at him.

“Please what, pretty boy?” The figure was still hazy in his sight, still none but a silhouette as he swallowed down the nervous pool of saliva in his mouth.

The footsteps came to an abrupt halt, leaning over him dauntingly as he tried to find the words lodged in his throat. The figure tilted its head curiously, shuffling was heard, and it’s voice was a little closer this time.

“What is it you wanted to tell me, hm?”

His body trembled and quivered out of fear, still wracking his brain to find his pleading words in hopes of getting his way.

Defeat weighed his shoulders down as he came to realise his impending doom. Slowly, slowly the arm of the the Masked Singer™ lowered itself down onto his shoulder. There would be no turning back now.

“I am your father” the distorted voice intoned.

Shock filled his body. Trembling, he made his demand.

“Prove it. Sing to me the songs of my people.”

Jackson took a deep breath and paused for a moment to gather himself, heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing in his veins. He opened his mouth, hand resting over his frantic heart, and to the tune of Pompeii by Bastille, sang, “Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop, Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop–”

A single tear rolled down Jaebum’s cheek as he watched, and Jackson blinked away his own tears. Then, very suddenly, Jaebum fell to his knees in front of the two-storey tall Paul Blart: Mall Cop poster and began to cry, “Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop, Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop, Paul-Paul Blart: Mall Cop–”

“Oh, praise thee,” Jackson shrieked, “praise thee Paul Blart: Mall Cop!”

He fell to his knees.

“What are you doing.” It was phrased as a question but the words fell from his mouth as a statement. Jinyoung had heard a shrill, panicked scream as he passed by the room, and immediately regretted following his curiosity to find a writhing Jackson on the floor, panting and shrieking.

Jackson did not answer; instead, he proceeded to scream different variations of “praise” as Jinyoung slowly backed away. His Plan A was originally to run away as far as he could, rename himself “Junior,” and live his life peacefully in a small country town where no obnoxious young adults by the name of Jackson could ever disturb him again. His goal, however, was shattered as he backed away straight into Jaebum’s sturdy chest and questioning, narrowed eyes.

“What the hell is going on in there?” Jaebum demanded, startled by the fear reflected in Jinyoung’s eyes.

“Hyung!” his voice was warbled, strained and pitchy and his knuckles were gripped white from where he was clenching his hands. Jaebum tried to stitch the whole scene together, eyes frantically darting around every incriminating corner of the room.

Jinyoung was by the open window, its curtains billowing out. The toppled lamp stand on the other side of the room, Coco petrified and shivering behind it. The amassment of dirty laundry across the furniture (not that that was particularly new). Yugyeom curled into a ball in the centre of the room. A figure covered by a blanket, unmoving.

Jaebum’s eyes bulged open, “Why is there a dead person in our dorm!??” The stress he felt, it was consuming at this point.

Despite the completely, very goddamn serious moment, Jinyoung scoffed and rolled his eyes. “That’s not a dead body, hyung. That’s just Jackson. he’s taking a nap.

“A nap?” He questioned. The doe-eyed youth only threw him a halfhearted nod. Jaebum squinted his eyes narrowly at Jackson’s figure before looking up suspiciously back at Jinyoung. He ultimately decided to let the questions in his mind stay unvoiced, opting for a small shrug and smile. He’d known the younger male for too long to question his antics, especially since he’d witnessed the wrath of Jinyoung for all this time. Jaebum reckoned that obliviousness was the true key to a peaceful and long life. “I don’t even want to know,” he let out.

“What are you talking about,” Jinyoung questioned. “Are you trying to evade this conversation?”

Jaebum laughed nervously, gaze still looking back and forth from the boy in front of him to the boy lying splayed out on the ground. “Just pretend I was never here today.” He blurted out, “We can save this conversation for another day.”

He threw the younger male what he hoped was a convincingly amicable grin before hurrying his steps towards the door. He should’ve known that he didn’t drop toothpaste on his shirt this morning for nothing—t’was all a warning from the deities above. And so Jaebum stumbled his way out the door, leaving behind Jinyoung to dwell on unfinished conversations.

Shouldering past him was Mark, mildly stunned and clearly smashed, holding half a plate of h’ordeuvres and covered in confetti. “What’d I miss,” he managed to enunciate impressively, before passing out into the umbrella stand. Politely, Jinyoung covered him with a teacloth, before continuing to brood in considerable peace.

[7fics]

jackson as a fencer au! pairings are up to the author!

Warnings: None

Authors: TJ, Chewy, Mia, Phi, Jessica, Keannah, Qi, Miranda, Jenni, Jo, Sally, Angel

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: As you can all tell by the long list of authors, we decided to do a special collab for this prompt! We put a lot of serious effort into this, so we hope you enjoy~ ^^

Edit: Happy April Fools’ 2017! This is a fake prompt and joke fic that we wrote together this year! Each author contributed around 100 words, and we were only allowed to see what the author directly before us wrote. This was the result, we hope you enjoyed the crack-y fun~

~~

Jinyoung haughtily surveyed the living room from his sprawled out position on the couch, face wrinkled into an expression of distaste at Bambam and Jackson rolling around on the floor, engaged in an all-too intense wrestling battle. Jackson had a vice-like hold around Bambam’s middle with his strong thighs, but the younger wasn’t letting up yet, screeching loudly as he wrapped his arms around Jackson’s neck, grappling him valiantly.

“I know it was you! Don’t try to deny anything!” Jackson shouted.

“I swear! Let go of me or you’ll really regret it this time,” Bambam grunted. “It’s not as if anything you own would even fit me anyway,” he mocked.

“You bastard, you did not just say that to my face.”

“Oh yes I did,” Bambam sing-songed.

At that, Jackson had had enough, and charged at Bambam with the full force of his body. As they flew out the window, Jinyoung could be heard in the background, lamenting, “We just had the new glass put in last week!”

As if Jackson cared about the new glass put in when he was sitting on top of Bambam’s chest, all his weight balancing on the younger’s ribs in a way that had to be painfully uncomfortable. Luckily they had landed on the fire escape, or there would’ve been hell to pay.  

“Tell the truth,” Jackson demanded roughly.

“I didn’t do it!” Bambam insisted angrily.

“I’ll make Coco pee in your slippers,” Jackson warned.

Bambam stilled at this threat, face falling immediately.

“No, not the Gucci! What kind of sick world do we live in when a dude can’t even have some decent Gucci? ” he wailed miserably, sucking in his bottom lip as he glared up at Jackson. “Fine, jerkoff. I wore your leather kitten suit and I ripped it. You would have been way too big in it anyway.”

“It wasn’t for me,” Jackson admitted, uncharacteristically chagrin.

Bambam rolled his eyes, ignoring the way the older boy glared at him.

“Sure it wasn’t.” He pushed at Jackson’s shoulders, relaxing a little when Jackson finally moved off of him. After a few moments of unusual quiet, Bambam sighed, watching as Jackson stared over the edge. “Fine, who was it for?”

“None of your business!” Jackson snapped quickly, and Bambam had to fight the urge to laugh.

“Who else would wear a kitten suit?” Bambam countered, and when Jackson opened up his mouth to respond, Bambam held up a hand, “A leather kitten suit?” At that, Jackson went silent.

“Ya’know,” Bambam spoke up after a moment, leaning back onto his palms and crossing his legs at the ankles. He waited until Jackson met his gaze before continuing, “I’m not surprised Jinyoungie is a freak, I mean, the guy reads erotica novels for fun, but you,” he giggled as Jackson shot him a glare, “You always seemed like the vanilla type to me, hyung,” he finished, a teasing grin on his face even as Jackson quickly leaned over and dead legged him.

“It’s not like that, you brat!” Jackson shouted as he plopped back down on the floor, brushing the hair out of his face with a huff.

Bambam groaned, leaning over and smacking Jackson’s arm. That didn’t stop him from snickering at the elder, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “What’s not like what? You being vanilla isn’t like that? So after all this time, my assumption that you weren’t kinky was wrong?”

Jackson glared daggers into Bambam’s profile, hand quickly finding his way to the younger’s slim thigh, giving it a squeeze - nails included. “You mention this to anyone else, you’re dead to me, you hear me?”

“I can’t make any promises, hyung. This is just way too good not to share. I’m sure Jinyoungie hyung wouldn’t mind the word getting around anyway…”

Unfortunately, Jackson wasn’t joking. Right as Bambam had begun to turn away to inform the masses of Jackson’s intimate escapades, Jackson began to morph into a creature of pure menace. Skin turning green and nails lengthening, all trace of Jackson’s amiable demeanour fell away as his true self was revealed in the face of imminent danger.

“You will not tell anyone of what you know!” Jackson thundered. Bambam swore he felt the entire house shake. So in awe of Jackson’s unveiled power was he, he fell to the ground immediately and began to beg for forgiveness for the error of his ways.

Bambam could not raise his eyes, would not raise his eyes, in fear of Jackson’s festering rage. For an excruciating moment all Bambam could hear was the air flushing in and out of his lungs, the muffled clop clop of cloven hooves behind the door. “I won’t tell a soul,” Bambam promised and for a while, Jackson said nothing.

Then, with a suddenness that had Bambam’s whole body jerking, Jackson spoke, “Ogres are like onions. We have many layers.”

Bambam raised his head to look at Jackson who had visibly softened. “You have seen too many of my layers. Tell no one.”

Bambam stared deeply into his eyes, and he spoke with an unusual seriousness to his tone. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Jackson was, however, not yet satisfied. He took Bambam’s hands into his own and squeezed them with as much strength as he could muster. “You must swear on it. Swear on Coco’s life.”

Bambam gasped audibly. “How could you say such a thing? Do you not trust me that you would make me swear on the life of a living fluffball?”

Jackson jerked on his arms with an unnecessary harshness. “Promise me!” he begged. “No one must ever know.”

“Fine, I will,” Bambam huffed. “But if you tell anyone I was the one who stole Youngjae’s stuffed bear I’m telling on you,” he leaned in to whisper sinisterly, “to JYP-hyung.”

What feels like the combined power of twelve freezers shivers violently down Jackson’s spine.

“You wouldn’t.”

The sudden stillness in Bambam’s eyes, that emotionless, borderline-cruel blanket that covers his face speaks on the contrary. Betrayal is gripping. To think all those cumulative years of Jackson thinning his wallet out, meal after meal after meal - spontaneous ramen, the priciest meat, window shopping that never stayed window shopping and that already boyish voice reaching a squeaky hyung, please - would account for this kind of ridiculous threat.

Jackson feels his over-dyed brittle hair thinning.

“If I swear on Coco’s life, and if I fail still, don’t you think this is still really unfair to Youngjae? A dog and a teddy bear, how much can a grown man take!?”

“A swear is a swear hyung. PD-nim,” Bam shakes his head nervously, “there’s more to that man than meets the eye.”

A solemn, rigid nod. Jackson fights another shiver. “That’s why he wears sunglasses, Bam.”

And it’s with a swing of a door and a small breeze before Bam Bam leaves the room and Jackson to wallow in his thoughts. The traitorous image of the younger male’s backside burning into his mind. Jackson takes a small sigh, tugging at the ends of his—coarse, overdyed—hair. It’s then and there that Jackson considers the repercussions of failure and just how much compensation would be. Would it be the monetary equivalent of a pet dog? Or would it be some unmeasurable emotional equivalent that he’d spend this life and the next paying back. He considers asking Mark just how much getting Coco was, or maybe he could ask Jaebum what the best consolation for letting go of a dear pet be.

Everything seemingly falters along the slippery slope, “what-if’s” avalanching into a massive figure ready to roll across his aching (aging) body and leave him buried in the harsh, cold snow. “It’s okay,” Jackson tells himself, “I just have to not fail.” He reassures as he steps upon empty ground, gravity turning upside down as he tries not to succumb to his wavering vision. He places a hand on his chest, as if he could ease the restlessness of his heart. He wonders how much karma of all his past lives he needs to accumulate just enough luck for success. Or whether or not God would borrow him some to pay back in the afterlife.

It’s foolproof. Unfortunately, for Bambam at least, Jackson is the personification of stupidity, and knows that well. He is nothing if not self-aware (and health conscious).

He turns up the next day at the same shabby house with a crate under his arm, stubbing his toe on a step as he makes his way up. The sky is as putrid grey as his soul and the sun’s rays like feeble, unmotivated feelers poking through pathetically- it’s not a good day for an apology, but it’s now or never to change the course of Jackson’s shitty fate.

The door opens, and Bambam looks surprised and slightly discouraged- there’s also a Froot Loop on the front of his shirt that Jackson neglects to point out.

“Hey,” the older man says, fumbling with the crate in his hands, and Bambam peers over, curious for a moment. Then Jackson pulls out the ugliest stuffed dog known to mankind and thrusts it across. “Let’s start over?”

[7fics]

Mark comes out as non binary and Jackson wonders how he ever saw them as anything but. Super romantic.

warnings: lots of nature metaphors that include mentions of drowning/insects + there are a few angsty bits even though this is mostly romantic but i promise they end up okay!!

author: phi

word count: 1.9k

a/n: whoo another new writer w their first fill ! (that’s me,, i’m th new writer,,,, hi) anyways!! this was such a sweet prompt n idk if i made this as romantic as u wanted me 2 but i hope u like it regardless !!! this was so so fun to write n i look forward to filling more prompts :’))

to be honest, no one really saw it coming.

that was probably one of the most unnerving aspects; group meetings were really little more than excuses for lonely members to force everyone to spend time together and talk about their feelings, two things that mark had never seemed to be too fond of initiating. in fact, in the years that they had all known each other, jackson can only count a handful of times when mark had called for a group meeting, and most of it had been because the oldest boy had bought everyone ice cream.

they’re settled around a few couches, and where they’d normally be a haphazard mess of limbs and laughter, a layer of static has covered their legs, every brush of skin against skin electrifying. no one speaks up, all eyes trained carefully on the floor, not quite daring to watch the oldest boy until he speaks.

“i, um,” mark coughs, shifting, and jackson knows he appreciates everyone’s distance, “i wanted to talk to you guys about something.”

paranoia, thick and sticky, drips down jackson’s throat; his tongue is weighed down, all too heavy in his mouth. a hundred butterflies carve a pathway from his stomach into his head, each flutter of wings another fear, another worry. a swallowtail, all vibrant yellows and sharp blues, leaves behind a trail of what if he’s leaving the group?

his stomach twists, empty of every insect and caterpillar that mark has given him over the years.

“please just say it.” bambam says, and jackson has to blink to focus on the way bambam’s expression wavers, every hesitant flicker of doubt a reflection of jackson’s own thoughts. it makes the butterflies still, even if only for a moment; jackson isn’t the only one here, he isn’t the only one who cares about mark and the group. stop being selfish, he chides himself, and reaches over to squeeze bambam’s hand. the younger boy doesn’t acknowledge the gesture, but his leg stops bouncing, and that’s all the reassurance that jackson needs.

mark still looks as uncomfortable as ever, tense and distant; even if everyone else wasn’t purposefully avoiding his eyes, jackson figures it wouldn’t do much to smooth the edges of the older boy’s shoulders.

“uh,” jaebum cuts in, and jackson can’t help but feel like there’s something frantic in the way that jaebum chances a glance at mark, “he’s not leaving the group.”

he says it like he’s sure of it, like he already knows what mark’s going to say, and as the rest of the group dissolves into a bundle of murmurs and relief, something uncomfortable settles against jackson’s ribs. he should know better than to think he’d be the first person that mark would come to to talk about something, but leaves, green and always new, rest along his ribs with every breath. it makes sense that mark would talk to jaebum; they’re the oldest members, and jaebum’s the leader. in fact, confiding in jaebum is probably the best option that any of them have, but that doesn’t stop the seasons in his chest from turning every plant into something too burnt to be recognizable.

silence returns to the gaps between their bodies, too cold and too close. it’s stifling, but mark must be drowning in it, washed over with layers and layers of quiet until mark is swallowed whole. jackson wishes he could reach out and do something, lean forward and pull mark out from under the waves, but there’s seaweed, green and ugly, wrapped around his legs that makes him think jaebum should be helping mark instead.

it’s a selfish, horribly jealous thought, one that makes jackson wince; he swallows it down alongside seawater and his pride, reaching out to press a hand against mark’s leg. the action isn’t much, but jackson doesn’t know any other way to express every current of emotion inside his chest, so he settles on rubbing what he hopes is a soothing circle against mark’s thigh and hoping that mark understands.

jinyoung clears his throat, and jackson is struck with how composed the other boy is; it’s not something unusual, not when jackson has helped the younger boy rehearse for dramas and acceptances and business meetings, but it’s a new face in an old place, and it catches him off guard. they’re never like this in the dorms, never so distant from each other and from themselves.

“don’t think too much about it,” jinyoung suggests, “just say what you want to say and you’ll be done.”

a few breaths, struggling past the crest of a wave, and then mark speaks up.

“i’m nonbinary.” mark manages, and the room falls back into silence.

“oh, uh.” bambam says eloquently, and jackson’s head is swept underwater. he doesn’t even know what that word means, not when it’s only one phrase out of thousands thrown at him from the glaring brightness of his phone day after day. (maybe though, maybe if he knew it was something relevant to mark, he would’ve looked into it more. okay, he definitely would’ve, but whatever.)

“non- what?” youngjae blinks, voice echoing across the wooden floors and thin walls. he doesn’t sound shocked or upset, just confused, and jackson hopes that mark can tell, because that’s exactly what the rest of them feel.

“i’m not a guy.” mark fumbles with the edge of their shirt, always just a few sizes too big. a few pages on urbandictionary, a ridiculously long post on tumblr, flicker through the back of his mind, unkempt and unrestrained. a night spent awake, poring over internet confessions and confused fans and strangers, and jackson is finally starting to piece together what mark is trying to say.

he should be relieved, because he thought mark was going to say something life shattering (like that they had been harboring a secret hatred for jackson and/or organic tea), but jackson can’t quite find it in himself to be relieved.

instead, he finds himself thinking about every single time mark has ever hinted that they’re not quite so snug in the gender binary, every time that jackson just wasn’t paying attention or didn’t look closely enough.

he can barely make out the rest of the group’s chatter, a chorus of questions on names and pronouns and clothes and preferences; every carefully worded concern a cover over time and incidents where jackson should’ve known.

a flood of memories; a flinch after one of the members called them hyung, a shy smile at the group’s growing collection of silly wigs and over-the-top feminine clothes, the handful of times that they had called the other members oppa without the usual teasing lilt. there had been so, so many signs, carefully handcrafted and glaringly obvious, and jackson honestly wonders how he never saw mark differently.

there are silly questions and serious concerns and as the rest of the group does everything they can to understand mark, jackson vaguely realizes that mark is becoming a little more comfortable, cheeks flushed as they try and answer each and every question as best as they can. bambam and jaebum, god bless their hearts, do their fair share of explanations whenever mark starts to stumble over their words.

the entire situation finally starts to actually register in his head a few moments later when mark starts to try and explain their preferences, jackson’s brain snapping back to hear the eldest speak up,

“i’m just not quite a guy.” mark shuffles, biting their lip as they try to piece together what they’re thinking with what they’re feeling, a feat that makes jackson want to stand up and applaud. “like, sometimes it’s okay, and most of the time it’s fine, but sometimes it’s just not.”

“so you’re okay with still be calling mark,” jinyoung says slowly, always so, so gentle with his words, “do you want to use any other pronouns? at least at the dorms?”

mark blinks a little at that, like they hadn’t quite expected that sort of prospect to be brought up so early on, but they nod a bit, shyly and softly and somehow really, really cutely. (jackson is in awe. how could someone do something so mundane and yet still look like an angel?)

“they and them is good.” mark manages, and when yugyeom pipes up with an enthusiastic yell of support, mark hides their grin under the collar of their shirt, crimson tints only just visible on the tips of their ears. jackson is struck all over again with how beautiful mark is; it’s a fact that the other members know well, something that by now, even mark has grown to accept, but sometimes mark just goes around and looks the way they do and acts the way they do and jackson is just left in awe.

“wait-” bambam pipes up to add his own question, but he’s quickly cut off with another uncertain exclamation from youngjae, and when mark is left struggling to reply, jaebum steps in to try and help.

everyone dissolves into another collective rush of confusion, jinyoung audibly groaning over yugyeom’s complaints that do you even listen, hyung? and jackson is left reduced to another explosion of insects, swarming alongside his bones in a mess of wings and questions. he’s not even sure if he can place the individual thoughts sputtering around his head, instead stuck leaning back in his seat, overwhelmed. he doesn’t even realize how uncharacteristically silent he’s been until he hears a small cough.

“jackson?” mark mumbles, the younger boy’s name an anxious question on their lips. it’s enough to bring jackson back to reality startlingly fast; mark’s voice always grabs jackson’s attention, even when their hesitance tries to hold them back.

jackson’s eyes are caught, ridiculously fixated on the reticence in mark’s smile, an awkward and unsure upturn of lips that never ceases to make jackson’s heart stop. even when his head is spinning, all it takes is a glance from mark’s direction, and suddenly gravity finds him again.

“are you okay?” mark asks, but jackson can hear the underlying, are we okay?

he nods, so abruptly he’s surprised that he doesn’t give himself whiplash, but the smile that spreads across his face is natural.

“i love you.” he mouths, and mark giggles a little, that same cute giggle that makes their eyes crinkle and their face squish a bit in the silliest and most beautiful way possible. it’s not something that jackson can describe quite right, an image much better suited to photographs and museums and the inside of jackson’s wallet (although he still refuses to admit that he bought nearly a dozen of their own albums in order to get mark’s photocard ‘for safe keeping’). as the rest of the group continues to yell and argue in the way that they always do, mark practically glowing from their spot separate from the chaos, jackson can feel something gentle tugging inside his chest. it feels an awful lot like mark’s hand, warm and familiar against jackson’s heart, so he follows.