The World Stopped Moving {MarkRen} | complete

dix-huit

Renjun drags Chenle to art with him on a grey Thursday morning. The younger's complaints are easily silenced by the promise of bought cookies at the weekend, and he lounges around on his phone, but Renjun knows he's paying attention to his rants from the way he hums in places, even as his fingers blur across the keyboard. Having someone to talk to above why love even exists and what the best colours are to represent it releases the tension from Renjun's temples.

When Mark slips into the room, Renjun keeps his head ducked, and the tension resurfaces as he sucks in a breath.

They've been here before, sliding back together after the elder's disappearances, yet Renjun swallows his heart down and tightens his grip on the pencil that's seconds from snapping. This time, Mark loiters on the other side of the room. He fiddles with the zip on his jacket and bites his lip, adding to the cracks until the crimson is deep enough for his skin to be horrifyingly pale in comparison. It could just be the harsh lights, but Renjun knows it's not. A few tufts of hair poke out from under Mark's navy-blue beanie, one landing across his eye, and it would be cute if it weren't for the rest of his erratic appearance.

"If you have coursework to be getting on with, you can leave," Renjun mutters to his Chinese friend. "You don't have to stay."

Chenle pockets his phone and stretches. His back is to the door so he hasn't seen Mark, and Renjun tries to be subtle with his glances. "It's fine. I'm up to date with work."

"Must be nice." Renjun pairs his short reply with a glance past Chenle, and he meets Mark's eyes.

Mark scratches the back of his neck and then his chin. They're on opposite sides of a room that's full of chattering art students, but Renjun swears he hears the sniff and cough when Mark pretends he hasn't seen him.

"Who are you looking- oh! Mark! Nice to see you!" Chenle waves Mark over and Renjun drops the pencil. It clinks to the floor, forgotten as soon as Mark approaches.

Renjun watches Mark drag a stool over from a nearby table, and he hates the pang of jealousy when the girls smile and tell him of course it's okay to borrow a chair. Renjun observes Mark sit down opposite him, despite all the space to his side. He can also sense Chenle's eyes on him, but they're a mere pinprick in comparison to the heat that sears his skin. He doesn't want to be awkward; he doesn't know how to start the conversation. The thread from their previous conversation is left untied, frayed by such an abrupt end, and Renjun struggles to slip it back onto the needle to keep stitching their relationship together.

"Come here," Renjun says. His voice barely reaches a whisper, so he pats the desk to get Mark to finally sit closer.

The proximity plays the strings of his heart, and reveals the terrible shadows under his soulmate's eyes and the extent of the damage to his lips from too much agitation. Renjun wants to kiss them better. He knows he shouldn't. Mark's lidded, scared eyes tell him he shouldn't.

"I'll get going." Chenle grabs his bag and leaves before either has a chance to bid goodbye, although a plead for him to stay sits lodged in Renjun's throat for the subsequent minutes.

Renjun picks up his pencil and continues to draw. Half the lines irritate him, but he's too proud to erase any, instead crossing the room to rummage through the box of watercolour palettes. The five minutes it takes to find a decent one stretch long enough to work out what he's going to say. When he sits back down, however, all plans flee and his thoughts are indecipherable. Mark's silence is loud. Renjun paints to the rhythm of his heart. The staccato, erratic drum stains his work with too much pigment in all the wrong places and the brush is too big, too clunky for such fine details, but he gets on with it. He adds too much water and the colours bleed. He doesn't blot them, instead letting the tree dissolve into the sky, swallowed by the black abyss.