「 markhyuck fantasy au ! 」
" what if i told you that i'm actually an ancient, never-aging faerie that leeches off the life force i siphon from you when we hug? "
" what the actual fuck, lee donghyuck. "
or, alternatively: mark lee camps out every su...
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IT STARTED when Mark was around ten.
In the drought of the summer in Korea, his parents had brought the boy back to Canada, back to a cabin which they rented every other year.
Vancouver's summer was just as hot, but the wind carried over the traces of salt and sea spray from the sea, along with the moisture of lakes around the forest. Although damp and ever carrying the sharp smell of broken sap, Mark loved it to bits, hugging the walls made of logs in his room and exploring the lodge. The cabin was quite old, so air conditioning was a bust and fans churned out the muggy air, but the little Mark loved the place nonetheless.
Summers gave off a vibe of eternity; the sunlight making gold showers appear through the slats in the walls, the gentle gurgle in streams and the incessant chatter of birds and the random insect. It felt almost magical in those woods, how the butterflies darted towards Mark and not away, how the deer seemed to actively look for the small boy when he came out of the heated house. It was in the way how the water gleamed brighter when he jumped in, how the sunlight wove crowns of golden light around the child's head, and how the clouds stopped in their tracks to watch the laughter that emanated from the lonely cottage within the grand forest.
To Mark, he was simply kind to these encounters. Butterflies flirted with the wildflower bouquets he brought them, and he placed plates of picked long grass to the deer, who seemed to shyly ignored him.
Because to him, the cabin carried more than just a summer vacation in the middle of emerald woods.
Because in that little cabin, moist air wandering in through open windows and summer sunshine streaming through golden green leaves, was also where Mark started to draw him.
In all honesty, now that he looked back upon it, Mark didn't know anyone like the person that he drew. It was quite weird, remembering how to draw a person that you've never met. Yet, somehow, cooped in the corner with the musty bunk bed and sat upon the moth-eaten pillows, the younger Mark drew another boy.
Fiery red hair. A cute little smile. Sunkissed skin. Pouty lips like hearts. Eyes that sparkled like those tiny waves that the lake pushed towards him everyday.
Mark decided to name the boy
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"Haechan," he tried, tongue heavy around the syllables, stretching awkwardly around his mouth and unfamiliar like the english letters he had grown up with.
"Haechan," Mark said slowly, eyeing the childish drawing. "A shining, summery Haechan."
The little boy smiled, and clutched the drawing close to his chest. He felt a tug from there, almost as if the drawing was trying to hug him back.
"Haechannie, don't be mean! You're still in the paper, dummy, you can't hug me yet!"
The younger boy pouted at the sheet of paper. The red in Haechan's hair had started to fade from being smushed to his chest for so long, and some graphite had slipped off the page, yet Mark didn't want to let go of this drawing like did with his other ones.
Mark yawned, and frowned at the bright pink stain on his white shirt.
Shoot.
As the young boy raced downstairs, the paper fluttered.
It fluttered to the sound of a heartbeat, the sound of the tinkling laughter that the woods heard. It fluttered to the beat of the butterflies' wings, beating softly around hand-picked flowers. It fluttered to the songs the birds sang, to the quiet murmurs of the streams and creeks.
It fluttered with the soul of the forest, and it fluttered with the adoration and enchantment the old woods had with this boy; this shining boy out of all of the others.
A drift of wind, shimmery and warm, gently carried out a slip of paper from an open window from a cabin in the middle of the woods.
Slowly, after Mark discovered that his drawing was gone, after hearing his cries and silence, after the rumble of truck wheels and a heavy goodbye, the forest grew with anticipation.
For below their roots, they nourished another soul from the forest, born from the wonder and youth of a boy who outshone the golden hours of summer.
Another soul with sunkissed skin, warm coppery eyes, and a kind smile shaped like a heart.
Another soul with fiery red hair, one who embraced the spirit of the forest with passion and made hearts dance with joy.
The forest, slumbering through the depths of fall and winter, made their own sun from a hope and dream, a fragment of youth from a child who loved the forest as much as it loved him.
When spring followed the harsh winter, the sun shone a little bit brighter.
