So... This week has been... eventful... There's so much going on in my head right now. I watched the dream show on beyond live and, no I couldn't really afford it, but it was the best £41 I've ever spent :D I cried a lot and am still emotional, so I can tell you that this chapter looks very different to the original draft oops it gets a bit sentimental towards the end.

I hope you enjoy <3

𓆩♡𓆪

"That'll be 120,000 won." The woman taps her fingers on the counter while Renjun muffles a curse and fumbles for the card in his pocket. He aches from sleep deprivation and struggles to form a coherent thought.

Coming to the shop was a mistake. A coping mechanism, sure, but definitely a mistake, even as he walks out onto the street with arms full of brand-new paintbrushes and watercolours. His creased, beloved tote bag has never been so heavy, and he has to remove the pad of premium watercolour paper he's sure he got ripped off for to carry it in his other hand instead, shoulder soon complaining from the nuisance.

He makes it back to the dorm just as the clouds decide to empty their wrath onto the unsuspecting pedestrians, so has to dodge past a group of girls that squeal about not having an umbrella. Then he traipses along the corridor that's still just as long and stuffy as the first day. He releases a sigh when he inserts his key in the lock. There's an assortment of crushed beer cans and an empty bottle of vodka stacked by the door opposite. They must be the product of the party that kept them all up until the sun was nearly rising. Jisung had paced the living room, and it took a crushing hug from Jeno and two mugs of herbal tea from Renjun to get him to settle down. He never copes well with lack of sleep, especially when there's an exam nearing.

"On a spending spree, I see?" Chenle eyes the new art supplies that Renjun unloads onto the kitchen table. His fluffy brown and white pyjamas hang off his frame, the yellow bear on the front crumpled, and his hair is damp and cheeks are flushed from a recent shower.

Renjun snatches a carton of chocolate milk from the fridge and hopes Jisung won't notice. "Something like that," he mutters. He feels regret settle into his brow, and Chenle furrows his own in sympathy.

"You should have asked for all that for your birthday," Chenle says.

Renjun is grateful for the offer, even though the moment has long passed. He wants to go back in time, anything to save his bank account from the overdraft that looms far too close for comfort, but pride stiffens his jaw, tells him he can manage just fine. He can't. And if he skips more meals next month or avoids calls from his parents, he prays the others won't mention it.

Chenle fixes his gaze on him. His knees are pulled to his chest, shins against the edge of the table, then he fiddles on his iPad through the silence. Renjun finishes his chocolate milk and hopes the sugar will hit him soon. Sleep has been scarce for the last week, even when there hasn't been a party in their building. Since Mark told him about his heart. Uncertainty never does him any favours and, despite his soulmate's attempts to cheer him up and lighten the mood with rambles about his favourite books, it doesn't erase the desperation that wrecks his own heart. Sometimes it physically hurts. And when it isn't his heart pounding, it's his head instead.

He doesn't know why he thought buying overpriced art supplies would help him, but he bought them anyway. Nothing about that fits with his student budget. Yet he scoops it all back into his bag and bids goodbye to Chenle, leaving for Mark's place in search of something that would actually help him.

When he's not in a lecture or seething over an assignment, he's curled up on Mark's sofa. Physical touch is still kept at a minimum, but it's nice to spend time together and Jungwoo works around them, cheery as always and glad to see a new face in the apartment. Jaehyun visited Tuesday evening and brought pizza with him, so the four of them spent the evening together. With Mark curled into his side after a few beers, the glow of the couple's soulmate dust didn't bother Renjun and he laughed at all the jokes.

This morning, Renjun stands on Mark's doorstep with wet bangs plastered to his forehead. The blond dye is well on its way to growing out, and the rain darkens it to create an ombre from the black of his roots to a mid-brown at the tips.

"I'm fine, Mark," Renjun says as soon as the door opens, then steps inside before Mark can worry about him catching a cold from the rain. "Sorry for not giving you notice." Once his shoes are off, Renjun lifts his gaze to meet the elder's. The sugar from the chocolate milk surges through his blood in a single second and, combined with the warmth of being back in the familiar apartment, releases a soft giggle from his lips.

"You're always welcome. Don't worry about it," Mark smiles back. "Have you eaten yet today? Would you like something?" The simple yet comforting question makes up for Renjun's lack of sleep and lack of self-control around money.

As they clear the kitchen table of the dirty plates and bowls – too many to be from a single meal, Renjun notes with concern – Renjun tells Mark about how Jisung decided to fry them all some eggs. "The toast was the only thing that didn't burn."

"I'm bad at eggs, too. Tell him he's not alone on that one," Mark chuckles. "Bless the kid."

They have yet to meet, but Mark has latched onto Renjun's stories of all his dormmates, frequently asking about them. His dormmates like to ask about Mark, too. Although Renjun has to answer those questions with bitterness on his tongue, for he hasn't told them about his condition. He's sure they'll find out eventually, but at the present it's not their business to know.

"I thought we could do some more art together. I bought new stuff." Renjun motions to the pile on the table. Mark pulls out a chair, rests his cheek on his palm once he's seated.

"You're letting me use this stuff? This is, like, super fancy, though," Mark replies. His voice is a little scratchy, but it's bright considering it's barely nine o'clock, and for once the eye bags seem a little kinder even if his hair is unbrushed.

Renjun can't help but examine his appearance whenever they meet. On instinct, he searches for signs of illness, of exhaustion and weariness and general signs that Mark might not be doing so well. A tremble in his fingers, a bounce of his leg, any tension in his jaw.

Today, Mark looks at him like he hung the stars in the sky, eyes glittery with happiness, and Renjun sinks into the chair opposite with a content heart, relieved.

"I trust you." Renjun shrugs, but when Mark raises his eyebrows and uses a sweater paw to conceal his smile, he knows those words mean a lot.

"Um... okay, then. What are we going to paint, Picasso?"

"Seriously?" Renjun groans, but that doesn't deal with the leap of his heart, nor the bright glow of his dust.

Mark wears his necklace for all to see these days, too. Renjun often stares, hoping to see the first glint of a colour even if that's impossible without getting blood extracted. He's gotten used to the grey. It's not as dull as he first deemed it to be, and sometimes the grains sparkle in reflected light, but still show no signs of life.

So Renjun focusses on his soulmate's words and gestures instead. And those tell him everything he needs to know. That Mark really likes him regardless of what his dust says.

When he selects a pencil, Mark watches closely. When he taps the end of the pencil to his lips while flicking through his sketchbook, Mark follows his hands as though drawn by a red piece of string. Renjun pauses on the page filled with Mark, and the elder leans forward.

"Is that... me?" Mark's voice is barely a whisper yet still full of gentle affection. It's a tone he's adopted a lot since they spoke through things.

Renjun has embraced the shift in their dynamic. He also doesn't deny that there is indeed a page in his sketchbook dedicated to Mark. And he wants to draw more.

"Maybe," Renjun whispers back, cheeks aching from a suppressed smile.

Each time he meets Mark, new inspiration blooms inside him. They meet eyes, and Renjun succumbs to the urge to document the stars in Mark's eyes with the paint in front of him.

"Your art is incredible." Mark pulls the book towards himself to take a closer look. Renjun's stomach knots with pride and embarrassment, cheeks hot as he shies away and fiddles with opening the box of watercolours to distract himself. "Like, really incredible. How do you do it?"

"Practice. A lot of tears." Renjun shrugs, but the recognition comforts him. It reminds him that it's all been worth it – the sleepless nights, the weeks of depression from comparing his work, the guilt each time he rips out a page to crumple it and toss it in the nearest bin.

Mark's smile turns sympathetic, though he doesn't dwell on it, instead lightening the mood by mentioning he would like to paint a flower garden. "With bees and butterflies, too. Maybe a kitten asleep in the grass." Mark bites his lip, eyes cast down to the white paper in front of him. He grips the brush tight. "Would that be too difficult? It won't look good. Maybe it's too complicated. Should I simplify it a bit?"

"Mark," Renjun says through an exhale. It's not an impatient sigh, but a teasing one that shuts Mark up in a second, the elder pausing to look at the younger across the table. Their feet brush together, and Renjun's gaze falters before he resurfaces and regathers his thoughts. "Mark. It doesn't matter what it looks like. That's the point. You can paint whatever you want to paint, so just go with your instinct. Whatever would make you feel better today."

Mark nods slowly. He sits up, crosses his ankles while keeping the contact with Renjun, their toes spelling out a different conversation. Briefly, his eyebrows sink under the burden of his week, but they're released when he looks back at Renjun.

"The most important thing is that you get what you want out of it," Renjun continues. He asks if there's a spare glass around, and Mark vaguely gestures to a cupboard so the younger can fill it with water he then uses to wet his brush. "If you want to paint flowers, then paint flowers."

Mark's previous words flicker through Renjun's head. He turned to art for an escape. Now, he understands how much Mark needs an escape. Well, he doesn't understand it, but he can imagine. He can try to understand, sympathise with it at the very least. And he hopes Mark feels comforted when they're together, too. The flowers he wants to paint could symbolise all kinds of promises but, even though he's dedicating his studies to art, Renjun has begun to realise that sometimes all he needs is a bit of human contact. A bit of shared warmth and some shared promises. A squeeze of the hand soothes him deeper than a pencil stroke on paper.

Watching Mark deep in thought, Renjun could paint him all day, sat like this, playing footsies under the table and sneaking glances at each other. He teaches Mark the best technique to get pigment off the palette without ruining the brush, and Mark is eager to learn.

"What's your favourite flower?" Mark asks after a few minutes of quiet.

Renjun stops mixing various shades of brown to think. He looks at the bright orange Mark is working with. It comes straight from the palette, the well already swimming with too much water even for the expensive paper, but Renjun doesn't mind the mess. It will remind him of Mark each time he uses it.

"My grandmother had these orange chrysanthemums in her garden," Renjun says. "Back in China."

"Do you miss it? Home?" Mark drops his voice again, cautious of overstepping, but Renjun doesn't mind. A part of him feels obliged to give back the vulnerability that Mark has offered him. The other part of him genuinely wants to tell more about himself.

"A bit, I suppose." Renjun isn't sure. His brush touches paper, and brown bleeds across the sketch, breaking past the careful shape of the eye he'd sketched. He scowls but decides he can work with it. It's not his final piece. It's okay. He takes a deep, careful breath. "I miss my grandmother. I spent most of my childhood with her, to be honest. My parents were always busy with work." Renjun explains, then adds a little quieter. "They still are."

"It's good she was there to look after you."

"Yeah."

There are footsteps in the hallway, then the bathroom door shuts and the shower starts to run. Jungwoo must be around and it pulls Renjun's thoughts together because he's unwilling to get emotional around someone that isn't Mark. So, he swallows and waits for the paint to stop.

"You're from Canada, right?" Renjun doesn't trust his voice to say anything else. Under the kitchen lights of an apartment that has so quickly become his refuge, he realises how much he misses his parents, and the information alarms him, squeezes his throat, turns his palms clammy.

"Yep," Mark says. "But I moved here when I was six. For treatment and all that stuff. I started struggling to keep up with the other kids in the school playground, and that was when they realised something was wrong with my heart."

Listening to Mark's stories of his own overprotective parents tightens his knuckles around the paintbrush. The painting isn't coming out like he hoped: the eyes don't match and the lips don't look like Mark's at all. Meanwhile, Mark's flowers bleed together, some too watery, others much more pigmented, none the same, but he seems content with it. He seems comfortable with the idea of things not going as planned.

Renjun feels like crying. He swears under his breath. He must have cried more in the past week than he's ever cried in his entire life.

"Isn't it crazy how we were born on totally opposite sides of the world but we're still soulmates?" Mark chuckles. He looks up, but doesn't comment on the conflict tainting the younger's features. "Fate brought us together."

Renjun feels like ripping the page out. But for once he doesn't. He decides it doesn't matter if there are imperfections in his work. Not every page has to be his finest. He had previously told Mark that's the whole point of a sketchbook, only while swallowing down the shame of being so hard on himself all these years. After all, the project's theme is about his view of the world. And in his eyes, the world is far from perfect.

He thinks Mark might just be perfect, though, when the elder takes a hold of his hand and gives it a silent, tender squeeze. It's difficult to smile through the chokehold of emotions that crept up so suddenly, but he manages when his soulmate uses his thumb to trace hearts across the back of his hand.

"It's so crazy," Renjun replies.

He can't bear to think about what could have happened if fate hadn't pulled its strings in their favour. He'd been close to dropping out of university. He might have never reconciled with Donghyuck, or learnt to stand on his own two feet, without Jaemin. He might have burnt all his art.

"Thanks for teaching me. I'd never used watercolours before," Mark continues, not letting go of his hand even when his blinks slow and his grip weakens.

Renjun squeezes Mark's hand back, then lets go to pick up his brush once more with a shake of his head and a shy smile teasing his lips. "Thank you."

𓆩♡𓆪

Thank you Mark. Thank you. ♥