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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

#but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #but you can never leave #roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #queen fic #queen fanfic #queen fanfiction

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jaeminlore · 7 years

Text

Not Yet // Mark Lee

the prompt:MARK FLUFF ABOUT TRAVELING THE WORLD AND THEN YALL GO TO VANCOUVER AND HE GETS EXCITED BECAUSE HES GOING TO PROPOSE OML PLS IM REALLY DEVASTATED FROM WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY

words: 2377

category: fluff + older!mark (??)

author note: told you i’d write it tonight and even though it’s late I did write it! you’re probably sleeping rn but i hope you see this soon! anyway alex i hope this cheers you up and pls remember that tomorrow’s a brand new day. i know you can’t see it now, but things are looking up ^^

- destinee

“It’s so nice here,” you said.

Mark stopped paddling and looked around in awe at the cherry blossoms around the two of you.

It was the summer after you had graduated college and NCT was given an extended break, so Mark wanted to spend it traveling the world with you. The two of you had decided to play a game in your travels, in which you both would take turns picking the place you would spend a week in.

This week, Mark had chosen to take you to Tokyo. Specifically to Inokashira Onshi Park, where the cherry blossom trees overlooked a large pond. There were boat rentals, where people could paddle along the pond and feel the scented breeze of the air.

Mark had a real reason behind taking you traveling, and that was to make the best proposal ever made. He wanted to ask you to marry him before his break was over, and he figured the best time to do it would be somewhere beautiful and memorable. Somewhere new and exciting, just like the thought of marriage.

He wanted to show you how much he loved you, and how much he wanted to be with you. For the rest of his life, there was no other person he wanted to spend his life with. There was a ring burning a hole into his pocket as he sat in the boat, watching you admire the petals that fell every now and again. This would be a great time to propose to you. Now, while there were blossom petals in your hair.

However, he couldn’t find it in himself to pull out the velvet box. For in a boat across from you two, a couple sat, having the same thoughts apparently. The man pulled out a box similar to the one in Mark’s pocket and proposed to the woman.

Mark quirked a smile when he saw you watching the couple. You squealed softly and looked at him, making sure he was watching as well. “Aren’t they cute?” you asked.

Mark nodded, but he felt a tad bit annoyed at the other couple. Now his proposal wouldn’t seem as nice. It wouldn’t be as original as it once was. So he kept the ring in his pocket and refused to propose to you.

Not yet.

“I told you Italy was a good idea!” you giggled, tossing the pizza dough into the air as Mark struggled to tie an apron around his waist.

Mark smiled, “I can’t believe our whole week in Italy is just so you can make your own pizza.”

“This is the home of pizza, Mark. We have to do this here or we’d be missing out.”

“I understand,” he said, finally getting a hold on his apron and coming to join you. The pizzaiolo, or pizza man, as you had dubbed him, handed Mark a ball of dough and explained the process of spinning dough to him.

Mark was thinking about sticking the ring in the crust of his pizza. Even if you thought it was cheesy, he could play that off well, saying the two of you were in a pizza shop so cheesiness was allowed.

Just as he was beginning to think it wasn’t such a bad idea, the pizza man spoke up, “It’s so nice to have a fun couple visit for once. Usually we get a bunch of lovers who like to put rings in the dough and stuff like that.”

You snorted, “That’s so lame.”

Mark rolled his eyes. Of course. Of all the lame things he did that you supported, you chose to laugh at this one. “Totally lame.”

You stared at Mark for a minute, and Mark knew he had been caught. Of course, after dating for four years, the two of you knew each other from the inside out. “You liked the idea of sticking a ring into pizza!”

Mark shrugged and turned away, acting indifferent. “I was just thinking that it’s not the worst idea on the planet.”

You patted Mark’s cheek condescendingly, getting flour on his smooth skin, and smiled. “You’re cute.”

“Shut up.” He batted your hand away in mock-annoyance. He wanted to propose to you quickly, but it seemed he would have to wait once again.

“Let’s get matching hats!” you said. “Then we can watch the fireworks.”

Mark had chosen Disney World in Florida, in the hopes of doing the classic and romantic proposal in front of Cinderella’s castle.

It was his best plan yet. He would wait until the firework show started. Then, while you were distracted, he would get down on one knee and hold up the ring. It would be perfect.

There were fifteen minutes until the fireworks started. To pass time, you and Mark were hanging out in a nearby gift shop to pick up souvenirs. You wanted to get the classic mouse ear hats. However, you couldn’t decide between Minnie, Donald Duck, and Chip. It actually could’ve been Dale, since Mark could never remember which one had the red nose and which one had the black nose. He had already chosen his hat: Winnie the Pooh.

You glared at the hat in his hands, “How is it so easy for you to have a favorite character?”

Mark shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re looking at all the classic characters. Why don’t you look at the princesses, or the ones from Toy Story?”

“Well the Ariel one it really cute…” you mentioned. “I’ll get the Ariel one.”

“Great. I’ll go buy them.” Mark said, accepting the hat you handed to him.

“I’m going to go check and see if the fireworks have started yet.”

Mark let you go before walking up to the counter. “I’ll take these two, please.”

As he was extracting bills from his wallet, you came back inside, your hair slightly damp. “Bad news. It’s raining so they aren’t doing fireworks tonight.”

“Really?” Mark frowned, “You can’t even hear the rain from inside.”

“It’s our last night,” you said, pouting slightly. “We should still stay until the park closes. What do you say we go watch a show or something?”

Mark smiled at you after paying for the hats. Although he really wanted to propose under the fireworks, he supposed he would have to wait, yet again, for another opportunity to present itself.

“That sounds great.” He placed the Ariel hat on top of your head. “It suits you.”

You giggled when he put the Pooh one on his own head, “We look like annoying tourists.”

“We are annoying tourists, babe,” he answered.

Throughout all of your fun and laughter, he still couldn’t help but want to pull out the ring right then and there. However, he had to remind himself to wait if he wanted it to be special.

“It’s beautiful,” you mentioned, leaning on Mark’s shoulder and looking out at the view.

The two of you were currently at the top of the Eiffel Tower, both lost in thought. There was only one week left before Mark had to return to SM for another comeback, and he knew he had to propose soon if he was going to do it at all.

He had chosen Paris, claiming that a couple in love should be in the City of Love at least once in their relationship. You agreed, of course, especially because you had always wanted to see the City of Lights at night. Now your dream was coming true, as you stared out over the railing. Windows flickered off and lamp posts flickered on as the night grew darker and colder. Mark thought proposing on top of the Eiffel Tower wouldn’t be such a bad idea at all.

“I can think of something more beautiful,” Mark said.

You elbowed him in the stomach, emitting a laugh from your awkward boyfriend, “What? I can’t say you’re beautiful?”

“Not in a cheesy way,” you answered, your cheeks heating up at his words.

He laughed. “Hey, Y/n, can I ask you something?”

You turned to him, a contented grin on your lips, “What is it?”

Mark reached into his pocket to find nothing. It was absolutely empty. He hastily checked all of his pockets before realizing it must be in the hotel, for the only thing in his pocket was his wallet and the hotel key.

“What are you looking for?” you asked him, amused at his panicked expression.

“What? Oh, I just thought I had lost the hotel keys. But here they are!” He held up his key awkwardly.

“So, what were you going to ask me?”

“I forgot.” Mark said. He threw his arm around your shoulder as the two of you walked towards the elevator. “Let’s get back to the hotel before it gets too cold. We need to pack for the airport before we go to sleep. By the way, are you ever going to tell me where we’re going next?”

“No,” you smirked. “It’s a surprise.”

“But it’s our last week before we have to go back to Seoul. Shouldn’t you at least give me a hint?” Mark would have to propose to you there, wherever you chose. Otherwise, he would have no time to even think about proposing as he practiced for the comeback.

“Your hint is that you’ll love it,” you said. “It’ll be the best week out of all of our weeks.”

“I doubt that.”

Mark doubted, but he doubted wrongly. As soon as the two of you were in the airport and you asked the woman for two tickets to Vancouver, Mark couldn’t stop the smile from forming on his face. “Y/n! You’re taking me to Vancouver?!”

“Yeah! Surprise!” You grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the line so other people could buy their tickets. “We can spend a week there. I’ve already talked with your family. We’re having dinner with them tonight.”

You knew Mark’s family from the few times they had visited him. However, you had never had the opportunity to go to his hometown and visit them, since Mark was always so busy. It wasn’t a surprise that you snatched the opportunity up as soon as you saw it.

Mark had thought about going to Vancouver, sure. However, he was afraid it would be too selfish of him to ask for a whole week there. He should’ve known that you knew him too well, and therefore thought ahead. You knew he wouldn’t ask about it, so you took it upon yourself to just go without consulting him.

The result was a very happy Mark.

Mark’s older brother was the first to the door, grabbing Mark by the shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. Mark’s parents weren’t far behind, and he suddenly found himself being pulled into a group hug, courtesy of the Lee family.

He reached out, grabbed you, and pulled you into the hug as well. “If I suffer, so do you.”

“I’ve just set dinner out on the table!” Mrs. Lee said after finally letting go of her son. “Let’s go eat before it gets cold and then Mark can show Y/n around the place.”

Everyone agreed and you let Mark pull you into the kitchen to eat, as you were both starved from the long flight.

“So, how has the traveling been going?” Mr. Lee asked you. “Has being with Mark twenty-four-seven completely annoyed you yet?”

“Dad…” Mark whined. “I’m trying to keep her, not scare her off.”

You laughed, “We’ve been dating for four years, Mark. If I had a problem with your annoying self I would’ve left you a long time ago.”

“Hey!” Mark protested as you gave his dad a high five across the table. “Don’t high five my dad!”

You only laughed as his family continued to taunt him.

“You’re family is so fun,” you told Mark. “I love them.”

“I love them too,” Mark smiled as the two of you walked towards the lake near his house. “I wish you all wouldn’t gang up on me, though.”

“It’s fun!” you said.

“That’s not an excuse,” Mark replied, acting offended.

The two of you walked towards the end of the dock and sat down, your feet hanging over the edge. It was dark out, so the only light came from the moon as it reflected off the lake. Mark took your hand in his as the two of you watched the stillness of the water. “In all honestly, though, I’m really glad my family likes you.”

“Of course they like me,” you joked, “I’m wonderful.”

Mark snorted and spoke sarcastically. “You’re hilarious.”

He suddenly knew this was the moment to go for it. There was no place more special to him than his home. Not Japan, or Italy, or France. Just his happy little home nestled in the heart of Vancouver, Canada. This is where he wanted to propose to you. This is where he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. In this moment, while the two of you were comfortably joking around with each other. “Y/n?”

“What?” You yawned, leaning into his side and resting your head on top of his shoulder.

“Will you marry me?”

You pushed yourself off of him quickly, and examined his face. “Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah. I mean this isn’t how I originally planned to propose and the ring is tucked away in the abyss of my suitcase, but I really want to marry you. I want you to be with me even though I have this job that doesn’t allow us a lot of time together. I want you to always be with me. So, will you marry me?”

Even in the moonlight, Mark was able to capture the dark hue of pink that appeared on your cheeks. “Of course I’ll marry you, Mark.”

“Great,” he mumbled before leaning in to kiss you. As your lips met, a sudden crash of thunder appeared and the two of you parted, jumping at the noise.

You looked up just as it began to rain. “Should we go in?”

Mark looked at your wonder-filled expression, taking in the soft pellets of rain as they fell and bounced off of your cheeks. He smiled to himself, “Not yet.”

~the end~

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