in which it's cold and mark doesn't have an umbrella.

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it's cold.

not freezing.

but it's cold.

and mark thinks he can handle it.

a front door swings open somewhere down the avenue, holding a broad figure in its frame, and any normal person would retreat back into their shells at the sight of the storm clouds and wind that whipped angrily at leaves and discarded litter.

but mark thinks he can handle it.

so he steps out side - left foot first like always - and takes a deep breath.

the street smells like winter.
like cold nights and dark mornings. like evenings spent by the radiator with layers upon layers of blankets and hot soup, and afternoons wasted on crappy netflix tv and strangely silent skype calls. like comfort found in baking festive cookies in ugly sweaters and hanging decorations up only for them to be taken down when new year comes.

it smells like winter,

yet it's mid-march, and spring is just around the corner.

mark thinks that the weather wouldn't be like this anywhere else that wasn't ireland.

but then again, mark also thinks he can handle it.

his fingers retract, and bend towards his palms as soon as the nipping breeze dances over them. one hand reached up to turn the solid ice of his door handle and close the opening to his home, but he winces when his senses get a chance to take in the temperature.

he thinks of grabbing a scarf, or some gloves, or even a thicker jacket, before he shakes his head and turns his key in the lock.

because mark is stubborn, and thinks he can handle it.

so he continues down his path, trying hard not to bury his fists into the black trenchcoat-esque jacket that's hangs loose over his shoulders. his nose scrunches up as he battles the wind, walking into the gusts with sharp breaths beginning to catch in his tightening throat.

but he pushed through, walking proudly up the street with minimal layers, smiling through gritted teeth before he realises that he doesn't remember why he's left the house.

and he knows he should turn back, or at least stop to think about where he's doing, but he doesn't, because mark wants to keep walking, wants his feet to carry him subconsciously to an unknown destination.

but the temperature is dropping, and you can almost feel the relieving of weight from the dreary, dense clouds above when the first few drops of rain starts.

mark really should've picked up an umbrella.

but mark thinks he can take it.

and it doesn't bother him.

not usually.

however, when the reain feels like tiny frozen razors against the flushed skin of his face, it's a little uncomfortable, and when the ground is layered with slush and puddles, it's disheartening because mark knows at any moment he could slip, and embarrass himself infront of the less than no life that surrounded him.

the half-korean pushed through though, taking a sharp left when his subconscious tells him too, letting his feet take him where he needs to be.

even if he's unsure of that place.

the battering winds and hailed rain picked up, and soon mark wasn't just cold, but soaked too. black strands of hair were pinned to his forehead with rain and from the force of the gail. he couldn't see, lenses coated in blurring droplets that rendered the glasses useless.

mark didn't think he'd be walking for longer than ten minutes.

but mark also thought he could handle it.

---

ten minutes pass.

then twenty.

and eventually mark notices that it's been almost half of an hour of him just walking, body stiff and frigid, battling against the harsh winds, and so fucking cold that marks temptations grow with every weak, painful step.

but he just sniffles, and continues, because even though he's damn near becoming a victim of hypothermia,

mark still thinks he can handle it.

the boy stumbles forwards slightly, his inner world slipping when his mind eventually catches up to his feet, and becomes aware of his rain-tacked surroundings.

it's jack's house.

and marks a mess as he pushes the hair open with frail fingers, numb, yet ever so sensitive to the harsh and rusted metal. he flinches, but continues.

and it's as if jack has a sixth sense, a danger detector, because he's at the door before mark is even on the first step.

and he's smiling.

but not for long.

because mark stumbles up the few stairs to his doorway, and slumps against the side, crying and sniffing and bubbling and near dying because he's wet, and he's cold, and he's struggling to breath.

and all jack can do is sigh, wrap an arm around his boyfriends drenched torso, and pull him indoors.

and when the warmth hits him with an overbearing sense of comfort and pain,

mark knows he can't handle it.

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this was nice to write, i enjoyed it
-a