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What kind of sick joke could this possibly be?
Surely Eden's Garden Academy knew about Mark's status. Surely they knew about the last year, and the hospital, and his medical history, and they sent him a fucking letter? What sort of pretentious, idiotic-
"To Mr. Mark Berskii, the Ultimate Music Producer:" How was he the best one they could find? The one that hadn't made a public appearance for a year?
"Congratulations! For your contributions as an Ultimate, we cordially invite you to attend Eden's Garden Academy, a specialized college for creative talents. At our unique academy, you will not only develop a tighter grasp on your respective skillset, but you and the other Ultimates who received this invitation will gain an ever-important sense of belonging and self in the world, setting out to achieve incredible things.
"In an age where anyone can detract and minimize, we hope you will join us in actively improving yourself and achieving perfection to truly live up to the title of Ultimate.
"Please keep the contents of this letter, as well as the attached registration materials, strictly confidential. The integrity of our platform is built on the foundation of privacy."
Privacy? Oh, that was bold of them to say. He had no doubt this was a pity invite after they had somehow learned about the time he "misused medicine", as the official document said. He could imagine the suits sitting around their table, saying 'Oh, poor Mark, all alone in his bed for so long, no chance for him to make music! We should invite him to the academy, give him a chance to restart his life!'
Still.
Perfection.
Maybe it was just a buzzword, an idea they threw out to get people to come and waste their time in their useless school. Really, he didn't have hope for this place.
Even still, as Veronicat wandered around, eyeing the paper like she was considering tearing it to shreds, he couldn't help but carefully place it out of her reach. She whined and jumped up from the bed, nearly knocking off his nasal cannula from his dresser.
"Hey, be careful, at least," he scolded, readjusting it. "I know I don't use it that much anymore, but it's not like you can go around knocking things over."
She looked at him dismissively, and proceeded to turn around thrice before lying down. He smiled and scratched behind her ear, feeling her purr.
"What do you think, Veronica? Is it worth it? I mean, I'll probably be surrounded by a bunch of people who have actually done something with their life, but... Well, still. Even if it's a pity invite, which it obviously is, it's been a year since the, um..."
She looked up at him.
"Well, you know, of course. You know everything. And it's been a while since I've even had to go to the doctor for anything besides a check-up. So... I might be better now. Fixed up. Well, not fully. I mean, I haven't gotten my highlights done in ages. Look at this." He tugged at his black hair, now plain. "And my clothes are so messy. When was the last time I did laundry? What the hell is my issue?"
She meowed.
"God. I need to be a little realistic, don't I? I can barely remember to do even the bare minimum of schoolwork, even when I don't go in person, and here I am, thinking of attending some fancy school for Ultimates where they'll have people who are actually doing things in the world. Like, real people. With money, and power, and... I mean, what have I done? Tried to kill myself? Wow, helpful."
He laughed bitterly.
"I mean, the only reason I'm alive is because you found me and ran to my parents' room, Veronica. Otherwise I'd be dead. Dead and rotting. Just a corpse. And what good is a corpse? Besides food for vultures."
Her ears turned back slightly, and she meowed again.
"Maybe I'd be good vulture food."
He sat down in his desk chair, rereading the letter again as if it'd give him clues into what he should do.
"...I mean, really? They think I'm the best? Why me? There are a ton of others out there. Others who haven't, well, you know. Who haven't tried to... do it."
Another meow.
"It's not a bad thing. Well, I mean, it is, but... Well, maybe not. Maybe the fact that I'm such a mess is what makes me a good candidate. Like, it'd look good for them if they fix me up, right? Like a charity case or something. Make their school look all nice and shiny and happy. And... well, if they can do it, it's not like I would be... opposed. To them helping. I'm not some sort of... stuck-up jerk. But... they probably can't... actually do anything."
She stared, like she was asking what that meant.
"I mean. Well. I-It's been a whole year, and I'm still so... well, everything, and I can't even go to in-person school, and- well, a school that's not a hospital can't really fix this sort of thing and it's probably just stuck- I mean, probably I'm just stuck, and it's n-not like... It's not like- I don't- even if they had the b-best doctors and the best programs and the b-best medicine, it's not like I- It's not- I'm not-"
He didn't realize he was tearing up until he shoved the letter into a crevice of his desk, at which point he forced them away and curled up back in bed.
-
The moment Mark had walked onto the train, the sophisticated, walls-of-wood that felt wrong for him to be in train, a man in a coyote suit had begun to bother him.
He really wished he hadn't packed his headphones in his luggage bag, as now he had no choice but to listen to the man ramble on and on about - what even was it? Racing? Mark didn't know much about the topic, so even if he wanted to participate in the conversation, he couldn't. And he very much didn't want to. It was getting hard to listen to the man talk about his endless list of achievements, every race, every trophy, every time his stupid fucking friends cheered for him-
Which was why he took the opportunity to look at every new person who came in. There was a large variety - an incredibly muscular man whose shirt barely covered his chest, a silent girl with long black hair that went almost past her skirt that immediately passed everyone to get to a seat, a boy with pale pink hair and an aura of self-centeredness, a loud girl with an ushanka. It was all so... different, than what he thought would be. He thought maybe there would be more people in suits and work dresses, but instead there was one incredibly tall man in a black suit and that was about it, most of the people in casual clothing.
And, anyway, he couldn't judge, because he wasn't in that fancy of an outfit either. It was a little bit business casual, but he had the same alligator beanie on and his bracelets to cover his wrist, and he'd finally gotten his highlights back. He liked his green highlights. He had gotten them when he had first started his music and had to upload real videos of himself occasionally, and then they had been part of his image. He was Mayhem, the music producer who had the musical genius required to make artists a hit.
At least that's what his managers said.
And when he could barely get out of bed, and they faded away, who had he been then? Mark Berskii. What an unimpressive name. Mark. With an unimpressive image. He looked just like anyone you could find on the street. Even if his managers were probably lying about his proficiency, at the very least he could be known. Even if he was lying to the public. Even if it'd all come crashing down eventually.
The train car door opened with a clunk. Mark turned to look.
A person - a man, probably - stepped onto the train, in a full suit and suitcase, pamphlet in hand. See? That was what Mark meant, by formal, and obviously he wasn't saying everybody had to dress that way, but he had just thought-
The man looked up.
Mark felt his heart stop.
It was the hair. That was why he hadn't recognized him. But looking right at him, he could remember those piercing green eyes from a twenty-mile radius.
What the hell was Damon doing here?
He looked so formal, so proper, so much... so much more advanced. And the blonde hair? Really?
...Actually, blonde didn't look too bad on him, Mark thought as he barely suppressed a smile.
Damon didn't seem to recognize him, talking to a muscular woman and then to the pink-haired boy, taking a seat on the far side of the train. He carried himself differently now, Mark observed, like a ruler who had come to visit the countryside peasants and could barely hide their disgust. He sat up straight, his chest almost puffed out dramatically, and Mark had to suppress another smile.
God, he looked so... different, and yet so similar. His face had lost the babyish roundness and kept the green eyes, and his hair was the same but not a hint of his old black hair was showing and he looked... he looked handsome.
That was an odd thought. Damon had never looked bad, not like a lot of the other guys, and the acne had cleared up, and... Well, Damon was always handsome, but the blonde hair was... it made him look like someone important, like a politician or something. He'd always looked like he had some sort of authority over everyone, but this was on another level.
His mind wandered as he watched Damon, listening to the hum of the train. How long had it been? Ten years? Eleven? Long enough that his face had lost the youthful roundness and was now defined and sharp. Long enough for him to change his whole look.
What was Damon thinking? He didn't seem to have recognized him. Well, fair, the last time they talked was in fifth grade, but Mark had always thought about those interactions. Did he not? Had Mark become so forgettable to him?
Mark knew the answer was yes. He'd read about it, when he was feeling awful one day and made it worse by searching Damon up, just for fun, just to pretend like they were just long-distance friends, and there were all the headlines:
"Teen Prodigy Excels at Debate; Makes It To State."
"Local Teen Receives Award For Outstanding Achievement."
"The High School Student Who Changed His Family's Lives."
It was strange. Damon had never seemed like the type of person to be into flashy titles. Then again, neither had Mark. He'd always been the one who was shy, the one who had stuttered, the one who was too scared to speak up, while Damon had always been the one who led him around, the one who spoke, the one who was never scared.
And now look at them. Damon was a star and Mark was a failure.
God.
He couldn't think about this.
If they had kept contact, had talked, Damon would have known about his attempt. But, he realized, the thought of Damon knowing was more painful than the thought of Damon not.
It was a good thing his wrist was hidden by the bracelet. Otherwise it would be quite the shock, wouldn't it? To see the guy who used to be your best friend and was now so far behind you in every way conceivable?
It was better if Damon didn't see him, Mark thought. If Damon saw him, then he would know what had happened. And, really, he was better off not knowing. He had made something of his life. He'd gone places. He was talented.
He was blonde.
Mark wasn't sure why he couldn't take his eyes off that. Even the roots were blonde. It was supposed to be black. It made him look so different, like how he carried himself different, and maybe he was different. Fundamentally different people, that's what they were, that's what they had been since the moment their paths had diverged, or maybe since they had met, and the universe had laid it out so plainly for Mark to see, from when they had the same exact hair as kids except for Damon's cowlick and they had spent so long trying to push it down and now Mark had green highlights, one of the few things that made him physically, really Mayhem, and Damon was blonde, and physically, really better.
What was Damon's talent? He was obviously at Eden's Garden Academy for a reason. Something about debate, right? Was that the talent? He wasn't sure.
God, his face was so... perfect. So well-formed. So sharp, like a marble statue, like the ones they'd studied in art class.
Maybe that was his talent. Being a beautiful, unreachable marble statue, suspended high up in the air on ropes, where nobody could reach him.
It was... weird, to see him so different.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair at all.