[D53] SUMMER SNAPDRAGONS (1/3)
Prompt Code: D53
Title: Summer Snapdragons
Rating: PG, NC-17 towards end
Side Pairings: ninja!Chanbaek
Warnings: age gap, age switch
Word Count: ~19k
Summary: Jongin’s voice is like a splash of water colour on hot-pressed paper, where the pigments bloom out of control and the water refuses to settle, and Kyungsoo is drowning in the whirlwind of colours.
AN: this was supposed to be 2k words of pwp, but then a 17k word plot about the analysis of what it feels like to experience shyness-meets-anxiety snuck in there, so here we are now. also first time writing sexy times. i probably failed. many, many thanks to the lovely, ever patient, and unfailingly delightful mods of this ficfest, for always being so kind and chipper. additional thanks to J and CF for providing the motivation to continue when i felt like deleting everything and starting again. and finally many thanks to the prompter, for giving me such a charming setting to work with. although i may have taken far too many liberties with it, i sincerely hope that you and everyone reading this will enjoy it. NODTT has been such a fantastic experience, and i thank everyone who will read this fic and (hopefully) share the same joy i felt while writing it \o/
Five o’clock is just around the corner. Pools of indigo and amethyst creep along and meld together in the sky, painting thick clusters of clouds in lilac. A drop of marigold peeks out from behind a curtain of violet and casts its beams over the sleeping city like long, slender fingers, sweeping over rooftops and poking curiously into narrow, dimly lit alleys. They dance along snares of telephone wires, sneak down a set of concrete stairs, and finally leap from the surface of a pair of wide glass doors to strike equally as wide eyes. Electricity barrels through a tangle of nerves and prompts a hand to rise, an automatic shield for tired eyes and drowsy thoughts. The other hand lifts just as mechanically, pushing the door open and doing away with that troublesome light.
After the gentle chime of a bell overhead comes the rhythmic bounce of piano keys pouring out from several in-wall speakers, followed shortly by the plucking of an upright bass, each note reverberating in the quiet interiour of the building. Those tired eyes blink twice before focusing on a figure behind the counter, already dressed in a fitted button down and a plain black apron. They blink a third time before slowly turning towards an old clock on the wall in the shape of a frog’s face. A faded pink tongue hangs from the open grin and sways back and forth, dutifully ticking off every second. Just above the ghastly thing, a pair of hollow, obsidian eyes stares into the endless void of time and space, paralysed by the vast amount of knowledge which they seem to have come upon. Bernice is her name. She’s quite ugly.
“Morning,” mumbles the owner of those sleepy eyes that had been so rudely awakened by dawn.
As usual, he’s greeted back with the buzzing of a trombone and the clatter of non-stick pans. He catches a shock of blond hair ducking down to inspect a batch of cotton candy pink and lavender macarons, only to rise back up to an infuriating six-foot-two. At the same moment, a beam of marigold glints off a polished name tag, and Tired Eyes is momentarily blinded by the obnoxious KRIS ever so precisely engraved in the brushed gold aluminum. It would be marvelous, Tired Eyes thinks, if the sun would go back to sleep for just five more minutes, back beneath the aubergine duvet and velvet pillows.
Blond, apron-clad, and unjustly tall Kris is pouring raspberry purée into a bowl of melted butter and white chocolate when the song playing through the in-wall speakers changes. The same melodic trombone waltzes smoothly with a soft-spoken piano, and soon the distinct aroma of rose extract joins the tango of lemon and raspberry, introducing a sort of calm to the once-fervent festivities. There’s a hint of vanilla emanating from a separate bowl of plain buttercream frosting somewhere else, as well as a sprinkle of cinnamon from a batch of French toast bagels that should be ready to come out in just another minute. Tired Eyes sort of wants to go home now, to retreat to the comfort of his one-bedroom flat and forgo the torture of being surrounded by, but never getting to sample, the charity from heaven that is Kris’s baking.
Sleep sounds very nice now.
“Flip ‘em.”
Without so much as even a please, Kris juts a narrow chin towards the entry doors, each donning a plastic sign. The gesture is the only supplement to his command before he attends to the bagels, now crisp at the edges and golden-brown throughout. Perfect, as usual. With a noise akin to a whine, Tired Eyes grabs his own apron from a line of hooks by the counter, drapes it over his shoulder, and trudges across polished wood to officially start business. ‘OPEN’ declares one sign; ‘WELCOME!’ sings its partner. After slipping the apron on and tying it at his waist, Tired Eyes fails to stifle a yawn and squints at the resilient sun now rising over the city, far too cheerfully for his liking. When he moves to straighten his name tag, that exuberant gleam bounces off smooth metal and blinds him yet again with the impeccable, laser engraved KYUNGSOO.
There’s a certain cruelty to being attacked by his own name.
Turning from the offensive light, Kyungsoo and his tired, tired eyes find Bernice and her empty-as-ever gaze. Her tongue continues to swing from side to side, and despite the obvious chipping of paint on her jubilant face, she announces clearly that five o’clock has arrived.
Hwayoil is open for business.
- ☕ -
Hwayoil. Tuesday. Fire day.
When Kyungsoo first inquired about the meaning behind the name, he had expected something along the lines of ‘well, it’s a coffee shop, and fire is used to make just about everything here.’ And then perhaps a litany about how the warmth of a flame has the ability to touch the human soul, to envelop rough and gentle hands alike and provide a sense of intimacy and security between even strangers. If not that, then he was expecting an explanation about how Tuesday is a part of the week so often forgotten, a full twenty-four hours that people rush through just to say, ‘Finally - halfway through the week.’ And by naming the coffee shop ‘Tuesday,’ everyone would find a reason to love that day once more, to appreciate each hour and abandon all worry in favour of enjoying meticulously crafted treats and beverages.
Instead, the owner had told him, “It’s a pretty word.” And Kyungsoo hadn’t a clue how to respond.
Five hours later, Bernice has ticked her tongue all the way to ten o’clock, and the morning rush finally slows to a lull. Anyone coming in now either won’t be starting work until noon, or has decided that if they’re going to be outrageously late for whatever it is they must do, they may as well grab some coffee and muffins. If they don’t fall into either category, they’re usually adventurous, free-spirited students who chose to skip class and ditched their uniforms altogether.
Sometimes Kyungsoo wonders how life would have turned out if he’d been like those students, if he would have altogether dismissed the very idea of college and taken up street art instead. Perhaps, instead of sitting through lectures about the difference between gouache and aquarelle, he would have opened up his own studio. Granted, it would probably be a tiny place with hardly any room to even spread his arms completely, but it would be his. Kyungsoo doesn’t entirely despise where he is now, but a little daydreaming never hurt anyone. Maybe he’ll get there one day - just after he’s passed a plethora of courses, developed a portfolio worthy of a second glance, forged a network among other artists of varying degrees of popularity, and displayed the better part of his work in as many galleries as it takes to get the ball rolling. One day.
The chime of the bell above the entry door is what finally stops him from ruminating for hours, and it’s luckily the very moment that the temperature dial for the steam wand reaches a pretty 65 °C. After a quick spin of the knob to turn off the steam, Kyungsoo sets the stainless steel pitcher down on the matching counter, thoroughly wipes down the steam wand, and gives it one more burst of air to get every last bit of milk out. As always, the espresso shot is finished being pulled through the portafilter just seconds later, sharp-scented and shining with just the right shade of toffee. Holding the mug with the espresso in one hand, he taps the base of the milk pitcher in his other against the counter to get rid of the particularly stubborn bubbles, and after a swift swirl to gather the foam in the center, he finally pours it into the mug from fifteen centimetres up before gradually lifting it to thirty. Even with the idle chatter, shifting chair legs, and typical jazz music buzzing from the speakers, his ears still catch the subtle plop of milk as it falls into the bottom of the cup. His gaze remains trained on the ripples that form in the now caramel-coloured coffee, and his wrist is steady as he guides the milk pitcher forward, cutting through the concentric circles of milk to form a precise heart.
Further down the counter is another latte that he’d finished a minute before, with all the same measurements of ingredients but topped with a rosetta instead. It’s slightly lop-sided, one half of the base slightly longer than its partner, and the stem curves just a bit too far to the left, but at least it’s in the cup. Now that he’s significantly more awake than he’d been during opening, Kyungsoo doesn’t have to worry about coffee spilling over the mug and thus causing Kris to come over for another one of his long-winded lectures about cleanliness in the kitchen. Despite having been chastised plenty of times since he started working at Hwayoil, Kyungsoo still feels like a child being scolded by a parent for not even being able to pour milk correctly. It’s not at all pleasant.
Then again, it was sort of his own fault for agreeing to take the opening shift when he knew that he’d be up all last night writing a report over a recent visit to a local gallery.
But he really needed the extra credit.
With the mugs each occupying one hand, Kyungsoo manoeuvres around the counter and into the seating area, weaving between wooden, steel, and plastic tables alike until he spots a pair of girls from the university three blocks down. They’re one of those students either skipping class or meeting up for a group project - or a peculiar combination of the two: skipping one class to study for another. It’s a technique that Kyungsoo is guilty of having tried a handful of times.
Although ten o’clock is one of those ungodly hours for university students to be awake, the girls are polite when they thank him. Their smiles are equally bright as they are sincere, and the way they almost immediately pull out their phones to snap photos of their coffee is a helpful boost to Kyungsoo’s spirit as well.
After a polite dip of his head, he returns behind the counter to wipe down a few portafilters he’d used earlier, sweeping a dish cloth over the stainless steel to pick up every last grain of ground coffee. When they’re spotless and shiny, he lines them up neatly by the espresso machine and rests his hip against the edge of the counter, idly checking the temperature dial on the hot water tower. It’s working just fine, as it always does.
Bernice continues to count down the hour with her dangling tongue, and the music humming in the air takes a turn from brooding hipster dirge to lovesick street-musician serenade. Subtle, but distinct - the characteristic shift that occurs only when a certain pâtissier gets his floury hands on the iPod hooked into the system. Kyungsoo doesn’t mind the music that much. Kris has good taste in spite of his surly demeanour, and it would be futile to protest anyway. He’s learned from experience.
What Kyungsoo does mind is everything else in the establishment. Particularly the furniture.
Especially the furniture.
In one corner of the building is a commonplace pedestal table that might be found in any of the numerous French-themed café’s in the city. From a distance, it appears ordinary, but upon closer inspection anyone would agree that it’s certainly seen better days. The rounded surface, while wide enough to accommodate at least three people, is mottled with scratches, stains, and a mess of unintelligible scribbles in permanent marker. Splotches of maple peek out from beneath a finish of walnut stain that was obviously done in haste, and the colour fades drastically over the length of the single base. Three trifid-style feet stem from the base, far too ornate for the lackluster, minimalist surface top, and they are equally as weathered, rubbed raw from restless feet and clumsy toes. Beneath one of the feet is a chunk of stale, baby blue gum that causes the entire table to wobble. (The owner of the coffee shop has even made a game of the ordeal, offering a handsome bonus to anyone who succeeds in removing the gunk, but a goldfish would have better luck retrieving Excalibur than five grown men in pulling the cursed gum off the wood.)
But as awful as the table is, the chairs surrounding it are worse.
The first is inoffensive by itself, just like the rest of the décor - a simple plywood chair with thin steel legs and a single piece of espresso-stained, polished wood serving as both the back and seat, shaped more or less to ordinary human contours. Something one might find in, say, a university canteen. It isn’t the most ergonomically designed piece, nor the most aesthetically pleasing, but it’s preferable over its partners.
To its right is a decrepit armchair with an absurdly tall back and gently sloping armrests on either side. There’s a slight tear near the rear of the seat cushion, evidenced by the tuft of stuffing poking out, and a faded wine stain on the inside of the left armrest resembles an obese hippopotamus that’s fallen through a trampoline. In the late morning light, the sinuous rococo-style legs and frame seem to shine with a golden-brown similar to that of honey, but Kyungsoo knows it’s actually more of a canary yellow. To complete this disaster of design is the garish scarlet fabric which lines the seat, back, and armrests, faded in areas of heavy usage to a pale salmon, and decorating these fine threads and stitches is a pattern of a hundred kittens with varying coat patterns but all sporting the same listless stare as Bernice up on the wall. Each kitten faces a different direction, giving the illusion that they’re (for whatever reason) falling from the sky, and the perspective of each creature is skewed from one cat to the next. Everything seems distorted, and the scarlet background only makes it that much more hellish. In fact, it reminds him of the pools of vomit often found on the streets of Itaewon after three in the morning. There are only a few things more terrifying than drunken men spewing kimchi and soju everywhere; this kitten chair is one of them.
Completing the trio of seating is a lime green barstool made of plastic. Aside from the padded cushion over the rounded seat, there isn’t anything extraordinary about it to praise. The height adjustment lever is jammed, leaving it perpetually too tall for the table, and the only people who might be able to use the footrest are those few who don’t have to pull up a chair to reach the topmost shelf of the cupboard. Just like the table it accompanies, the barstool also teeters back and forth - not because of a stubborn glob of gum, but simply because the tulip base wasn’t manufactured properly. And not one human or machine in the factory had deemed it defective. It’s a huge inconvenience, but at least it isn’t a shining beacon for summoning Satan’s cats.
Separately, each piece seems tolerable. While bothersome, the issues with each one could potentially be remedied with appropriate care, but together… Together, they breathe corporeal life into the word hideous. And this desecration of interiour design is not limited to one corner of the coffee shop, no matter how dearly Kyungsoo wishes it were. Instead, the chaos permeates every last inch in all three storeys of the establishment, from corner to corner, floor to ceiling.
Some of the tables in this place aren’t even tables. Somewhere on the second storey is a birdbath with a chessboard inexplicably nailed into it. There’s also a mustard yellow, leather sofa with grease stains up on the third floor, accompanied by a plastic children’s table and a low-level nightstand that have been pushed together to form a single surface. But they aren’t even the same height, and neither is at a comfortable level to accompany the grotesque sofa that was probably left on the street to be tossed into and consumed by a junkyard incinerator - not to be picked up by anyone in dire need of a new seating piece.
Unfortunately, the tables and chairs aren’t the only victims of this curation of eyesores. The rugs are just as harrowing, as well as the random portraits hanging crookedly on the walls, the mismatched plating over electrical outlets and light switches, and even the very cups and other utensils used to serve customers. Thankfully, most of the tools and machines in the kitchen are brand new or at least functioning properly, but they match neither one another nor the rest of this atrociously decorated coffee shop. Then there’s Bernice, a disaster in and of herself, but she’s a headache for another day.
There’s no theme to the place, no semblance of unity or central philosophy in a single brick or nail. Even the happy accidents of Pollock’s action paintings had a message behind it: a palpable portrayal of insuppressible movement and spontaneity, an everlasting dance. They captured the energy which fuels an artist’s passion, a sort of vitality stimulating the muscles such that they just can’t seem to stop. Kandinsky, too, maintained certain motifs in his work despite how abstract his pieces could become. In the bewildering whorls and intersections of varying hues and angles, there were hard-hitting commentaries on the products of war, confusion and desperation, the cycle of complete annihilation and eventual rebirth. Even in his depictions of the apocalypse, of the very end of the world and all that lives in it, there was meaning.
But this coffee shop, everything it contains and everything it (doesn’t) stand for, is pure, unmitigated, relentless chaos in every shape and form.
Except for one thing. And that solitary saving grace is -
“Good morning, Kyungsoo.”
- The owner of Hwayoil, Kim Jongin.
- ☕ -
Jongin’s voice is like a splash of water colour on hot-pressed paper, where the pigments bloom out of control and the water refuses to settle. Every stroke of the brush herds the colour in tides, an effort that goes for naught when nature inevitably wrests back the reigns. As cobalt blue rages over the surface, it collides with a whirlwind of magenta, and from the tumultuous waves bursts a supernova of violet that reclaims even the furthest reaches of the cosmos.
Holding a conversation with Jongin is no different than standing in the eye of a hurricane. At first, Kyungsoo has to fight against the torrential gusts and icy rains which whip around him. He’s momentarily blinded by the sheer force of the storm, staggering backwards on clumsy feet. Within seconds, his knees buckle beneath the wind and give out from under his own weight, and he’s left looking up at a helter-skelter blitzkrieg of swirling colours, as vibrant as it is violent.
When Jongin asks how his report went, Kyungsoo can’t even look him in the eye. With the wind howling in his ears and rattling his brain, his nerves are going haywire. They’re shooting out a million messages a second through this intricate network that is supposed to help him function properly, but not a single neuron seems to urge him to speak. Instead, his face becomes a mess of rosy tints and unattractive splotches that blossom all the way to the tips of his ears. He can feel his rapid pulse even in the tips of his fingers, only making the trembling that much more obvious. Breathing, too, becomes a ridiculously arduous task - inhales too shallow, exhales far too deep.
There’s a special sort of embarrassment that arises when breathing and talking become too difficult to manage, and it’s not entirely pleasant.
But just as Kyungsoo falls back on his rear, eyes welling up with the very start of tears, the clouds break directly above and cast a downpour of light. Amidst the masses of clouds in varying shades of grey descends a gossamer veil of glittering gold, and when Jongin smiles, the roaring of the furious storm stills in a single beat of his restless heart. Galaxies dance in his eyes as they turn up into slim crescents, and a set of pearly teeth framed by plush lips complete the universe, the swelling of soft cheeks only adding further decoration to the celestial sight. It’s like watching the birth of the natural world and all that surrounds it, overwhelming in every way, but Kyungsoo can’t get enough of it.
When Jongin smiles, that vivid violet finally settles into the fine fibres of the paper. Flourishes of pure cobalt blue and magenta have crept towards the edges, permanently warping the support. And Kyungsoo’s heart feels no different, contorted in ways that have him gasping for breath and oversaturated with every colour in the visible light spectrum and then some. Jongin’s smile is the wind which commands pigment over paper in a dizzying flurry and drives out the moisture without sacrificing colour, a perfectly preserved explosion of electrifying passion.
“Good,” is what Kyungsoo manages to respond with after that awful experience. He can hardly remember what the question actually was.
Rather than sparing Jongin a second glance and condemning himself to another storm of emotions, Kyungsoo fixes his gaze on the ceramic mug in his hands. It’s periwinkle all over, with a few scratches from everyday wear along the base and a rounded handle speckled with fingerprints that survived the glazing process. There’s also a white, hand-painted poodle on the outside with the English words “happy day” written clumsily beneath it in black ink. It isn’t the nicest mug they have, but it’s Jongin’s favourite.
While the espresso shot is being pulled, Kyungsoo fills a stainless steel pitcher with cold milk to be steamed. In spite of what he’d been taught to do, he pours a little less milk than would be appropriate for the particular drink he’s preparing. (His mentor isn’t here, so there’s little reason to fear catching a dish cloth to the ear.) As he stretches the milk and observes the liquid’s movement, Kyungsoo spots Jongin’s figure leaning against the counter from the corner of his eye, casting a shadow over his own body, dwarfish in comparison to Jongin’s modelesque physique. Regretfully, he notes how the light filtering through the windows casts a halo over broad shoulders, how it turns chestnut-coloured hair almost auburn. The normally deadly-sharp angles of his jaw and the crease in his chin are softened by the light, practically begging for gentle fingers to trace every contour of his gorgeous face. He’s positively glowing, and Kyungsoo almost misses his cue to turn off the steam.
Less than a metre to his right, Jongin asks Kyungsoo if he got enough sleep, to which he answers with a short nod. He didn’t really, but if he admitted to that, Jongin would have asked if he wanted to clock out early, or if he’d like to take a nap in the break room, or perhaps if he would rather pull off tomorrow’s shift altogether to catch up on his sleep. All that talking would probably have Kyungsoo passing out, and the momentary loss of breath and coherency is far preferable to fainting in front of his boss.
Somewhere from the back of the kitchen comes the rhythmic clink of a whisk against glass, and it’s enough to guide Kyungsoo’s thoughts back to the latte he’s supposed to be making. With a slow inhale to ease his nerves, he routinely wipes down the steam wand and shuts off the actuator to stop the water flow. After the last few drops of espresso fall into the mug, he inspects the colour for quality. Although the espresso had been pulled for a handful of seconds longer than usual, gleaning the flavour by just a pinch too much, he’s satisfied with the rich shade of brown that he finds.
Kyungsoo has learned over the past month he’s been at Hwayoil that Jongin likes his coffee slightly bitter. And for whatever reason, even though Kyungsoo has suggested that a cappuccino would fit his tastes far better, Jongin insists on ordering a fresh latte every time he visits the coffee shop.
Finding the perfect ratio and conditions of ingredients for a latte worthy of Jongin had been difficult, to say the least. It was especially risky when experimenting with the recipe would often earn him a pinch to the ear or a fifteen-minute gripe from the café’s first barista, a stick in the mud by the name of Byun Baekhyun. But that same obstructionist also has a weakness for people with pretty faces like his own, and Kyungsoo would often conduct his experiments when Baekhyun was busy chatting up a storm with the guy who works in the CD store next door. Through those plights and trials, Kyungsoo discovered that using a little less milk and over-extracted espresso from finely ground coffee beans would grant him a smile that had left him stunned for a full twenty-four hours after first witnessing it.
And that smile is still equally as splendid now, no matter how many times Kyungsoo is bestowed such a blessing.
Following a swirl and a tap to eliminate stubborn bubbles, Kyungsoo pours the steamed milk into Jongin’s poodle mug with a practised preciseness, then gives a delicate lift and slide of the wrist to finish off a pair of hearts. As simple as the finished product is, Jongin graces him with one of his dazzling smiles and takes the mug in one hand, their fingertips brushing briefly before Kyungsoo pulls away. His cheeks are heating up once more, so he busies himself with popping out the portafilter and dumping the contents into a box of used grounds they keep by the machine.
“It’s delicious,” Jongin says in a gentle tone after a short sip, speaking as if sharing a secret meant to be kept from the rest of the world. The subsequent “thank you” has Kyungsoo’s stomach doing somersaults, and he tries his best not to turn into a still life of a tomato basket by fixing his attention on wiping the portafilter clean with a dish cloth. Even when the stainless steel glistens in the warm lighting of the café, Kyungsoo doesn’t stop cleaning the thing, awkwardly silent as the man before him nurses his latte.
A minute or two passes like this, with Jongin tending to his drink and Kyungsoo dumbly cleaning already spotless equipment. As nerve-racking as it is, though, Kyungsoo doesn’t find himself wanting to clamber into the oven with the batch of hazelnut brownies that Kris is baking in the back. Against the erratic pounding of his heart beneath his chest and the wildfires sparking in his cheeks, he keeps his spot before Jongin. Occasionally, he sneaks a glance up at the other man before looking towards the entrance door further behind him, as if thinking a customer had arrived instead of admiring the extraordinary work of art (aside from Kris’s baking) that is Kim Jongin.
When Kyungsoo looks at his boss, he thinks of Rodin. Just as with the widely-lauded Le Penseur, every part of his body portrays a word in a sentence, a paragraph in a novel. Undeniably beautiful alone, but ultimately, unimaginably more expressive when pieced together. There is a greater tale to the human spirit in the tensing of muscles, in the curling of fingers, and even in the manner in which hair ghosts over the brow.
Humans are not perfect.
They do not march in uniformity, frames carved from idealised refinement and idolised valour. Their skin does not shine ivory in the sun with polished finesse as do the heroes of myth, free of scars, wrinkles, and the persistent test of time. Their bodies are not built for battling titans and beasts, with sinuous muscles taut with exertion while their countenances remain unperturbed, serene even in the claws of death. Their bones will bend and snap, tendons will tear, and blood will pour forth. Humans are undeniably fragile.
But their spirits are tenacious.
In spite of their bruises, they continue to rise to their feet. As muscles strain and joints protrude from beneath scarred skin, they tackle life one step, one punch at a time. Taking up arms against the devils of grief, fatigue, and oppression, they firmly plant their feet in the dirt and push forward, scaling mountains and navigating through even the most merciless of storms. Battles do not come with triumphant choruses and thunderous fanfare, but with gasps and grunts, with shouts and the shuffling of land beneath weary feet. Sometimes those wars are executed in silence, with lips pursed tight and brows pinched together in concentration, spines curled over and fingers lost in the tangle of hair.
And that’s why humans are beautiful.
When Kyungsoo steals a glance at Jongin, he sees a flyaway hair. He catches the faint discolouration in bronzed skin from a scar on his chin, as well as a barely noticeable shadow of stubble along his upper lip. Beneath the thin fabric of the pastel blue button-down peeks the subtle outline of a pair of collarbones, leading outward to the points of broad shoulders that Kyungsoo half-envies. As hard as he tries not to, he also notes the tapering of Jongin’s waist, down to hips held snug in a pair of beige slacks that probably cost more than all the cell phones Kyungsoo has owned in his life thus far. Further, further down those unjustly long legs is a glimpse of tanned ankles, thin but strong, before they’re cut off by a pair of cognac leather Oxfords that definitely cost more than the monthly rent for Kyungsoo’s one-bedroom flat.
In every imperfection, curve, and the parts of Jongin that almost seem to have been heaven-sent, there is a story. Each component is a chapter in the epic of a man’s journey, a stroke of paint on a fifty-foot long canvas, so promising of completion but hardly begun. Kyungsoo could spend years flipping through the pages and scrutinising every ingredient used in the paints which personify Kim Jongin, but here he is instead, simply taking peeks into the life of his boss while cleaning portafilters that don’t need to be cleaned.
“Bernice is looking nice, isn’t she?”
Jongin finally breaks the silence, glancing back and forth between Kyungsoo and the hideous frog clock, his empty poodle mug sat on the counter. With a brief blink, the barista pauses his portafilter shining and turns his attention to Bernice on the wall, begrudgingly noting that she looks the same as always.
“Yeah,” is all Kyungsoo can muster up, nervous hands fussing with the handle of the now sparkling portafilter. Bernice is probably the worst thing about this coffee shop as far as individual items are concerned, but Jongin is so strangely fond of her misshapen eyes and pendulum tongue.
And - oh, right. There’s the single flaw that Kyungsoo struggles to fully embrace.
Jongin is the one who decorates the building.
He’s attractive and charming and everything one might imagine an owner of a coffee shop named Hwayoil to be. To say the least, Jongin has a way with words and practically radiates charisma everywhere he goes. As the less scholarly part of Kyungsoo’s mind might declare - he’s so hot.
But he’s also pretty dumb.
But he’s so hot.
As Bernice stares vacantly into space, Kyungsoo is reminded of how she came to be a part of the café. Baekhyun, the first barista to be hired and his mentor in the art of coffee-making, had told him on his first day that Jongin found Bernice abandoned on the side of the road, all alone and in desperate need of a fresh pair of batteries. Maybe a little shine and tightening of some screws, too. It’s never been confirmed by the culprit himself that the clock was discovered in a heap of rubbish to be picked up, but the rest of the staff generally agree on that assumption.
Most of the other decorations, according to Baekhyun, were found in a similar fashion. The furniture, however, usually came from garage sales, random pick-ups from the side of the road, or other businesses gone bankrupt and thus no longer in need of such things. The stories were so outrageous that Kyungsoo’s first instinct after hearing them had been to laugh. Seconds later, Kim Jongin had popped into the kitchen and asked for a hand to help bring in a coffee table for the second floor, all hard-to-resist smiles and bright eyes. Kyungsoo, eager to spend some time with his devastatingly handsome boss, had offered his assistance almost immediately, only to find himself face-to-face with a ping pong table.
And a ping pong table is not a coffee table.
When Kyungsoo asked Jongin where he found it, the owner of the café cheerily replied that he’d stumbled upon it in the neighbouring district.
“It was just sitting there,” he had explained, pretty rows of teeth shining behind his grin. “Waiting to be taken in.”
And that was when Kyungsoo realised that the man who held his admiration also had a serious problem.
He still has that problem, but Kyungsoo has abandoned nearly all hope of trying to cure the malaise. It’s difficult enough for him to talk about his university classes with Jongin, let alone bring up this incredibly concerning issue of not knowing what makes a proper table.
By the time he realises that he’s been staring at Bernice’s terrifying face, a certain senior barista barges in through the glass entry doors and hollers Kyungsoo’s name as if challenging him to a duel. Off to the side, Jongin sets his empty mug in the sink and mentions something about conducting his rounds on the second and third floors. Kyungsoo doesn’t get the chance to cough out a “see you later” before Baekhyun appears behind the counter, snatching the portafilter from his grasp for inspection. It’s beyond clean, of course, but Baekhyun subjects the rest of the equipment to similar scrutiny. Despite his tendency to waste time chatting with customers, Baekhyun sure is anal about sanitation and sticking to his self-proclaimed “Edicts of Coffee-Making.”
With a sidelong glance towards the ramp leading upstairs, Kyungsoo catches the last sight of Jongin’s lean figure before it disappears, leaving an ache in the pit of his stomach. Watching Jongin leave is like running a set of brushes under lukewarm water after the painting is finished. The colours are fleeting like birds for the winter, and the adrenaline of creating supernovae with water colours fades as well, down the drain and with every exhale.
Sulking, however, is put off all too quickly when Baekhyun demands a French press coffee without so much as a “please.” He does this often to test Kyungsoo’s skills, to determine if he’s been practising effectively and retaining new information, but lately the junior barista thinks it’s because Baekhyun just wants someone to make coffee for him. It’s become quite the annoyance, but if his brewing skills aren’t up to par, Baekhyun does give some helpful tips, albeit in the midst of a rant that starts with “What did I tell you?”. And if his work is acceptable, then the senior barista is usually in a lighter mood for the rest of the day.
Sighing softly, Kyungsoo moves towards the coffee grinder with a measuring cup in one hand and the French press in the other. Hardly anyone orders this drink, and it’s been a while since he last practised the technique, so he can only guess that Baekhyun is actually assessing him for once. With a snort under his breath, Kyungsoo casts one more hopeful look towards the ramp connecting the storey above, then returns his attention to the impromptu examination after finding the space empty.
There’s a phantom ache in his chest, where his warped heart beats steadily in stains of violet.
Part 2