Work Text:
The convenience store two blocks away from both Yunho’s apartment and his office is currently one of his most frequently visited places in life.
It’s the source of his meals when he can’t be bothered to buy groceries or cook or order takeout, and is very much the reason why he needs to double his vegetable portions and refill his water bottle more than eight times a day to make up for all the sodium he manages to consume within a week.
He also thinks that the night shift cashier may hate his guts, but there’s many rights in him believing so.
For starters, he’s pretty. Like, unfairly so.
Dark fluffy hair, round eyes and honeyed skin. Perfect brows and perfect lips and perfect, perfect everything.
This fact makes itself painstakingly relevant whenever Yunho comes in, fills his hands and goes to check out, and inevitably winds up staring at the long slope of the guy’s nose, the smudge of makeup around his eyes or whatever fitted shirt or baggy sweater he’s wearing that day. Which, regrettably, always ends with him receiving a pretty nasty glare that shoos him out of the store in an instant and leaves a flush tinting his cheeks the entire way back home until he flops into his bed and tries to suffocate himself as penance for all of his volitional humiliation.
(It honestly isn't his intention to come off as creepy in any way at all. It just so happens to be that the man's objectively very attractive, and Yunho has always had a thing for admiring attractive people in dumbstrucked ways.
He has a hunch that said person in question wouldn't appreciate the compliment if he were to share it, though.)
The cashier also seems to think that he’s physically incapable of eating healthily, seeing as there’s always judgy eyes squinted at him when his bag contains either way more than the recommended amount of ramen for a singular person, or three different energy drinks if he needs to work on any documents that night, plus some snacks just in case he gets peckish.
(And, well, there’s really no defending that one.
Sometimes, he just doesn’t feel like stomaching anything but greasy foods. Especially if it’s eleven at night and all he’s running on is Monster Zero Ultra White and potato chips while he stares at increasingly unintelligible statistics on his laptop screen until his eyes turn tacky and the sun starts peeking over the horizon.)
Pretty Cashier Guy never smiles or greets Yunho, but seems to have no problem doing so for anyone else, especially if it’s the elderly lady who owns the antique shop a few streets over he seems to adore. Presumably the only one capable of bringing out that rare, heart-stopping grin that had Yunho stumbling over his feet the first time he saw it.
He even helps her with her bags out the door and wishes her home with a wave, or sometimes lets her get off if she doesn’t have the extra couple of cents on her bill with a hushed whisper of keeping it a secret that always makes her laugh and swat his shoulders for his ‘bad behaviour.’
(Pretty biased customer service, in Yunho’s opinion. He holds no ill will against the geriatric population, as he too would do the same if he were the one behind the counter, but that’s beside the point.)
Overall, the guy just seems to harbour a certain dislike towards Yunho.
Yunho feels it in the way he's tracked like prey when he takes too long in the aisles contemplating whether he wants spam or sausages with his rice, as if he's expected to either stick the tins down his pants and make a run for it, or pull a knife out and rob the register when he's too slow to gather all of his things and tuck tail straight out of the door. He feels it in leering eyes whenever he fumbles with his wallet or phone while paying, feels it in the unveiled contempt that weighs heavy on his shoulders all the way back home.
(To be fair, the cashier regards every customer like a potential thief, and has good reason to.
He’s a solo clerk working the nightshift in a partially secluded area. There’s bound to be some safety concerns despite the space being relatively calm on a daily basis, and he’s not in the wrong for wanting to be cautious and weary.
It just feels like Yunho is the poor soul chosen to get the brunt of his bad days or seemingly permanent bitchy attitude, like a bad ex or a wanted criminal or someone that has personally aggravated this modern day equivalent of an androgynous succubus in a past life.
He knows that he can come off as a bit of a loser, but is the mere sight of him really so irritating that it’s capable of being aggitating by looks alone? Or at least towards this guy, of all people?
They don’t even know each other, and that's probably what's most baffling about this entire situation. Yunho hasn’t even said more than a simple ‘hello’ or ‘goodnight’ in all of his time coming here, and yet that served as enough reasoning to form Pretty Guy's despise like his very existence was made for it.
Even now.)
It’s a peaceful Friday evening, somewhere around six, and the dude’s somehow still got a stick up his ass.
He fixed his gaze on Yunho as soon as the chimes above the door signaled his arrival, and hasn’t looked away since. Yunho’s pretty sure he hasn’t even blinked.
It’s uncomfortably quiet besides the popping of gum and the radio filtering through the ceiling speakers above. The aircon is doing nothing to help the warm twinge of awkwardness burning beneath Yunho’s blood each time he switches to another aisle and catches eyes following him, his stomach rolling in anxious waves the entire time it takes him to choose his dinner.
He timidly walks over to the register and dumps the contents of his arms onto the counter with a hoarse clearing of his throat when he's done, steeling himself for the worse.
The clerk regards him with a long, unimpressed stare, his forearms braced atop the wooden surface. His jaw clenches before a pink bubble starts to push its way out his mouth, and Yunho squirms beneath the heavy gaze travelling across his figure, adverting his eyes.
There's a deliberate snap of gum after a tense moment of anticipation that causes him to jump in place, loud enough to echo.
His attention swivels back, his face furrowed in mild offence, but all the apology he gets are full lashes blinking at him before Pretty Guy pushes himself up with a sigh and blindly reaches for the scanner beside him.
Yunho’s easily frightened into staring at his shoes instead of further testing his luck. He’s figured out it’s best to stay silent when he’s standing here on death row, and so he does just that. Shuffles his feet, twists his fingers and tries to avoid eye contact as red light flashes and beeps fill the air.
He’s so focused on chewing the skin of his cheeks and picking at the fruit sticker stuck to the edge of the counter that the question jolts him out of it when it’s asked; accusatory and, frankly, rude.
“Do you even eat real food? And can’t you use a basket for once?”
It’s blunt, his tone. Low and judging and probably the first or second time his voice has ever dared to be directed at Yunho, yet still all the more surprising.
Seonghwa—Seonghwa, like the stars; Yunho has had it memorized since the first day he walked in here and caught sight of it pinned to his vest—is staring at him with a poorly hidden kind of disgust to his features. His meticulously groomed brows pinched, his dark eyes rimmed with neutral shadow and lidded in disinterest as he scans the barcode on the back of a Milkis bottle and awaits an answer.
Yunho feels like he’s being chastised for something he didn’t even do wrong. He blinks, dumbly, his tongue heavy in his mouth, and scampers to deposit the first few helpful words that come to his mind.
“Um,” he blurts. Eloquently, of course. “There—isn’t really anywhere close by, I guess.”
Seonghwa purses his lips and taps the carbonara-flavoured Buldak packaging sitting between them after it’s scanned with a blunt, manicured nail before he says over the crinkle of plastic, “There’s a soba place down the block. Samgyeopsal a few stores up. Lots of options there.”
The silence stretches as Yunho fumbles for something to say. He ducks his head and considers not answering while Seonghwa’s gaze drops to the register as he bags him up, his shoulders tense.
The torn-up sticker mocks him from below as he grimaces, almost guiltily, and admits, “I . . . prefer abura.”
The car lubricant advertisement on the radio cuts off and is replaced by a preppy, overly energetic intro of a girl group song, glitter and sparkles and everything nice.
Seonghwa blinks at him, nerve-rackingly slow. A long moment passes where he stares at Yunho’s nervous shuffling before the bag holding his stuff is pointedly shoved across the counter, his gaze once again narrowed and criticizing. Only doubled in the disdain this time, it seems.
Yunho doesn’t dare look up as he rummages through his wallet and hands over what's hopefully enough crinkled bills to pay for his backstabbing Buldak, the tips of his ears blossoming with colour, his chin tilted down like a scolded dog while he waits for both his change and the receipt being printed to be passed in turn.
(Great, just great, he thinks. Yet another reason for him to look like an asshole. Picky eating.)
He doesn’t even get a goodbye, not that he ever does.
An almost derisive smack of gum is what bids him farewell after he quickly pockets his wallet and grabs his things with clammy hands. He feels eyes on him all the way out of the door and down the street, and waits until he’s well past the soda vending machine on the corner to bump the heels of his palms into his temples with a frustrated groan.
The rice cooker is switched on as soon as he gets home, and the Buldak is thrown into the pantry, never to be seen by the light of day again.
﹙🏪﹚
Yesterday was Monday. Yunho got off a bit earlier, and therefore had the pleasure of ordering food and hogging out like a pig on the couch as he caught up with that kind of awful action drama he’s been watching in his free time to keep his entertainment levels up.
(And if the thought of kake soba and alluring yet annoyed eyes weighed heavy on his mind the entire night until he popped two melatonin gummies and still woke up with a headache and a haunting chub tenting his flannel pants, that’s his business and his alone.)
Today, however.
Today has been the day from hell.
For starters, he missed the bus. In fact, it’s more like he got to the stop twenty seconds too late, the driver looked him right in his eyes as he was waved down, and still shut the doors and pulled off to merge into traffic without so much as a second glance.
And so, Yunho walked. He walked until his knees were sore from unnecessary cardio, just to step into the lobby to find out that, low and behold, the elevators were out of order. He then spent five painfully long minutes trying to shoulder past everyone herding up and down the emergency stairs in a rush to get to meetings and offices and appointments with a tingle frazzling up his legs.
When he finally got to his floor and dropped everything he had at his cubicle to head straight for the breakroom, there was no coffee. And then, after five more minutes of sticking a new filter above the pot and waiting for it to brew, he tugged open the fridge to discover that someone had used the last of the milk and left the empty fucking box on the top shelf as a gift for the next unfortunate soul to find.
And so, he walked back to his cubicle with pain jolting up his shins at every step, sat down, booted up his computer, logged in, and sipped on black, soulless liquid that was definitely going to give him cavities overnight due to just how much sugar he spooned in to make up for its lack of creamer for the following two hours without a word.
And as if that wasn’t enough to sour his day, it was only when it was time for lunch and he when down to the cafeteria with his food in hand that he finally noticed the big yellow sticky note stuck to the microwave door.
‘SORRY! TO BE REPAIRED,’ it taunted in chunky black marker, suspiciously akin to Mr. Kim’s writing. ‘FEEL FREE TO VISIT OTHER DEPARTMENTS IF YOU NEED TO.’
Yunho did not feel free. He ate his cold rice in silence at a table with Wooyoung—and then ate a second serving when he scavenged the scraps from the community pot—and tried his best not to pop a vein in his forehead while the latter yapped his ear off.
He got back to the office with a budding headache, and then tried not to fall to his knees and sob his eyes out in the copyroom when the printer shut down on itself in the middle of his tenth monthly scheduling document photocopy. Of twenty-two.
He only retreated back to his cubicle after a long lap of digging up old file pages from the stationery closet and asking about every person he saw if they had any extra ballpoint pens before he begrudgingly got to work, and narrowly managed to not marry Yeosang on the spot after he peeked at Yunho’s sorry state over their shared divider and decided to wheel across and offer some well-needed help.
(It was at times like that, him sharing his snacks with Yunho and patting his back whenever his head hit the desk in defeat, that he really wished Yeosang wasn’t dating their manager—who also stopped by to cheer them both on in all of his handsome, strict yet overly considerate, almost fatherly glory.
Yunho commends himself for not asking if they were looking for a third.)
In the end, all of that writing just managed to lead him straight back to square one as he was one of the last to leave. Which, surprise, meant that he inevitably missed the bus again. And seeing as he was not paying four-thousand won to get to Myeongdong, nor was he an additional five-hundred just to get back home, he gets to the store around an-hour-and-a-half later than his usual ETA.
It’s seven, maybe closer to eight when he finally climbs the little stairs and braces himself at one of the tables to take a breather. His chest rising and falling with shallow inhales, his glasses askew and slipping down his nose.
The dark green metal is cold and wiped spotless beneath his fingers, phantom-wet from the night’s dew and smelling faintly of cleaning liquid. The umbrellas from the holes in the middle of them are already put away, most likely the work of the dayshift employee who just clocked out.
He’s rolling his aching wrist between the grasp of his other hand and trying to control his breathing when an unsuspected voice comes from behind, kicking his fight-or-flight into a start.
“You’re late.”
He swirls around with a rather embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, his heart in his throat as he clutches his jackhammering chest.
Seonghwa calmly stands from a crouch in the corner of the barricaded seating area and wipes his hands on the washed-out green of his vest as he turns to face Yunho.
There’s a blur of mismatched, patchworked grey behind his ankles. Yunho catches big, beady eyes and the flick of a thin tail before Seonghwa moves to toss a tin into the trashcan beside him.
There’s no gum today, just the stick of a lollipop jutting out his mouth. Yunho absently finds himself curious about the flavour.
They stare at each other for a moment. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks so loudly it echoes throughout the buzz of nightlife around them.
Seonghwa didn’t ask a question, yet he feels obligated to answer anyway. And so he does, his voice breathy and a bit too apologetic than he’d like it to be.
“I had to work overtime,” he huffs, still frazzled as he skeptically eyes Seonghwa, who looks nice despite almost being the cause of his heart attack, haloed by both the glow of the moon and the bright interior lighting shining through the windows to his left. His hair is pulled back in a messy half ponytail, and he’s wearing nothing but a simple, fitted cable-knit sweater that has Yunho wondering if the chill in the air is biting him through the wool.
(Simple, yet he looks good. And like Yunho has reiterated at the start, he is so gay. For this guy, at least, no matter how unfortunate it may be.
And Yeosang and Mr. Kim, of course.)
Seonghwa hums like he’s not really listening and shoves his hands into the pockets of his vest, fixing Yunho with a quick once-over. It makes the latter self-aware immediately as he always feels when those eyes linger on his face for a second too long, and his hands not-so-subtly reach up to right his glasses and comb through the wayward strands of his hair in an attempt to appear presentable.
Candy clacks against the backs of straight teeth before Seonghwa’s gaze lifts from the lanyard around Yunho’s neck to the wary pout of his expression. He blinks, just as unimpressed as he was back on Friday, and then pivots to head inside, pushing the door open wide enough so that Yunho can follow.
Yunho's already heeding the wordless order even before his brain can rush to comprehend, the gentle blast of the air conditioner above ruffling his hair and the jingle of the fūrin dangling below it echoing in his ears alongside a snort at his obedience that leaves him ducking for cover.
He gets to work and tries his best to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. His hands aren’t that full tonight: just an energy drink, an onigiri and a gamja hotdog seeing as there should be enough stuff in the pantry to throw together something to go with them and he still has that semi-fresh rice in the fridge from the Great Carbonara Incident.
When he gets to the checkout, though, Seonghwa’s on the wrong side of it.
Propped up on the front beside stands filled with lighters and scratch tickets and the warming rack display as he picks at his nails, his jean-covered thighs ghosting atop the boxes of gum and mints and chocolate bars on the shelves below them. His feet sway above stacked baskets, the soles of his Converse chuffing advertisements and posters about coupon redemption, gift rallies and old ones on COVID-19.
He scoots over for Yunho to deposit his stuff, yet doesn’t come down to ring him up. Just wordlessly narrows his eyes when the former backs up to avoid getting kicked and shifts his weight from one leg to the next, feeling a bit like prey once more.
He parts his lips to fill the quiet with anything that first comes to mind, like the weather or the cat still eating outside or the fact that Seonghwa’s lips aren’t as dark with tint as they usually are tonight, but he’s cut off before he even gets the chance to speak.
Seonghwa pulls the lollipop from his mouth with a sticky sound to question, “Your boss keep you back to count the numbers or what?”
It doesn’t exactly catch Yunho off guard, per se, but it is the most genuine question he’s been asked since he started coming here other than if he’s paying with cash or card or wants a bag or a straw.
He blinks, his eyes flickering to the candy in Seonghwa’s hand.
A pale, shiny pink. Bubblegum, maybe.
Ironic.
“The—printer’s broken,” he answers, delayed, after Seonghwa raises a brow at his hesitance, slow to bring his eyes back up to the ones gazing down at him. “I had to handwrite most of the schedules today. For the rest of the month.”
He gets another hum, more meaningful this time, like Seonghwa actually cares.
It’s a little unnerving to be the one beneath his gaze instead of above it given the additional inch or two Yunho has when they’re both standing; to be squirming as he’s observed like some kind of socially anxious petting zoo pony on display.
In all honestly, he kind of likes it. It’s not often he has to tilt his head to hold a conversation.
At least, that is until those eyes drop somewhere below Yunho’s waist, and Seonghwa's lips purse like he’s disappointed.
Yunho can feel the exact moment his blood runs cold.
He doesn’t have the heart to see where Seonghwa’s looking, but there’s absolutely no way his body could have managed to pop one without his knowledge smack dab in the middle of a fucking convenience store of all places, right? Especially not in front of the guy he’s been not-so-subtly crushing on for months now, who would definitely call him a freak, kick him out, and then report him and make him known for unwanted indecent exposure and borderline sexual harassment. Which would then make him the biggest enemy of the entire neighbourhood and put him on drugstore warning lists next to dog walking ads and Omega-XL promotions for weeks—
He tries very hard not to throw up all over Seonghwa’s already dirty shoes at the idea. In the midst of his hyperventilating, the lollipop slots back into the former’s mouth with a clack, and he reaches out before Yunho can move farther back to take his wrist—and, relievingly, not his dick—between long, personal-space-invading fingers.
Yunho immediately tenses up given that they’re lined with rings and a bit cold from either poor circulation or the air conditioner as they press into his skin, turning his hand this way and that. They’re soft, too, despite the barely noticeable calluses on the tips of them as thumbs run along veins and Seonghwa ducks his head to better see his decently kept nails, tracing along the bumps of his knuckles and the lines of his palm.
He pushes Yunho’s overcoat sleeve out of the way to expose his wrist, and the latter barely gets the time to be confused about how Seonghwa knows he’s righthanded before those fingers dig into the divots between his radiocarpal and his ulna, pressure-heavy and purposeful.
Yunho shivers bodily. His fingers flex and his brows pinch as his lips reflexively fall open around the horrific beginnings of a moan stuck in his throat, caught halfway.
That’s what gets Seonghwa to stop. He freezes with his nails still embedded in Yunho’s skin, his touch twitching like he wants to keep going but is being made aware of his morally dubious compass with every second that passes.
Yunho slaps his free hand over his mouth, his eyes wide. He can feel his ears burning with embarrassment already, colour rising in his cheeks, and suddenly the cigarette cases on the far wall behind Seonghwa’s head when he raises his gaze, visibly taken aback, are the most interesting things he’s ever laid his eyes on in all his twenty-five years of living.
He catches lips wobbling in his peripheral vision like they're torn between laughing or keeping their composure, and, frankly, wants to die.
He only yanks his arm back as soon as his brain processes that it's released seconds later, too shocked into self-inflicted horror to act first.
Seonghwa moves carefully like Yunho’s a spooked animal waiting to dart at any second, lifting his hands and letting them awkwardly hang in the air as he blinks down at the now empty space between them.
Tense, uncomfortable silence. The radio switches to a new song, this time some soft, alternative pop in a soothing male voice while a car engine roars somewhere nearby.
Seonghwa rolls his lips a bit too harshly together and leaps off the counter, his eyes squinting into crescents from poorly concealed amusement as he rounds the corner.
Yunho wants to cry. He can smell the faint traces of lotion that isn’t his if he breathes in hard enough when he goes to shield his flush from the snickering sadist behind the register, shea butter and something floral.
He’s rung up without a comment, Seonghwa’s glinting side labret fighting for its life between his teeth, the lollipop a protruding bulge beneath his cheek, evidently rubbing his gums raw every time his lips stretch too wide. There’s the rustling of plastic over the receipt machine whirring to life as he packs everything away.
“It’s gonna rain,” he casually says after a beat, like they both didn’t just experience quite possibly the most embarrassing moment of Yunho’s currently shortening life.
Yunho reluctantly peeks through the gaps of his fingers to watch Seonghwa slip his receipt inside the bag along with a couple cents, ready to melt right where he stands and make himself at home within the grout of the tiles below. His brain takes a second to catch up, to which he furrows his brows in response when it does.
The sky doesn’t look any different than it did before when he glances out of the glass planes to his left. Dark and clear and a bit smoggier maybe, sure; a glimpse at the moon telling him that it’s high and bright among the stars.
(It’s a bit of an abrupt thing to say, but Yunho appreciates the change the subject from his demise to the gloomy weather, if that was even the intention. It could also be that it’s only being mentioned because Seonghwa thinks that he doesn’t have an umbrella, and is worried that he’ll get caught in the downpour.
If Yunho squints his eyes, assesses his tone at a forty-five degree angle and takes it with a grain of salt, of course.)
Seonghwa is holding out the bag when Yunho turns to him again, his eyes still alight with lingering mirth. Yunho doesn’t bother hiding how defeatedly wet and ashamed his voice is when he speaks, his shoulders drooping as he reaches to take it. “How can you tell?”
Seonghwa smiles—except it’s not really a smile and more of a derpy, bread-faced kind of thing—and braces a palm atop the counter as he taps his nose twice instead of answering, the bracelets around his wrist jangling with the motion.
Yunho blinks, lost, his arm frozen midway in his retrieval.
“. . . Right,” he drawls with a tentative nod after a moment, audibly confused.
Seonghwa tongues at his lollipop and doesn’t say a word, his eyebrows raised as if he need not emphasize. Yunho takes that as his cue to go before he makes a further fool of himself, slowly stepping back with an awkward half-wave and a bow. “Uh, thank you. Goodnight.”
He totally doesn’t run into the door in his eagerness to escape. Nor does he nearly trip down the stairs when Seonghwa wiggles his fingers at him through the window with his lips pulled crooked.
﹙🏪﹚
Yunho worked overtime again today.
He spent his lunch hour at his desk with his spoon in one hand and his pen in the other trying his best not to spill any rice on the papers scattered all over his cubicle. The printer isn’t getting fixed until next week, and so he’s being granted the wonderful white-collar privilege of developing either an early case of arthritis, carpal tunnel, or both before it happens.
His wrist still aches with the lingering burn of overuse and the phantom-weight of a pen stuck between his fingers the entire ride to main, even as he climbs the stairs to the store.
He spots Seonghwa before he even gets inside, who barely casts a glance up at the sound of the chime from where he’s sitting at the register with full cheeks, a small styrofoam tupperware container in hand and thick, black frames perched on the tip of his nose. Yunho catches the smell of spice and the familiar red of tteokbokki broth staining the bowl as he steps towards the counter, and sees that there’s another container next to the phone that’s propped up against the register, precipitation dripping from the clear lid.
Seonghwa’s skin is bare from the rest of his makeup, rosy and dotted with a thin sheen of sweat. He's lacking the familiar dark smudges around his eyes, and his hair is tied back in an actual ponytail, for once, which is proving a bit useless given that all the layered pieces are still hanging in his face.
He doesn’t even raise his head at Yunho’s gawking. Just pushes out another tall, pre-unfolded plastic stool beside his own with his sneaker and gestures at it with stained bamboo chopsticks.
“Sit.”
Any thought that was formulating in Yunho’s mind comes to a screeching halt. He blinks, cluelessly, like Seonghwa’s speaking Spanish, his hands loosely clutching the strap of his bag as he questions, puzzled, “Aren’t you working?”
Seonghwa lifts his gaze and purses those pretty lips, making a show of pointedly casting his eyes throughout the empty store before he shrugs his shoulders and stresses, “Do you see anybody else here?”
No, Yunho doesn’t. In fact, he sums up that it’s been a pretty slow day judging by all the crumpled snack packages scattered in the corner, and the way Seonghwa isn’t bothered by his lack of makeup this early into the night.
He still shuffles on his feet beneath the other’s gaze as he wearily glances over at the camera in the corner by the freezers, internally weighing how likely the chances of getting Seonghwa fired for both slacking off on work hours and inappropriate customer indulgence could be just because he selfishly took this once in a lifetime offer that seems way too good to be true.
(Then again, it wouldn’t be selfish if Seonghwa is the one asking him to. More of a mutually shared interest then, maybe? Or most likely just their hunger speaking for them both, but that’s beside the point.)
The expectant lift of Seonghwa’s brows has Yunho's feet moving before his brain can, once again, catch up and tell them to.
He rounds the counter and stops in front of the swinging door separating the opening from the rest of the store, chipped and painted in the same dull green accent colour like everything else. Eyeing it apprehensively, he goes to ask if having dinner with a stranger is worth losing a job over, but the Seonghwa's gaze has already fixed itself back onto his phone screen, and so Yunho takes it upon himself to consider the consequences later when the squeak of the screws isn’t lighting his nerves on fire like he’s in the process of committing a felony.
Seonghwa blindly pushes the second bowl over once Yunho has draped his coat over the door, shoved his bag beneath the counter and stiffly situated himself on the extra stool with his hands clasped in his lap. He leans over to pluck a fresh pair of chopsticks from the container next to a cup of straws before he holds them out in Yunho’s direction and wiggles them until they’re gingerly taken.
“Just eat it,” he says when Yunho spends too long fiddling with the wrapping, pushing his half-eaten log of gimbap between them with a roll of his eyes before he turns back to his phone. “Or not. I’m not gonna force you.”
The passive-aggressiveness works, though it still takes Yunho a full minute to finally dig in. He keeps peeking over at every slight movement, fully ready to be kicked out while he tears open his chopsticks as quietly as he can manage and cracks own portion, but the first bite of ricecake he lifts to his mouth does wonders at easing his tenseness, tangy and savoury with just the right amount of heat. Heavy and filling.
It’s a bit hotter than what he’s used to. They both seem to be on the same page about that, at least, though Seonghwa’s powering through it despite the red tinge to his slightly swollen lips, mostly unaffected. Yunho can feel his forehead spotting with sweat already, but it still proves to be a much better meal than whatever he would’ve had to scrape up back at home, warming his stomach and dispersing the exertion clinging to his bones.
“S’good,” he mumbles around a bite of fishcake when he realizes that Seonghwa’s been watching him chew for a while now, his cheeks flushing anew for an entirely different, un-gochujang-related reason. “Thanks.”
Seonghwa hums and leaves it at that, turning back to his drama and adjusting his phone to better accord Yunho’s line of sight before he bumps the volume.
Yunho takes that as an invitation to shut up and watch while he fills his face.
(It’s one of those corny romcoms he doesn’t quite get the appeal of. A ditzy little female MC with two love interests, one a typical top of the class, rule-abiding goody two shoes and the other the most basic bad boy stereotype he’s ever seen. Both of them constantly bickering—in weirdly homoerotic ways—about who’s going to get the girl in the end.
Never in a million years would he have thought this to be the kind of genre Seonghwa willingly enjoys. He seems genuinely immersed by the aspect of it all, his concentration zero-focused, the only sounds coming from him either an annoyed click of his tongue when she interacts with the guy he isn’t rooting for—which is surprisingly not Mr. Nice Guy—or a scoff whenever someone interrupts their love-tensioned scenes of fanservice.
At some point, between way too many almost kisses and dramatic sound effects, it becomes apparent that he must have placed two orders of the same thing, one specifically for Yunho just in case he stopped by this evening. Which, now that the latter thinks about it, how could he have been sure about that? It’s not like Yunho comes here everyday, and even if he does, Seonghwa makes sure to put his all into tormenting his existence.
It’s also very likely that he just felt obliged to feed him like he does with the cat outside after months of seeing him survive on the most basic, barebone nutrients a human body needs—though Yunho thinks there's understandably more empathy held towards the kitty's case rather than his own, seeing that whereas it’s navigating its life on the streets and forming alliances with convenience store workers, most days he’s just too tired to turn the stove on.
He decides to stick to the first theory for now. Only because the attention makes his sad, single, pathetic little heart feel better, and allows it to spring tiny wings of lovesick hope.)
After, when they’ve licked their bowls clean and Seonghwa stacks their trash together and passes over a napkin while he’s busy guzzling down his water, Yunho finds himself a bit lost on what to do next as he dabs at the sweat beneath the bridge of his glasses. His belly is full and his mind, for once, is clear, but there’s still an awkward sense of anticipation lingering between them as he watches the credits scroll by, his loafers bouncing on the footrest of the stool.
The intro to another episode plays when no one moves to stop it, a sweet and upbeat animated jingle of a thing. He’s far too preoccupied with chewing his lips as he stares at the bob of a throat to register anything else.
Like the fact that the owner of it has long since lowered his water bottle, or that those perfect lips are curling around words falling on deaf ears.
An impatient snap of fingers brings him out of it, the sound right in front of his nose.
He goes cross-eyed for a second as his focus before Seonghwa pulls away and demandingly wiggles his open palm with his brows raised, to which Yunho obtusely blinks over the napkin pressed to his leaking nostrils.
Seonghwa narrows his eyes with an exasperated exhale. There’s the quiet slosh of water and the clink of metal as he sets his bottle down, pursing his lips before he swallows and reiterates, “Your phone?”
Yunho tries to ignore the poorly concealed jitters that run up his limbs at the fact that this is the first time in a long time a pretty boy or anyone who doesn’t have a ‘–ssi’ after their name in his contacts is asking for his number as he turns and reaches to pull his phone out of his coat pocket, tentatively placing it into the awaiting hand before his own lower into his lap once more, his fingers unconsciously drawn back to his wrist.
Seonghwa inspects it this way and that, flipping it over with absent comments on putting it in a case and 'boring default wallpaper' before he shoves it up to Yunho's face to unlock it. The latter doesn’t even protest, just watches as the Contacts app is opened and a number is added before Seonghwa stands to gather their mess, dumping it into the little trashbin at their feet and dusting his palms on his vest as he squeezes behind Yunho to step out of the crowded counterspace afterward.
Yunho waits until he’s at the refrigerated displays before he picks his phone up to check the screen.
There isn’t even a surname, just ‘성화’ listed beneath the blank profile picture, straight to the point. It ties his stomach in knots of jumbled emotion he can’t really explain as he quickly shuts his phone off and shoves it into his bag like it’s a ticking bomb when the cause of those feelings reappears from behind a rack of chips, his ears red with colour.
A small can of Sprite is set in front of him, and he takes it with a muttered thanks, the pop of the tab loud over the radio host crackling through the speakers.
Seonghwa's fiddling with a box of some sort. It takes a moment to decipher a wrist compression band printed on the front, and Yunho eyes it in mild surprise as carbonation fizzes down his throat.
(He didn't even notice that they sold those here.
The fact that it's being held upside down doesn’t help, but he watches Seonghwa struggle to wrench it open and chooses not to comment.)
“You’ve been rubbing it since yesterday,” Seonghwa says in response to his questioning gaze, wrangling the brace out of its wrapping as he rounds the counter and flings the now useless box to the side once he pushes through the door. “Figured you would’ve put one on by now if you had any.”
“Oh,” Yunho mumbles, following the box with his eyes as it lands next to Seonghwa’s phone before they flick back up to the latter's unbothered expression. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Seonghwa reassures over the rip of velcro, bringing Yunho’s arm closer to fit his thumb into the hole of the brace when he makes no move to do so himself. “You obviously need it.”
The nylon is soft, the spandex stretching to fit the width of his palm and the bump of his wrist. It’s a bit thick and tight for stability, but the pressure instantly starts to dull the sting in his muscles.
Seonghwa’s fingers are careful as they stroke over the covered joint, turning his hand this way and that to ensure that the brace is properly strapped on. Yunho’s twitch when they brush over his knuckles.
It isn’t until he sniffs again does the latter realize just how close they are. Merely centimeters away, their noses potentially touching if he were to lean the slightest bit forward.
Vanilla invades his senses, thick and overwhelming, and he can’t help the way his gaze zeroes onto Seonghwa’s face like a moth to flame and refuses to falter, greedy and overt. He knows he must look ridiculous, his eyes struggling to center on one feature at a time; the length of thick lashes and the bow of cherry lips and the faintest hint of honey nestled into those deep brown irises.
It’s stunning, really, this sudden proximity after weeks of being judged for something as silly as what he chooses to put in his stomach. Unreal in the way that he would’ve never expected this treatment after Seonghwa’s made it his life’s mission to pick at his soul until the end of time.
Yunho unconsciously holds his breath as to not ruin the moment or kindness being presented to him. It hitches in his chest with a soft, incredulous huff nevertheless when Seonghwa finally notices the invisible spotlight he’s being cloaked in and tilts his chin as his fingers come to a stop, his hands firm and warm where they’re clasping the bigger, longer one between them.
Like this, his eyes are round. Dark and wide, almost like a doe’s, tastefully smudged with mirages of brown and hidden behind a few wayward strands of his fringe.
His glasses sit low on his nose, giving an unobstructed view of the way his lashes fan when he blinks, slow and slightly startled like the situation's dawning on him as well as his gaze shifts across Yunho’s face. Trailing from the surprise written across the latter's expression down to parted lips, the bob of their owner's throat audible when he doesn’t let it stray further.
Yunho licks them on impulse, his gut flip-flopping as Seonghwa tracks the sliver of his tongue that darts out to wet bitten skin.
All else seems to fade in that instant. The tingle on the back of his palate and the fact that they’re in a public setting where anyone could walk in and witness probably one of the greatest acts of workplace indecency this establishment has seen since it opened rapidly draining from his awareness, no more than distant noise in his mind.
Utterly dull in comparison to the way Seonghwa is currently staring at him like he wants to eat him whole.
It’s scary. And, really, he should be worried.
But his heart believes otherwise, skipping a beat when Seonghwa moves after a long second of contemplation, both of their mouths instinctively parting as he lessens the gap.
There’s no ventilation left in the store, yet Yunho manages to gasp anyway. A shaky, barely audible sound as his lashes flutter and his blood roars through his veins. A burning flame lapping up his spine and pooling beneath the foreign fingertips pressed to his wrist.
Wanting, waiting, wanting—
There’s a pause when the remnants of Nivea are close enough for him to taste, a ghost of a promise. A puff of air breathed over his lips, looming. Halting.
And then, it’s gone.
Seonghwa pulls back with a thick swallow and a deep, gradual inhale, taking all points of touch with him in his retreat. The withdrawal is so sudden that it yanks Yunho out of his smitten little headspace immediately, his eyes flying open to watch as the former pries off his glasses and declares, a bit roughly, “It’s getting late.”
Reality comes flooding back. The radio washes into Yunho’s ears, and the aircon glazes goosebumps over his flesh. His heart thumps loud enough for it to thunder in his head as he watches Seonghwa step aside, forlorn, before he clears his throat and forces himself to move lest the tension gets too awkward, setting down his soda and wiping his damp palms atop his thighs, his voice hoarse.
“Right.”
Disappointment settles over both his previous anticipation and the cold wave of rejection coating his bones. He goes to stand, his movements dazed and unsteady, the gears in his brain staggering under the bafflement rusting them over.
Embarrassment is also starting to fester within the mix as well. The sobering fact of how easily he succumbed to such a simple possibility of a kiss resurfacing in the pinch of his features. The full body cringe shuddering throughout his limbs like remorse sinking into the depths of his psyche, solidifying dread like rocks at the bottom of his stomach.
(It’s just like that time in high school where his senior from AP Chemistry always asked him for help when it came to their assignments. Whether it be borrowing a pen, explaining a problem instead of inquiring with their teacher or flipping through his notes and commending his handwriting.
She was effortlessly pretty. Three years older than him and way too out of his league, though that never mattered to his boy-naive heart whenever she sat next to him with that dazzling smile and the scent of sickeningly sweet strawberries clinging to her uniform.
He never turned her down, of course, because he was a good scholarly boy raised with manners and basic human decency built into his core. A little free tutoring was nothing compared to the kindness he dished out to his fellow classmates on the regular.
But looking back on it now, he thinks that that’s what might’ve made his not so subtle attraction the perfect bait for her to string his hopes up one Friday afternoon when she took his hand, led him to the baseball field, and asked if he’d like to go on a date with her sometime.
Only to burst out laughing when a blush dusted over his face and bounce away to her group of friends nearby to cackle at his dismay, leaving him behind to cry his lungs out on the bleachers before he mustered enough stability to pull himself together and head home.
Home, where he only ended up wailing into his bowl of stew while his mother patted his cheeks dry and wiped his nose clean with coos of sympathy as Gunho fetched him a glass of water and his father stroked his thigh in wordless support.
He slept between his parents that night, and skipped school the next morning after she pressed an iced rag to his swollen eyes and forced that awful pink medicine down his throat to subdue his budding fever. Pajeon didn’t leave his side for hours, and Yunho spent the weekend miserable, snuggled up and leaking all over the golden retriever fur tickling his blotchy face.
This time, however, he’s cities away from her comfort, and a son of Aphrodite is now the one breaking his heart.
And unfortunately for them both, neither seems to possess the emotional maturity nor the bravery to address it.)
He quickly pockets his phone and turns to grab his things while Seonghwa tidies the counter, or at least pretends to, moving around candy bars and Pocky packages without any definitive purpose. He doesn’t even bother throwing on his coat again, just folds over his arm, slings his bag over his shoulder and tries not to trip over his toes in his haste to leave.
The hinges squeak behind him as he makes a beeline towards the front door, the strong blast of the aircon a stark contrast against the hot rush travelling up his neck to his ears. Mortification is a dire understatement, and it makes itself known in the high, wobbly pitch of his voice when he bids Seonghwa goodbye. Nothing more than a clipped, speedy, “Night.”
“Hey.”
His fingers tremble where they’re wrapped around the handle, the door ajar with one foot already outside of it, itching to remove its owner from the growing hole he’s found himself in.
It feels like it takes him an aeon to summon the courage to turn around. Even then, he still can’t meet Seonghwa’s gaze, his eyes darting to literally anything else as refuge.
Seonghwa’s face is blank. Almost patient, in a way, as he regards Yunho with perceptiveness that makes him squirm.
He feels naked under that stare once again, too exposed. But whatever Seonghwa seems to find in the pitiful frown aimed at him brings forth some level of understanding, the curves of his eyes and the corners of his mouth softening to allow a gentle, nearly apologetic smile up to the surface.
“Bye,” he says, low and earnest, his hands flexing where they’re laid atop the counter.
There’s a certain weight to the word, genuine and unspoken, that succeeds in loosening up the tension gathered in Yunho’s shoulders. The previously rampant anxiety unspooling in the light of the olive branch being offered.
He blinks, once, twice. Gives his head a minute to process the feelings whirlwinding within it, and then nods jerkily, meek and forgiving. The dying fire licking at his cheeks dispersing into something more calm in temperament.
His own tiny smile is enough for them at this moment.
He waves back when he catches Seonghwa’s through the glass once the fūrin jingles and he’s made it down the stairs, the action carrying benign affiance.
The validation that their overwhelm was mutual helps him sleep a lot better that night. There is no blame to burden his soul when he thinks of the shy little ‘call me’ gesture Seonghwa wiggled at him that had them both huffing quiet giggles on either side of the window before he falls asleep, his heart balmy and warm.
﹙🏪﹚
But alas, he fucks it up as always. And like the generationally grand fool he is, he, in fact, does not message Seonghwa.
He doesn’t even open the chat, except to type out a long, watery line of greeting each time he does before he ends up second guessing himself, backspacing the entire thing and avoiding his phone for the rest of the day like it’s an armed explosive of confusing, Seonghwa-centered feelings wound and ready to detonate at any minute.
He doesn’t go to the convenience store for at least a week. It's the most his pantry’s been stocked in months, and it's all because he’s a sore fucking sucker that can’t summon the courage nor the balls to man up and ask another guy out without screaming into his pillow as his system flushes with humiliation every time the thought of pierced lips and bunny eyes grace his mind.
He even found time to go to the department store and complete that errand of buying new kitchenware he’s been meaning to do since he finished settling in. However, he can’t bring himself to use any of his shiny cutlery without dread caking over his skin every time he wishes it was tteokbokki-stained bamboo instead.
He busies himself with work as a distraction, even if the mornings where he wakes from fleeting dreams of bubblegum and vanilla make him want to curl up and rot.
The printer’s been fixed since Tuesday, so his excuse of copying lines until it became some sort of penance is now gone until the machinery decides it’s ready to give out again. Yeosang still has lunch with him, though, his ear more keen towards Wooyoung’s rambling.
He’s thankful that they’ve been kind enough to ignore the fact that he’s been reduced to nothing but a mopey statue between them while he sadly munches on the pickled radish they generously sneak into his food and massages his wrist. He hasn’t even bothered to wear the band anymore after the second day of internal battle with his heart, the nylon still holding the warmth of the fingers that originally strapped it on too nauseating to face.
He mops the floor and organizes the pantry and changes the throwover on the couch. He searches up easy things to cook and narrowly avoids slicing his fingers off five times in a row. He meal preps and does his laundry and calls his mom early on her birthday—
And doesn’t even make it through the first twenty seconds of hearing her voice before he starts sobbing into his bowl of cereal in an ironic case of deja vu, freaking her out with all his blabbery crying.
She calls him an idiot, for starters, after he tells her about the pretty boy haunting his every breathing moment; that he sees him in withered pavements and littered lollipop wrappers and strays slinking into alleyways.
She coos comfort until his wailing pitches to mournful sniffles, and then gives her ‘big, dumb, feelings-riddled baby’ some much needed advice on how to right quite possibly the worst wrong he’s managed to make of the year.
He spends the rest of the day planning it out in his mind. And come the following evening, he finds himself once again standing in front of the place that’s housing the reason for the pit of nerves brewing in his stomach.
Technically, it’s not housing anyone except the cat from two weeks ago, who’s curled up on its side in the safety of the store with its paws tucked to its chest and its ears tilted in serenity.
Seonghwa’s leaning on the railing outside and nursing a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers, the smoke dense and translucent in both the high moonlight and the glow of the streetlamp a couple feet away. A simple glance is all he spares in Yunho’s direction when he hears the crunch of loafers crossing the road, though he redirects his focus to the small, empty parking lot across the street reserved for the dental clinic upstairs, and says nothing in further greeting.
The bouquet of flowers cradled in Yunho’s hands is clammy with sweat. A simple one he managed to snatch in the nick of time, tulips and carnations and sprouting lily of the valleys.
The elderly woman working at the shop he visited had smiled as she tied a ribbon around the stems and wished him luck. But now that he’s actually here, ready to offer the literal forgiveness grasped in his palms, he can’t help but think of the many ways of messing up he already predicted while staring out the bus’ windows as he absentmindedly picked at the fraying ends of the ribbon in his lap.
He cautiously climbs the steps when he’s close enough and stands a respectful distance away, the backs of his calves brushing against the cold metal bench behind him.
Seonghwa doesn’t turn to look at him. Doesn’t even acknowledge his existence.
It does nothing but make him feel even worse. More sustenance for the pit at the bottom of his gut to grow.
(He deserves it, after all. For being a ghosting asshole and all that.)
His gaze trails over to the cat once more when Seonghwa shows no intention of interacting. It looks peaceful, sheltered from the draft with its belly presumably full of canned food and a tuna-flavoured stick treat or two, tiny and frail and way more relaxed and at ease than he currently feels.
(He’s a bit jealous, really, that it gets the majority of Seonghwa’s attention, and he on the other hand won’t even have a fighting chance after today if things go south.)
“Won’t your boss get angry if it’s in there?” he tries after a long, agonizing moment of silence, his voice soft and timid.
The passing chill of wind ruffles Seonghwa’s hair and makes the ones on the back of Yunho’s nape stand up while he tracks the ash floating to the ground when the cigarette’s flicked.
Its holder takes twenty-five—and yes, Yunho counts—slow seconds to reply.
“She,” Seonghwa corrects over a gusty sigh, shifting his weight as he brings the filter to his lips with a jerk of his head to rid the loose strands clinging to his lashes. “He won’t care.”
Yunho nods even if it isn't seen. Flimsy, silver-polka-dotted wrapping paper crinkles between his fingers.
Somewhere a few streets over, a car alarm starts blaring in tune with the pounding of his heart.
He parts his lips, looking for his words, and then shuts his mouth when he realizes that they’ve left him.
The walls of his throat feel dry. So do his lips, the slightly chapped skin of them stuck between his teeth, giving his jitteriness a spot to manifest.
The longer he stands here glancing at the illuminated profile of Seonghwa’s face, the more his stomach churns in circles. The more his breath feels too short and his shoes feel too tight and the strap of his bag strung over his chest increasingly suffocating. He thinks he could throw up if he concentrates hard enough.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes instead, guilty and honest. His shoes catch the tube lights above the storefront. He can’t bring himself to lift his head. “I . . . don’t really have an excuse. It’s just been a while since I—talked to someone, I guess.”
The pause that follows has his shoulders raising to his ears in shame. There’s bile on the back of his tongue as smoke curls from Seonghwa’s mouth, the smell of it slight and not as heavy as regular tobacco, maybe a subtler brand or flavour to match his preferences.
Maybe it’s just Seonghwa.
“A ‘hey’ would’ve done just fine,” he says indifferently, and Yunho’s lips downturn into a pout despite the serious circumstances.
There’s an involuntary whine to his words when he responds, a bit petulant, that’s bound to conjure more agitation.
“You make me nervous. It’s . . . confusing.”
His thumbs dig into the ribbon beneath them with a wince at the sharp exhale Seonghwa breathes through his nose as he ducks his head, the cigarette flaking onto the edge of the green-painted iron propping up his elbows.
Yunho goes to apologize immediately, his esophagus thickening with regret—but Seonghwa’s already turning to snuff the bud out atop the smoker’s pole beside him, flicking the dying paper inside before he finally pivots around, his hands slipping into the pockets of his thin windbreaker jacket.
His hair is down today, the strands wavy and framing his face like he couldn’t be bothered to straighten it this morning. His expression is stony and undiscernible, giving away nothing but barely concealed irritation in the furrow of his brows and the clench of his jaw. His eyes dark and narrowed and unimpressed as they scrutinize Yunho’s tense figure like a SAR dog searching for repentance.
Maybe he’s just doing it out of spite because he’s enjoying the discomfort squiggling through Yunho’s veins. The way he can’t stop shuffling or meet the gaze stripping him down like they’ve regressed back straight to square one, one-sided hatred and the intimidating aroma of white musk.
He steps forward, and Yunho steps back.
It’s instinct, fueled by the contempt attacking him at full force. The pause that follows has Seonghwa squinting like he’s daring Yunho to try again, and so he catches himself before his feet can act and stays shock-still as his doom approaches, cradling the flowers closer like a shield as the distance’s closed.
Seonghwa stops when he’s close enough for Yunho to smell the very scent that’s been besieging him for days. Watches Yunho’s throat bob around a swallow, then drops his eyes down to the bouquet of dainty alabasters between their chests.
“I don’t like flowers.”
Curt and abrupt. Though not dismissive.
“Oh.” Yunho blinks, a bit stricken as it’s not exactly the rejection he was expecting to receive. “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . . I mean, you don’t have to take them. Um. I can keep them, it’s okay—”
“I don’t like these flowers,” Seonghwa reiterates, reaching out to take one of the tulip petals between his fingers, petting over it in careful strokes. Yunho’s gaze latches on to the new polish painted atop his fingernails, unique designs of black and silver chrome. “Gardenias are my favourite.”
Oh.
“Oh,” he voices, dumbly, to which Seonghwa sternly glances up at him and he rushes to patch on more words of appeal despite his stupor. “I . . . can get you gardenias next time, if you want?”
It’s an awful attempt at both an apology and a request for a second chance, and Seonghwa sees it for exactly what it is.
He scans Yunho’s expression once more, his eyes slow and vigilant as they track every wave of uneasiness that ripples through his features, every tic of his brows and apprehensive flit of his gaze and restless scuff of his shoes against the concrete below them.
Looking for something, undoubtedly. For what, exactly, Yunho isn’t sure.
He’s just about ready about to collapse to his knees and apologize yet again, to swear on his life to never dare step foot on this property until the day he dies.
But Seonghwa just scoffs, a short, exasperated breath of a laugh, and steps forward.
Tugging Yunho down by his tie to meet him halfway.
He tastes of lingering smoke, masked by faded peppermint and canned coffee and the bubblegum of a lollipop nestled into his chapstick. His lips are soft excluding his labret, unfairly so in a way that has Yunho a bit self-conscious of his own, but the cold fingers that sneak up his neck and nestle themselves into his hair to pull him closer quickly overrule it.
Blunt nails gently trickle over his scalp like they’re trying to soothe. He can’t help the shudder that racks through his body as his hands twitch where they’re suspended at the sides of a trimmed waist. Wanting so badly to touch, yet uncertain if they should while the heads of the flowers brush against the side of Seonghwa's jacket, sending detached buds of baby’s breath falling to the ground.
He parts with a quiet sigh, his fingertips lingering at Yunho’s nape before they trail over the front of his chest and stop to casually fasten the knot of his tie.
Yunho blinks, stunned, and gets a chuckle for all of his bewildered gaping.
“Stop thinking so much,” Seonghwa breathes, and Yunho honest to god thinks he may swoon right then and there, feeling weak in the knees from the caress along his cheekbone and the genuine tenderness in the sparkle of the former’s eyes. “Just . . . I’ll text you when I get home, yeah?”
It’s comical, the difference in their reactions.
Seonghwa’s calm and composed like nothing’s even happened. Like he’s kissed millions and gifting Yunho with the grace of one is a mundane, unremarkable act.
Yunho can’t even remember the last time someone touched him like that, all sweet and gentle and blush-erupting. It’s making it extremely hard to think, his brain mushy and his chest full of butterflies awakening from stupefying affection.
“. . . Okay,” he manages after being entranced in the amused smile tilted up his way. Raspy and a mere gasp of a sound, his tongue heavy and dry and curling in on itself as his gaze bounces from stretched lips to the line denting a cheek on the left side of them.
His brain’s whirring at such a high velocity that he wouldn’t be surprised to find it melting out of his ears while he stands there petrified like an absolute buffoon, his lashes rapidly batting in an effort to clear the cloudy haze of a cotton-soft kiss from his mind.
Seonghwa rolls his eyes with a huff and takes the flowers from Yunho’s hands—pries them out of his frozen clutch, is more like it—before he turns and heads towards the doors, leaving him behind to bluescreen in vain. He pushes one of them open with a jingle of the chime and glances over his shoulder when he realizes that Yunho’s resolved to hiding the flush of his face behind his hands, his voice teasing and fond with a grin over the soft trill of a meow from inside.
“You coming?”
﹙🏪﹚
성화 (2:40 a.m.)
hey
its late but im home safe
Read 2:43 a.m.
That’s good :)
Thank you for remembering me haha
Read 2:43 a.m.
성화 (2:43 a.m.)
why wouldnt i
Read 2:43 a.m.
Um
Read 2:45 a.m.
Well I mean it’s late like you said
You could’ve gone to sleep instead of messaging me?
Not that that would’ve been a bad thing of course you deserve to rest after all those hours of standing
It’s not healthy to stay up longer than you need to!!
Read 2:46 a.m.
성화 (2:46 a.m.)
i was joking
👐
i like flustering you
its cute
Read 2:46 a.m.
Oh
Read 2:50 a.m.
Thanks?
Read 2:51 a.m.
성화 (2:52 a.m.)
but i am actually tired as hell so im gonna go
talk to you tomorrow?
Read 2:53 a.m.
Sure yeah!!
Goodnight 🤗
Read 2:53 a.m.
Sweet dreams?
Read 2:53 a.m.
성화 (2:54 a.m.)
night
👋
Read 2:54 a.m.
(2:55 a.m.)
i’ll dream of you
Read 2:55 a.m.
A choked, muffled squeal echoes throughout Yunho’s bedroom as he buries his face into the pillow beneath his head with a bit too much force, his glasses straining under the weight of it while he squirms in the tangle of his duvet and almost throws his phone against the wall in his shyness.
Those familiar wings flutter around in the cavern of his chest again. Except this time, they’re thick and flourishing and chock full of feathers that remind him of dark, silky, moonlit layers of hair and lingering tingles of the soft, raspberry-tasting lips imprinted throughout his blood.