Work Text:
Jinho has never met the new closing shift manager. Both of their schedules have been permanently set so that Jinho has the early morning, from open until half past ten, and the other guy has, like. Two in the afternoon until close? Jinho isn’t sure.
He’s not even really the ‘new’ closing shift manager any more. It’s been a good four months since this Hongseok guy transferred to the coffee shop where Jinho works.
Whatever the exact time is, the third shift manager, Hwitaek, has the one in the middle. Hwitaek is a nice guy. He has a second job as a freelance piano teacher-tutor-person. It used to be just Jinho and Hwitaek, Jinho open to noon and Hwitaek noon to close, until Hongseok got hired.
It might actually not be one hundred percent true to say he’s never met the guy. They talk, sort of. In a way. After a fashion. Talking to someone counts as having met them, right?
See, since Jinho does open every day, and Hongseok does close, he gets these little notes that Hongseok writes on their industry standard bright-ass yellow post-it notes and leaves in conspicuous places in the shift manager’s office behind the pastry counter. Usually they’re just things like ran out of X getting more on Wednesday, or staff bathroom sink backed up again be careful call the plumber.
Sometimes, though, Hongseok takes the time to cram as much ink onto a single post-it as it is physically possible to cram, and Jinho gets to read little stories about the weird things that apparently happen when you work the closing shift at a coffee shop that closes at ten o’clock at night. It’s kind of like a teeny tiny window into The Life Of The Faceless Man.
This one time, Hongseok used a purple glitter pen to tell a wild tale about these two university-aged kids who asked if they could take all the sugar in the condiment bar ‘to perfect their lemonade screwdriver recipe’. Jinho really wants the part two to that incident, but according to Hongseok they haven’t been back since. A shame.
He also wants to know where the hell Hongseok found a purple glitter pen. Those aren’t part of their normal array of stationary.
Another time, there was a middle-aged upper-class wine mum who came in at, like, eight or half past eight or thereabouts with her ten-year-old son. She ordered a large dirty chai for herself, and a double shot caramel latté for the kid. A double shot coffee. For a child. He should have been in bed by half past eight, not hanging off his mother’s Louis Vuitton skirts and drinking something that would have his tiny body and undeveloped brain awake for the next three days.
Obviously, it’s a bit harder for Jinho to reply to Hongseok’s post-its. He has to be sneakier about where he leaves them so that none of their nosy baristas can get to them. Hwitaek has offered in the past to be their go-between, but Jinho didn’t want to hassle him.
He probably could meet Hongseok properly, if he wanted to mess up his entire weekly schedule. Which he doesn’t. His weekly schedule is perfectly balanced and breaking routine always messes him up something fierce. He needs routine. He’s like a dog.
“This is why you can't get any dates,” his friend Hyojong tells him constantly. “You’re already in a committed relationship with your week by week planner diary.”
Which, to be fair to Hyojong, isn’t wrong. But it still feels like a low blow and a personal attack, so Jinho makes Hyojong buy him food in recompense whenever he says it. Expensive food, from the organic section of the supermarket.
Hyojong can afford it, he’s fine. He works at some fancy-schmancy music radio station as a DJ. Their best DJ, as Hyojong as so fond of telling him. Jinho supports him, as long as he can pay for his fancy food.
“Why can’t you just get his number?” Hyojong complains, adjusting his grip on the shopping basket. “Why does our pin board have to be covered in all these goddamn post-its? Can’t you conduct your horribly designed courtship via text message like the rest of the young people born after 1990? Do you even know how many times Wooseok has come complaining to me about not being able to fit his assessment briefs on there amongst all those tiny pieces of paper? Why do you have to be such a sentimental hoarder? This is what old shoeboxes are for, you piece of shit.”
Jinho ignores him. There are more important things to be thinking about. He examines the backs of two different boxes of muesli. Does he want the one with more nuts, or the one with coconut shavings? Both have their benefits. He’s been on a bit of a cashew kick lately. But coconut is so good. He never gets coconut anything. Not even shampoo. He should get some coconut scented shampoo while he’s here.
Hyojong butts him in the back with the basket. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Nope.” Jinho replies serenely. “I’m contemplating the merits of cashews versus coconuts.”
His flatmate groans, loud and long. “Why, oh almightly God, is Jo Jinho such a pain in the ass?”
“Almighty.” Jinho corrects him, sliding both boxes into the basket and walking away. Where’s the shampoo again? Aisle four, maybe.
“Shut the fuck up.” Hyojong says, trailing after him. “One of these mueslis had better have chocolate drops in it.”
--------
For the first time in Jinho’s memory, the shift manager’s shifts get shifted around. Hwitaek has a family thing, and there’s no way he’ll be able to come into work.
Which means, unfortunately, that as one of the only two remaining managers, Jinho has to extend the back end of his shift to cover some of Hwitaek’s.
So not only does he have to get up at 5:30am for his own opening shift; he also has to work an extra two hours to fill the hole.
Seven hours.
Ugh.
He’ll never complain about it to Hwitaek, though. The guy doesn’t deserve it. He apologised for a good five minutes straight and promised to buy him the most expensive pizza available at the Coliseum. He literally said the word ‘sorry’ sixteen times in the first minute.
But Hyojong and Wooseok get an absolute earful about how his schedule is all messed up, everything’s gone wrong, this is horrible –
“Jinho, my buddy. I’m saying this because I love you and I want you to succeed in life.” Hyojong says. “You’re so unbelievably stupid.”
He had expected Hyojong to say something like that, truth be told. It’s standard fare for when Jinho starts to worry about things that really aren’t worth worrying about to the degree that he usually worries about them.
That doesn’t mean it’s not extremely annoying to hear.
“What vital detail am I missing, oh Kim The Great And Powerful?” Jinho asks sarcastically.
Hyojong looks at him like he’s just asked him to scull a glass of pure lemon juice. “You’re not funny.”
“I don’t think he’s joking, Hyo.” Wooseok says without taking his eyes off his phone. He made some new friends at university when he started a new subject, and they’ve been doing a lot of good old-fashioned millennial bonding over text messages. One’s a dance major, and the other one is sports medicine or something. Big baseball fan.
“I don’t need you to commentate, thank you.” Jinho hits him on the leg. Not very hard, though. He doesn’t want to damage his son. “Your point, Hyojong?”
“My point,” Hyojong says slowly, “Is that you’re not the only one who’s having their hours stretched.”
“Yeah, well, I mean, Hongseok–” Jinho stops short. “Oh.”
“Yeah, Hongseok, oh.” Hyojong rolls his eyes.
(If you were to ask Hyojong how it feels to have to explain something so obvious to someone older and ‘wiser’ than him, he’ll tell you that it feels like he’s trying to explain particle physics to a cat. A bit ridiculous and a lot of a waste of time.)
Jinho finds himself getting strangely nervous as the end of his shift draws closer. He doesn’t have anything to be nervous about, does he? Maybe he’s never met Hongseok, but he hasn’t not met him either. They’re passably familiar with each other. Jinho knows Hongseok’s preferred ratio of tomato to bacon to lettuce to cheese in a BLT. Hongseok knows that Jinho is allergic to dander. They can totally sustain a conversation. It’ll be fine.
“Hey.”
Jinho breaks away from his staring contest with a half-finished employee evaluation form to see one of the senior baristas, Changgu, lounging against the doorframe.
“Don’t lean like that, it makes us look bad.” He says automatically.
“Yessir.” Changgu straightens, dusting his chocolate powder-covered hands off on his apron. “You don’t usually space out like that. What are you spacing about? Are you nervous about your micro-date?”
“Da – what?” Jinho frowns. “How do you – it’s not a date.” It’s not a date. It’s not. They’re saying hi to each other while Jinho hands over the keys. For the first time. Hongseok knows what his favourite mug looks like. But it’s not a date. Not a date, not a micro-date, not even a pico-date.
Changgu snorts. “You insult me. How could I not know? There are exactly five guys who work here, not including you, Hwitaek and Hongseok, and we’re actually all friends who, y’know, speak to each other face to face and stuff. News travels.”
“Get back to work before I make you clean the floors, Yeo.” Jinho says sternly, grateful that at least this once he has a genuine way out of being interrogated by his own baristas. He usually doesn’t, and all he can do is bluster at them until they stop pestering him. “This is your eval I have in my hand here.” He slaps the desk for emphasis. “Scoot.”
Changgu salutes, smiles brightly, and scoots.
“Micro-date.” Jinho scoffs. Unbelievable. Coffee shops and their gossip mills.
He glances at the time. Twenty minutes to.
Hongseok is probably going to arrive early for his shift. Jinho looks down at the untidy pile of post-its sitting on the desk next to him. Should he use those to keep the conversation going? Like cue cards?
He realises what he’s doing and why he’s doing it almost simultaneously. Mildly horrified with himself, he grabs the pile of notes and stuffs them in his backpack. If he ignores the epiphany, it doesn’t exist. Schrödinger’s epiphany.
Epiphany? What epiphany? No epiphanies here. All out of epiphanies. Try another café.
Belatedly he remembers that there was a post-it in the pile somewhere that had some things he needed to get from the supermarket on it. He digs through his bag, grumbling to himself.
In his distraction, he doesn’t hear Changgu and Yanan call out a hello to someone entering the shop.
“How hard is it to find one square piece of bright yellow paper?” He mutters, slapping the two he’s managed to find onto the desk.
“Why? What do you need it for?” Someone says.
Locating the one he was looking for, Jinho waves it in the air without turning around. “Oh, it has a list. I need – wait.” He pauses. He doesn’t recognise that voice. It’s not Changgu. Not Yanan. It certainly isn’t Hwitaek, he’s not even here.
Should he turn around? He should probably turn around. What if he’s broken out since this morning? Why does he care? He doesn’t, because it’s just Hongseok, it’s –
It’s Hongseok.
“Um.” Jinho says. He places the post-it note delicately next to the computer keyboard and takes a deep, steadying breath before he turns around.
Well. He did say he was taller. Not that it’s hard to be taller than Jinho. Oh, and hey, look. Someone who looks better in their uniform polo than Changgu. Miracles do happen.
“So.” Hongseok says, biting his lip. “I’m Hongseok?” He seems apprehensive.
“Are you sure?” Jinho can’t help himself. It’s low-hanging fruit, and he’s short enough to appreciate it when those come his way. Even when they arrive courtesy of an attractive guy who is physically standing in front of him and who up until this point has existed as a vague concept definable only by hundreds of words on dozens of palm-sized pieces of paper.
“Reasonably sure.” Hongseok smiles.
He has a nice smile. It’s warm.
Oh, Jesus.
Recovery mode initiated.
“Right, well that’s, uh. I’m Jinho.”
Recovery successful. All systems back online.
“How’s your day been?”
Hongseok ventures further into the office, dropping his messenger bag on the floor. He towers over Jinho, who is still sitting in the only chair in the room. “Not bad. I’ve been kind of nervous to come into work today, I guess.” He looks down at his shiny leather shoes then up at Jinho through long lashes. “You?”
Nervous?
Oh. Oh, no.
Jinho blurts the first viable response that pops into his head. “My housemate and my cousin ate the last of both boxes of my special cereal this morning.”
Which is true. Hyojong and Wooseok have to get up just as early as Jinho. Hyojong, because while he’s a good DJ, he’s not better than the guy who currently has the reasonable-wake-up-time time slot. Wooseok, because he’s an idiot and picked early classes when his campus is halfway across town. They live in a big town.
Hongseok actually looks sympathetic, and he says, “Aw, that’s no good. Are they going to replace it?”
That was an absolutely ridiculous and absolutely ridiculously unexpected response. What kind of paragon of humanity is this guy, giving him best wishes for the return of his expensive organic muesli clusters with coconut shavings and apricot chunks?
He’s so cute. That much, Jinho can admit.
Jinho would also admit that he wants to kiss him, but Denial is not just a river in northern Africa, ladies and gents.
“I’m changing the Wi-Fi password if they haven’t got me new boxes by the time I get home?” There’s a nervousness bubble in his throat that turns the end of the sentence into a squeak and makes it sound like a question.
“That’s a good idea.” Hongseok says thoughtfully. “Make them suffer as you have suffered.”
Lord, give him strength to get through this.
Denial. River. It’s fine.
Someone clears their throat behind Hongseok. “I see you’ve met.”
Hongseok turns to the side, giving Jinho full view of the person at the door.
And, unfortunately, giving Yanan full view of Jinho forgetting to look away from Hongseok’s face. For a full second.
In Jinho’s (weak) defence, Hongseok’s profile is really nice. Anyone would get distracted by a nose silhouette like that.
Yanan gives Jinho an exasperated look, which he pretends not to notice. Hongseok didn’t see, so it’s fine. “What’s up, Yananie?”
“Oh, we’re completely out of hazelnut brownies.” Yanan informs them. “Don’t worry about it, though. Changgu made a sign already. Carry on.” His message delivered, he throws up some finger guns and leaves.
(When Yanan gets back to the main counter, Changgu looks at him excitedly. “Well?”
Yanan laughs quietly. “Jinho is in denial, but I totally caught him staring at Hongseok.”
“I knew there was something there. Didn’t I say?”
“Yes, you are the master of reading emotional cues, my guy. Pass me the sugar, I need to refill the condiment bar.")
They sit in silence for a few minutes. Jinho still has evaluation forms to fill out, so he’s busy doing that. He looks at Hongseok out of the corner of his eye a couple of times. He’s just sitting quietly, doing something on his phone. It’s nice. Jinho doesn’t want to leave, even though he has an urgent meeting with his PlayStation 4 and his copy of The Last Guardian planned for once his shift is over. It’s in his planner and everything.
Unfortunately, time does what it wants. It hits five minutes to twelve, and Jinho reluctantly starts gathering his things. Hongseok is roused by the movement, rising from his perch on top of the filing cabinet. He watches with a strange expression on his face as Jinho scoops all the post-its into his backpack. Jinho doesn’t really know what to do about that. Should he say something?
He picks up his phone, ready to put it in his pocket, and it’s now that Hongseok says, “I really like talking to you, y’know, with the notes. And I was hoping…” He looks down at his hands and takes a deep breath. “I guess I was kinda hoping you might consider, uh…” He looks up at Jinho, dead in the eye. “Coffee? With me? When you’re free? Not here, because that’s weird, obviously we’d go somewhere else, but like –”
“Hongseok.” Jinho interrupts him. He’s concerned he’ll run out of oxygen and die, and then who would he d–.
Nope. That train of thought is out of bounds. Coffee with friends. This is not a date, because that would be ridiculous, because this is literally the first time he’s seen Hongseok with his own two eyes, and even if he is adorable and Jinho wants to kiss him –
Aw, balls. So maybe that’s a thing. It’s not unlikely.
Hongseok is staring at him. Why’s he staring at him?
Oh, right. He’s supposed to be saying something. What was the question?
Coffee. Okay. Coffee is doable. He can go out for coffee.
“Coffee sounds good.”
(Hyojong prints Hongseok’s mobile phone number digit by digit on individual post-it notes and superglues them to the pin board, because he’ll be damned if Jinho ruins his phone again and loses the guy’s number and they have to go through this whole mess of twenty-first century telegrams a second time.)