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One of the perks of being a regular at a café is that nobody questions your claim over a specific table. A well-oiled café has your table ready for you before you get there. Yan An’s ‘special table’ is next to a window, where he can sit and watch the people coming and going at the zebra crossing outside. He comes here for lunch every weekday. It’s cosy.
One of the other perks of being a regular at a café is that you learn to recognise the other regulars.
Regulars like Yuto and Changgu. They always sit at a table two down from Yan An’s, further towards the back of the café. If he had to guess, he’d say they’re around his age. He’s never talked to them, but he thinks that if he did, they’d be good friends.
Reason being, they talk shit about people in Japanese, which Yan An thinks is a stroke of genius because the odds of people in this part of town being able to speak conversational Japanese are slim to none.
Well, like. He can speak conversational Japanese. But that’s why he says the odds are slim and not just none.
Anyway, so they gossip like soccer mums in Japanese, and Yan An listens in sometimes because it’s good practice.
Also because he’s a busybody, but that’s (marginally) secondary.
They’re already at their booth when Yan An gets there most days, so he can just quietly slide into his seat with his coffee and his baked good (he usually gets a choc chip waffle but sometimes he changes it up and gets a choc chip croissant instead) and eavesdrop while he looks out the window at all the people going about their business and pretends that eavesdropping is absolutely not what he’s doing.
Today, it sounds like they’re having a discussion about what sports they think certain patrons would be good at. They’re using code words instead of names. Clever.
Yan An stuffs a forkful of waffle into his mouth, trying not to chew so loud that he can’t hear them. He’s not super good at Japanese yet so he has to keep stopping to process, and missing whole chunks of sentence will just make it more difficult.
He hits a large choc chip that almost makes him forget himself, and just barely catches a sentence with so few milliseconds to spare that the gods were probably working against him to try and make him miss it.
He takes a second to parse out what he’s just heard.
Boy… behind… attractive.
He almost chokes on his waffle. “What the fuck –”
Because it’s him, obviously. Who else could it be? He’s the cutest boy in the café, even on a good business day. That’s not vanity, it’s reality.
The feeling is mutual, apparently. Someone’s fork clatters against their plate. Then the whispering starts. He hears something that sounds like he heard me what the fuck do I do – stop laughing help me –
Blushing furiously, Yan An clears his throat. Clears it again, because the waffle really got stuck up in there.
“Take me out for tea before you call me names.”
He has no idea how he managed to say that without spontaneously combusting and/or dying of embarrassment. He takes a generous gulp of iced mocha in an attempt to cool his flaming cheeks. And then, because for some reason he’s feeling like doing something really ridiculously idiotic, he slides out of his booth seat and turns around. His face feels like the lava at the centre of Vesuvius, but he’s come this far. Yan An, king of Shanghai. That’s him.
(Yuto takes one look at him and stops trying to pretend this isn’t the funniest thing that’s happened to him since New Year’s at Hyojong’s. That had been a riot and a half. This? Dear Jesus, this is so much better. Yeo Changgu, struck down by hubris. He’d thought this day would never come.)
“If – if you’re gonna say things like that…” Yan An says haltingly. Changgu looks just as mortified to have been caught out as Yan An feels for indulging himself with an Oscar-worthy pseudo-romantic whatever the fuck he’s doing, which makes him feel a teensy bit better. “…then you should be pr– prepared to follow through.”
This is a terrible, terrible idea. Shinwon is never going to let him live this down. It won’t even matter if it goes well. Ko Shinwon is a malicious demon with the face of a runway model. He’ll find a way.
He could just not tell him, but the bastard can read him like a book and knows the value of reverse psychology.
Changgu blinks up at him, red-faced. “I’m sorry?” He squeaks.
“Are you apologising, or did you not hear him?” Yuto snickers.
Changgu shoves him. “Shut up. This is your fault.”
Yuto tuts, shoving him back. “I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who couldn’t hold in the gay.”
“E-excuse me.” Yan An says weakly. This is not what he wanted. What he wanted was waffles and a coffee and some innocent language practice. But he can’t back out now. Yan An, king of Shanghai, does not back out of things. He does, however, feel the approach of a Yan An-shaped, shame-induced, supernova-style implosion. He finds it hard to get through a work day after having had one of those, so he really needs to get this whole mess sorted out before that happens.
Changgu’s attention snaps back to him. “Oh god, I’m sorry.” He looks panicky. “Listen –”
“My lunch break is almost over.” Yan An interrupts him, feeling only mildly bad for steamrolling over whatever he was about to say. “I’m going now.” He snatches up one of the takeaway cups sitting abandoned on their table and scrawls his number on it.
Am I really this person now?
Yes, inner-Yan An, you are this person now. Brazenly writing your phone number on things belonging to barely-acquaintances is what this person does, apparently.
Before he can think too much, he shoves the cup at Changgu. “Text me.”
He hopes he cuts an impressive figure power-walking out of the café, but he probably just looks like he really has to pee. Oh well.
Changgu does text him. Thankfully, their second conversation – first proper one, really – goes much better.
Shinwon, predictably, gets the story out of him like it’s nothing and proceeds to tease him mercilessly about it whenever he comes over for coffee for weeks afterwards.