Chapter Text
The enticing smell of cooking food travels from the red-hot hob right into Jungkook’s rumbling stomach. He presses his eyelids shut.
He focuses on the sounds. Spitting oil, the hum of the fridge; a tinny rendition of the eighties from the cheap radio in the corner; the mumbling of customers sat far away. It’s not hard to write a checklist and tick each of them off, because they’re familiar things. They paint a picture he’s seen a thousand times. The amount of time he’s accumulated stood in this exact spot possibly amounts to years. He could probably write an excessively detailed book about this room alone; could probably draw the back of the chef’s head from memory.
(Somewhere deep in his subconscious, Jungkook is aware of the fact nine Saturdays is nowhere close to twelve long, grueling years. But with the way he’s feeling right now, it might as well be the meager difference between ten seconds and twenty.)
He stares regretfully at the plate he is about to carry precariously down two flights of wonky stairs. He pleads with it, willing it to work with him on a plan to get them both out of here. A few blissful images flutter through his head: watching the plate fly away, or perhaps shuffle ever so slightly closer to the edge of the counter and—oops!—fall onto the floor and shatter into uneven thirds.
Unfortunately, the outcome would just be a redundant journey all the way to the ground floor to acquire a new dish, then all the way back up again. He would only to find himself back in the exact position he is right now, nothing solved, nothing gained (except maybe an upset customer and an angry, impatient chef.)
The chef drops something into another pot on the stove. Jungkook finds his mind getting further and further away from this room. It travels through his messy bedroom, the unfinished drawing that’s been laying untouched on his desk for days. He feels the chill on his skin from the walk to work this morning. He reminisces on the five conversations he’s had over the entire week.
Jungkook is mentally informing the plate he has changed his mind about his plan for it’s early departure from this world—that he is sure there are many beings out there, human and crockery alike, who value its existence—when an omelette is unceremoniously plopped onto its surface. It looks the furthest thing from appetising, and it drains him to feel so sorry for his new ceramic friend.
The chef, who Jungkook thinks may very well be the one man on the entire earth who warrants using the word ‘detest’ (as in ‘Jungkook detests him’) turns around and smirks, complete with a suggestive eyebrow raise, as he wiggles some coriander between his fingers before dropping it onto the food.
Jungkook begrudgingly admits he’s never met someone who can turn an omelette looking like that into something looking like this with a simple herb garnish. It’s almost impressive. It’s unclear if the man wants a reaction to his display, and what kind of reaction he would prefer, but for all his big talk (that takes place exclusively in his head) Jungkook probably looks a little terrified of him.
He would rather not be perceived, let alone interacted with. But, alas, he just had to land his first ever job in hospitality.
Jungkook collects the plate without a word, giving it a stroke with his thumb as atonement for his earlier comments. He exits the kitchen, takes a sharp right and begins his precarious descent, trying not to drop another godforsaken meal on this godforsaken staircase.
It’s a slow repetition of left and right, and move out of the way of that customer who can’t fucking wait for me to get down these last eight steps before Jungkook is safely planted on the ground floor, sighing with his whole chest. He collects cutlery, checks the table number he’s supposed to be delivering to, and makes his exhausted way to the garden.
Through his nose, he huffs a sigh. What a great fifteen minutes of his shift he’s having so far.
Jungkook trudges towards the rear of the café with heavy steps, eyeing the open back door as if it’s a promise of better days. As soon as he steps into the outside, the irritation rigid in his locked jaw is whisked away as surely as golden sunlight hits his skin.
A warm breeze fleets the air, gently ruffling the hair resting on his forehead. He feels liberated, like cold, blessed water running down a parched throat, and Jungkook smiles (exclusively in his head.) The weather today is nicer than was promised by the morning.
An unpredictable climate in his particular corner of the world makes for an interesting guessing game first thing in the morning. No matter if the weather report constantly predicts a cloud with a smidge of sun, it might rain relentlessly, or drizzle—quiet and gloomy. Sometimes there is ice, a dry kind of cold that sneaks under your clothes, curling it’s nasty fingers around your limbs. Sometimes, even, it’s so hot that you can’t even step foot outside for sixty seconds without feeling the skin on your forehead cooking itself.
Now, though, Jungkook glances up at the sun and acknowledges the gentle warmness in his blood. Today’s weather is more of a passive caress, rather than a desert-esque assault of a summer, and he appreciates that. It’s comfortable, gentle, and really kicks up the vitamin D in his bloodstream. Suddenly the kitchen feels miles away.
The faces of customers staring at the waiter standing aimlessly in the middle of the garden are blotted out by bright sunspots dancing about his vision. Jungkook shakes his head, apologises to the plate for drawing attention to them, and with a panicked skip of a heartbeat, he proceeds to search the tables for a number ‘ten’.
He searches, and searches some more. He finds multiple numbers painted on multiple spoons, but not one of them is the one he’s looking for, which is frustrating, to say the least. Although Jungkook wants to say he’s had nine weeks of practice, when you add it up, he only works six hours on one day of the week. He can’t really say it’s been even nine days. He’s still sure he got the hang of picking out table numbers within the initial five minutes of his first shift. So why can he not find number fucking te—
There.
Jungkook couldn’t find it because the wooden spoon with a painted ‘10’ on the bowl has been assigned to a man sitting on a table he has never, in his nine whole days of working here, witnessed anyone sitting at, ever. He isn’t sure if he even knew that table existed, which he feels like no one should blame him for, considering the placement of it.
Bella’s has a relatively small garden, about half the size of the ground floor. There is an expanse of grass housing approximately five tables fit for two, preceded by a thin patio where three more tables sit under an awning arching off the building. Or at least, Jungkook thought there were three, but he can see now, from his spot in the center of the grass, a fourth nestled snug in the corner. It has been fit very tightly between the fence and building wall, merging with the ivy and potted plants lining the garden border.
The table is one of those with two matching chairs, but only one accompanies it in the shadows. Looking at the setup closer this time, Jungkook can tell that it was absolutely not like that this morning, and he’s not going crazy, and that the man has almost definitely moved the table as far into the cold, dark corner as he possibly could by himself.
The man in the corner is glancing between his empty table and Jungkook standing in the middle of the garden like a fucking dullard, holding his omelette that he probably wants very much right about now. Jungkook notices that he’s small, that’s the first thing, then thin and pale too. He’s inconspicuous, curled in on himself, hands in his lap, with a flat cap sheltering his ebony fringe. The way he slumps makes Jungkook want to offer him a free cup of chamomile tea, or tell him to go home and get to bed.
He straightens up, deciding that Jungkook is taking too long, which spurs Jungkook into action through the quickening of his heart. He begins to move, shaking his head a little, trying to quieten the part of it that’s yelling about how useless he is at his job, and how the darkness of the awning casts shadows on this guy's angular face in a striking way that really compliments his beady eyes.
He manages to gulp, moistening his tongue before he’s suddenly there, standing over the man in the shade, and placing the omelette down in front of him. Jungkook can’t seem to manage to say anything as he normally would (“Cheese omelette?”) instead releasing the plate with sweaty hands and staring anywhere but the stranger's face as he stands awkwardly in front of him for a beat too long.
He knows it’s been a beat too long when that same screaming voice in the back of his head shouts “five mississippi!” and he sniffs. And he still doesn’t move.
Jungkook gathers that he’s adequately done his damage and he begins to turn, spotting the door leading to safety out of the corner of his eye. Then, an utterance from the table sounds and suddenly his feet are glued to the ground.
Jungkook thinks ‘utterance’, because it really was just a simple “Uh, excu—”, meant to be an “Um, excuse me.” but sounding very much like the Korean version, and maybe Jungkook has a tendency to overthink, but it unlocks the driver's side door of his language center and throws him violently out onto the concrete. Jungkook turns around and says “Can I help?” in Korean, because he’s stupid, and impressionable, and impulsive, and this guy probably isn’t actually Korean at all and thinks Jungkook is some maniac who doesn’t know what words are in the English language.
Shady Guy looks slightly taken aback. Jungkook is reminded of his tendency to hate himself, too.
“So—” Jungkook starts to apologise, in English this time, but is interrupted by the guy asking him “You’re Korean?” basic in structure but heavy with accent, and Jungkook isn’t sure he knows what’s going on.
“Yes?” Jungkook says, and it isn’t meant to come out with a questionable inflection, but for some reason it does.
“Oh, cool. Sorry, I was just speaking to my parents on the phone.”
“It’s okay.” Because it is, it’s totally okay. He’s standing here having a casual conversation in Korean with someone he’s just met, in the middle of his ordinary un-diverse town. It’s okay. Jungkook has never spoken to anyone in his native language outside of his family and two novel conversations with Alex Thompson’s interesting friend Taehyung, but it’s fine.
“I was just going to ask for some cutlery.” The man explains.
Yes. The cutlery. That Jungkook was supposed to supply so he can eat his food, and is still strangling in his sweating palms. Jungkook’s bones immediately react and in his embarrassment he ends up dropping the utensils onto the concrete below. A loud metallic clattering sound pulls everyone’s attention for an interminable one and a half seconds before they direct themselves elsewhere.
Jungkook wishes he could direct himself elsewhere. Perhaps home, or twenty minutes into the past, so he can start his day again and escape this humiliation hell. Unfortunately though, it is very much real and happening as he bends down, swearing rapidly under his breath, to pick up his customer’s knife and— where the fuck is the fork?
After basically punching the guy’s shoe, swearing more, and almost toppling over from bad footing, he stands up before he can convince himself to pretend to faint or something equally dramatic. Registering the abashed expression on his customer’s face, Jungkook realises that the customer understood everything that just came out of his mouth in reflex, which you could also describe as every bad word in Korean Jungkook has accumulated since the age of three.
“Shit,” Jungkook says, whispers really, in English, still wrestling for control of the steering wheel.
A deep “It’s okay,” with a twinge of amusement calms him, helping him think he might not get reported by an unhappy customer today. He also thinks he might be going mad when the guy smiles a bit. He says “I won’t tell.” like words in Korean are a secret between them, and then he winks. And maybe Jungkook has a tendency to exaggerate, but he thinks his life is probably over.
If Jungkook were to say “Great. Thanks.” he is ninety-two percent certain it would come out as an indistinct squeak, so instead, he just cracks a brief smile, and hopes that will suffice.
Cool.
Okay.
Pretty.
“Cutlery.” Jungkook says. The man nods twice. Jungkook’s lips retreat into his mouth as he nods back.
He needs to get cutlery, for the customer. New cutlery. Because he dropped the old cutlery on the floor. Cutlery isn’t even a word anymore, Jungkook is almost certain of it, and he’s also almost certain that his legs may never move again, and that he’s been standing here for way too long just staring at this guy. This really, really attractive guy. With skin that should be sickly pale, but suits him perfectly; eyes that should be plain, simple tools for sight but Jungkook swears that he is wrapped around himself and sinking within them.
He’s staring. Is he breathing? He’s not breathing.
“I’ll get that for you.” Jungkook rushes, breathless.
The guy smiles, genuine, in place of thanks, and Jungkook has never been so quick back to the cutlery station in all his fifty-four hours of working here.
As he approaches the rickety trolley, everything around him drowns out. The mumble of customers becomes quiet in the same regard as a waterfall. His mind, hyper focused on the cutlery bucket, races like a projector displaying blank slides. He doesn’t even realise someone’s saying his name until they say it twice.
“Jungkook!” Josie says again. Jungkook turns to her hoping he doesn’t look as alarmed as he feels. His hand is paused halfway into the bucket. He watches Josie bend a little to reach the middle shelf of the trolley.
“Matt said he needed you on till.” She says, as she grabs a dirty mug and balances it precariously on a dirty plate. Jungkook swallows, both because his throat is dry, and because that view scares him.
“Okay.” He replies, holding the napkin-wrapped utensils in an iron grip. She focuses on her game of crockery jenga without looking up at him.
“It’s urgent, there’s a queue of like, seven hundred people, and he’s alone.”
Jungkook looks towards the front of the building, and sure enough there’s a steady line of around fifteen customers waiting out the front door. He can’t see the cash register or Matt behind it from the steep angle of the wall, but he can’t hear the coffee machine either, which means he’s definitely held up with something. Jungkook’s heart rate picks up a little and his body kicks into gear like it's a reflex to go and help, but a rope tied around his waist stops him from moving. It pulls from the garden.
“I need to take this to table ten,” he says, apologetic, in a quiet voice.
“I’ll do it.” Josie says, juggling her tower to hold a hand out.
She’s young, barely seventeen, with only three more shifts of experience than Jungkook. While she’s a volunteer, so she can’t work behind the bar, she’s a quick learner, if a little ambitious. Jungkook knows she can probably both balance an arm of dishwasher fuel and place cutlery on a table (probably better than Jungkook and his shakes could at this point.) He has no reason to doubt her. But still, his hand won’t travel the few inches to drop it’s load in hers.
He wants to go himself, like a kid to a candy shop. He just had a two minute interaction in which he made the biggest fool out of himself to a stranger ever, probably, and instead of running away he wants to run straight back into the storm and let it blight him. He wants to go and apologise properly, make a good, calm, cool, suave impression the second time around. He wants to make the guy laugh and ask Jungkook for his name. He wants to ask him where he’s from, where exactly his Korean accent places his family, why he moved his table out of the light, what brought him here today—
“Quick!” Josie says, raising her eyebrows into her blocked fringe. She waves her free hand from side to side. The plates clunk melodically against each other in time with her swaying ponytail. Jungkook thinks of sun and shade.
He cuts himself short, like an adult, stops giving his brain room to breathe. Jungkook quite literally shakes the thoughts out of his head and places the cutlery in Josie’s hand. She clutches it hard and steps past him, way too fast for someone who needs to be so careful, and he focuses his horizon on where he’s actually wanted.
The rush doesn’t die down for another hour, fast paced order taking and relaying until the clouds cover the sun, and the pavement bathes in shadows. While Jungkook forgets with every other order, in the moments he remembers he tries to keep his best eye out for a last look. He gives every body that leaves a lingering gaze, pretending it’s simple curiosity, harmless people watching.
Alas, for all his stares, Jungkook doesn’t see him leave.