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Sungho has been standing outside Gogh Gogh Coffee Company for a while now.
It’s one of his few days off, and he’d asked Junhyung earlier that week if he’d like to grab coffee soon. Junhyung had agreed (didn’t he seem excited?) and even recommended a place they could go. It’d felt so casual then… but Sungho’s never spent quite so much time with him, alone, as they were, and he thinks he’s starting to enjoy it more than he should.
Junhyung is a menace, he decides, heaving a sigh that dances in the frigid air. Junhyung and his dumb pretty eyes and dumb pretty hands and dumb pretty voice. Sungho’s world has been in an increasingly precarious state of disrepair since they started working together and it’s all Junhyung’s fault.
There’s no point in delaying the inevitable, though. He lingers by the door for a moment more, steeling his nerves (and grumbling to himself), then steps inside.
Warm air rushes out to greet him, bringing with it the rich smell of ground coffee and sweet pastries. The cafe is cozy, small, and dim, just barely illuminated by the soft glow of antique light fixtures suspended from the ceiling. Sungho thinks he’s never been to a place so far removed from reality. He notes dark walls covered in chalk scribbled poems and mural paintings, booths decorated in the theme of various Van Gogh works, vintage books tastefully strewn about tabletops and shelves—it’s like a manifestation of Junhyung’s inner world.
It’s like Sungho is invading.
Junhyung sits alone, in a booth painted like A Starry Night, and suddenly it feels like Sungho hasn’t seen Junhyung in years. He lingers by the door, his breath stolen from him, overwhelmed with… adoration? Awe? He can’t quite put his finger on it; something about the way Junhyung’s bangs fall over his eyes and rest gently atop his cheekbones makes his heart stutter. Then Junhyung looks up, and he smiles, and he’s just glowing and Sungho’s smiling back and what is this feeling writhing in his chest, so desperate and wild as it claws its way into his throat?
He tugs on his scarf. He thinks he can’t do this. He slides into the booth, his cheeks burning (from the cold or from nervousness, he can’t tell).
“Have you eaten yet?” Junhyung’s voice is subdued, gentle. He’s still smiling, eyes twinkling, and Sungho doesn't miss how they linger on his lips. “I was going to order for you, but…”
He's feeling a little dizzy. “You know my order?”
Junhyung drops his gaze, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Of course,” he murmurs. “I just wanted to look at the specialty drinks. With you.”
“Oh.” Another wave of warmth floods Sungho’s face (and now he definitely can’t pretend it's from the cold). “Okay.”
A comfortable silence falls over them as they look over the menu. Sungho has always liked how it feels to be around Junhyung; his presence is magnetic. It’s like standing in a thunderstorm, watching lightning flash against purple skies, the air sticky and humid and thrumming with something powerful beyond understanding. Junhyung has his own gravity, an aura so strong Sungho almost feels like he could lose himself in it, trap himself in it, a sailor victim to siren song.
And here Sungho sits. Transfixed. Specialty drinks all but forgotten, his eyes trace the sharp line of Junhyung's jaw, the dip at the base of his throat, the delicate curve of his collarbones as they disappear into his shirt. He's wearing a dark blue button up with the topmost buttons undone, leaving some of his broad chest exposed. His hair stands in stark contrast to his fair complexion, emphasizing his dark eyelashes and peony pink-colored lips.
He’s so beautiful it's almost painful.
“What about the… Cafe At Midnight?” A hand reaches up to tuck stray wisps of hair behind his ear. It comes to rest atop Sungho’s. “How does hazelnut and mocha sound?”
“Very good,” Sungho says weakly, pretending like his body isn't currently kicking into overdrive (it absolutely is). His voice sounds weird. He swallows hard. “Actually, I was looking at the Americano.”
“Ah, hyung,” Junhyung whines (god, he’s whining). “Seriously, you always get the Americano. You can’t come to a new cafe and get the same thing you always get. At least try something new.”
“Hey, maybe they make it differently here.” To be honest, Sungho doesn’t particularly care about the coffee anymore. At some point, Junhyung had, maybe absentmindedly, started tracing flowers on the back of his hand and Sungho is thinking really hard about flipping his hand over.
“All cafes make Americanos the same way. I could make you one at home.”
“Don’t pout,” Sungho teases. “Besides, the vibe wouldn’t be the same.”
Junhyung scoffs. “The vibe.” The imaginary flowers (are they vines now?) snake toward Sungho’s wrist, leaving trails of ambiguous temperature in their wake, somehow ice cold and scalding hot at the same time.
Sungho licks his chapped lips. His mouth is so dry. “This shop has a romantic vibe, don't you think?” Too forward. He’s being so obvious. When did it get so hot in here? He watches Junhyung’s mouth as it moves, lips curving around the sounds of the words he can’t hear. It looks like Junhyung put on lipgloss today.
“Hyung?”
It burns where Junhyung’s fingers drag along his skin, slowly, slowly, and slower still. It’s maddening. Sungho thinks he might lose his mind (he might have already). Junhyung is looking at him—no, looking through him, gazing directly into him, but Sungho’s brain is short-circuiting and their fingers are interlacing and he’s feeling very much like a live wire, exposed to the elements, just seconds away from bursting into flame, and who is breathing so raggedly? Is that him?
“Hyung.” Junhyung sounds concerned now.
Sungho can’t get enough air. “Yes?”
“Is this—Are you okay?”
An innocent question that feels too forward. Is it innocent? Sungho can feel Junhyung’s eyes and he doesn’t know if he should think it’s innocent. He doesn’t dare look up, his heart thundering against his ribcage. He wonders if Junhyung can feel his heartbeat, how hot his skin is, the tension that radiates off of him in waves, a tsunami of emotion he can’t describe. He thinks he really can’t do this.
“I’m sorry,” Junhyung says, suddenly retracting his hand. He starts to reach forward, then he pulls away, like he can't decide if he wants to comfort Sungho or give him space (touch him, please, calm the thrashing in his chest).
“No!” Sungho blurts, a little too forcefully. He clears his throat. “Um, I liked it.”
Doubtful eyes regard him carefully. “You looked about ten seconds from passing out.”
“I probably was,” Sungho admits. “But I was just processing!”
This answer doesn't placate Junhyung. He looks like a cross between a kicked puppy and a concerned mother and Sungho feels the wild thing in his chest finally break. A strange warmth blossoms in its place, unraveling and unfolding like a flower made of silk.
“Will you please hold my hand?” Sungho pleads, voice barely above a whisper. He smiles a small, soft kind of smile, a desperate kind of smile, his world one well-aimed paper ball away from total ruination. He doesn't think he would mind rebuilding one with Junhyung.
Slowly, slowly, and slower still, their fingers interlace once more.