Chapter Text
The dream starts off nicely enough.
There’s a calm, a serenity, as two individuals lay in each other’s arms. Seoho sighs; he thinks he would enjoy being held and cuddled like this. There are strong arms wrapped around him; a comforting joy that lifts him up. He feels cherished, adored. Geonhak chuckles, the deep baritone of his voice sending aftershocks down Seoho’s spine.
This is bliss, he thinks.
He only has time enough to burrow deeper into the broad expanse of Geonhak’s chest before something in his brain sets off. It’s like dynamite, a chain reaction of explosions that shatters him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Dream Geonhak snarls, “Who do you think you are, imagining me like this?”
Seoho shivers.
“You’re an idiot,” and this whisper of Geonhak’s voice is ever so familiar.
“Who would want this?” the echo.
“Who would want you?” a sinister follow up.
And Seoho’s alarm goes off. His room is still dark, despite the glimmer of light that peaks through his curtains. There’s sweat on Seoho’s brow, but he lays motionless under his blankets.
It’s another morning, another chance for fallout from his dreams.
Another morning alone in a bed that always feels too large for one body.
Another morning where he faces the reality that Geonhak isn’t his.
Another morning to recognize that Geonhak would never be his.
Another morning to drown in the shame that his own desire brings.
It’s 6:45 in the morning.
Seoho drags himself to the cafe early, if only to give himself some reprieve from the heartbreak of the previous night’s dream. He walks slowly, taking in the crisp autumn air as he makes his way down the quiet street. He doesn’t know who to thank for the silence, but he is thankful nonetheless. The cool breeze helps clear out his mind, which is jumbled from all his brain conjured up while he was trapped in the sanctity of sleep.
It had all felt so real, a blessing and a curse when it comes to dreams, really. Just lying in Geonhak’s arms, just the domesticity of safety of the action, had both placated Seoho and put him on edge. It’s not as if he’s unaware of what Geonhak’s embrace feels like; they’ve hugged before, plenty of times, and that’s how Seoho knows exactly how Geonhak’s chest curls over his smaller frame, and knows how smooth his hands could be over the protection of a thin shirt.
With leaves starting to fall off the trees surrounding the path, Seoho has to remind himself that it’s all just a fabrication of his mind. Geonhak is not about to throw everything he’s built away just to fulfill some fantasy that his subconscious has cooked up. He’s not about to give up the happiness that he’s carefully curated over the years just to satiate Seoho’s desires.
No.
Seoho knows that their friendship will remain stagnant and rock solid, just as it had in the near-decade since Seoho had graduated high school. He has to remind himself to be satisfied with just that.
He reaches the cafe, nestled between the path and the river, under the shade of trees. He had always wanted to bring his friends - Geonhak - there, but Seoho found something gratifying about keeping a secret like this. A small secret. A secret that wouldn’t shatter his friendships and the foundations of his world.
The bell on the door jingles, a pleasing noise that breaks the silence cocooning the building. Seoho smiles up at the barista, the same one every morning since Seoho moved to the area, and notices that there’s a trainee. The stranger grins widely, and he wonders how long it will take for that false, customer-service sincerity to crack under the stressors of dealing with the public.
At the very least, Seoho can take pride in the fact that whomever ruins the newbie’s day, it won’t be him.
“Hey, Seoho,” the regular barista calls, “The usual?”
Seoho laughs a bit, nods, and the trainee starts setting up the machine to pay. Seoho notices the nametag, and grimaces a bit when he reads the name ‘Keonhee’ written in electric blue ink on the white plastic.
Keonhee.
He waves his phone over the screen, places it back in his wallet when he hears the resounding ‘ding’ from his wallet app letting him know his payment was successful.
Keonhee.
He thanks the newbie, who grins back with the confidence and exuberance of a man unaware of what his name is doing to Seoho.
Keonhee.
He stands off to the side and the trainee joins the usual barista in learning how to make Seoho’s order. It’s not something off the menu, so it’s likely that the new barista - Keonhee - will never have to make it for anyone else.
It’s a large hot chocolate with a shot of espresso in it. Seoho has done his research, has learned that he gets the most energy when his caffeine is mixed with more sugar than is necessarily advised. There’s a bit of caffeine in the chocolate too, so really it’s the best of both worlds. He watches as Keonhee swirls whipped cream from a canister to the top of the drink, carefully as if not to further disrupt Seoho’s mood. Chocolate flakes are sprinkled as garnish, and Keonhee places the lid on top with as much reverence as a king being crowned.
“Here you are,” Keonhee’s voice rips through any semblance of peace that Seoho could still be feeling. Seoho takes the warm drink from his outstretched hand.
“You seem extra tired this morning, Seoho,” the regular barista laughs from behind the counter. Seoho wishes he had taken the time to memorize his name before he took off his nametag for good. “Bad sleep?”
Carefully sipping his drink, Keonhee’s eyes widened in some sort of coffee-related prayer, Seoho formulates a smile and hope it works, “Just weird dreams, is all,”
“Oh, oh, oh,” the trainee must stand up on the balls of his feet because he suddenly grows an inch or so taller, “My grandmother always told me that the dreams you remember are an omen of what’s to come,”
Seoho feels his mood dropping, and the other barista sighs the most suffering sigh Seoho thinks he’s heard since high school, “Keonhee, I know I told you that making small talk is acceptable but try not to tell the customers about the weird and unwarranted things your grandmother has told you,”
Seoho raises his hand, a polite gesture of thanks and farewell, and rushes out the door. What he does not need is someone named ‘Keonhee’ telling him his dream is an omen of what is to come. He hopes that he never has to see the new barista ever again, in fact.
Keonhee.
What kind of cruel twist of fate is it that the new barista is not only telling him that his dreams can come true, but that his name is only a letter off of Geonhak’s younger brother’s name? Whomever or whatever is out there, Seoho is no longer thanking he, her, they, or it for any blissful silence ever again. He won’t be mocked by the universe like this.
They meet when Seoho is sixteen and Geonhak is fifteen. Seoho is in grade eleven, Geonhak in grade ten.
The school has implemented a new policy that only twelfth graders can have spare blocks, and so Seoho is left being forced into tenth grade drama class because it’s the only elective that fits into his schedule. He had tried to plead and reason with administration that they should let him shuffle things around so he can get both grade eleven biology and physics completed within the first semester, but he is repeatedly assured that they won’t be able to finagle his schedule in that way.
And that’s how Seoho finds himself sitting next to a scrawny, teenaged Geonhak and a friendship is formed. They laugh at the idiocy of their classmates, suffer in their shared embarrassment while reading scripts. They don’t learn much about drama and theatre arts, but they do learn lots about each other, and how compatible they are as a pair.
Their friendship lasts even after Seoho graduates the year ahead of Geonhak, and struggles through his first year of university.
Their friendship lasts as Seoho coaches Geonhak into using more effective study habits when the younger joins him in the hell that is post secondary education.
Their friendship lasts (and expands) when there’s a mistake made in administration and Seoho ends up with a particularly short freshman named Hwanwoong as a roommate. Despite the age difference, they find that camaraderie comes naturally to them, and Geonhak and Hwanwoong bond over a shared interest in dance.
Their friendship circle grows when Hwanwoong starts dating a fourth year student named Youngjo (the details on how they met is a little murky, even to Seoho who knows everything there is to know since Hwanwoong has no secrets after even a sip of a lemonade cooler. All Seoho knows for sure is that a dating app was not involved).
It grows further the next year when Geonhak hooks up with a freshman, grows attached, and ends up with Dongju as a boyfriend.
By that point Seoho knew for sure that he was in love, but he’s already started wondering if he was in love with the scrawny teenager who looked lost in a high school drama course.
He dreams about Geonhak most nights; it’s certainly not voluntary and he wishes that he didn’t have to wake up every morning craving a body that won’t ever be there.
He blames the cortex in his brain for all of this. That’s just a matter of science, after all. He blames his amygdala for being overactive during the REM cycle of sleep. Together they create the context and content that haunts him when he closes his eyes. He blames his frontal lobes for being so inactive during sleep, allowing his subconscious to lose all notion of rationality. He blames his entire limbic system, in fact, for not just letting him be.
As a child, he used to be scared of the shadows that plastered his walls in the darkest hours of night. He knows now that shadows are just the outlines of what light is unable to get past. When he was a child, however, they looked like demons to him. When a cloud passed over the moon or a car drove by on the street outside his window the shadows seemed to him to be moving. They appeared to be creeping closer to him, to consume him.
He would dream of those monsters, then. He would have vibrant dreams of pitch black creatures stalking him, chasing him. His legs were shorter then, and he struggled to outpace them. As a shadowy arm would reach out and graze over his skin, his eyes would shoot open and he would be paralyzed in his bed. Sweat would be slick on his brow, his blankets would feel like weights holding him down. Those nightmares would be the only taste of true terror that Seoho would ever know, blessedly, thankfully.
As a child, he was scared of falling asleep, afraid of the monsters that would stalk him.
Now, as an adult, he’s scared of falling asleep not because of creatures made of shadows, but because he’s being taunted by a forbidden fruit.
Truly, he had always been a vivid dreamer.
Although they’re well out of the university dormitories, Seoho and Hwanwoong continue to live together. They mesh well, and they’re a similar shade of messy that makes cohabitation a breeze. Hwanwoong is a late riser, and relies on Seoho many mornings to make sure he doesn’t miss any appointments. Similarly, Hwanwoong reminds Seoho about the importance of sleep. He coaxes Seoho to bed, forcibly closes textbooks, places his blankets on him.
It’s a form of domesticity that Seoho isn’t sure he deserves some days, but appreciates nonetheless.
Hwanwoong wants Seoho to find a partner, wants him to feel loved, and sets Seoho up on a multitude of dates. Seoho wants to like every one of the boys, he really does. He doesn’t want Hwanwoong’s hard work and care to be wasted on him, and yet it is.
The problem with being perpetually in love with one of your closest friends is that no one else compares. Each boy could have one of the characteristics that makes Geonhak so attractive, but they will never have the full package. They could have that deliciously low voice that sends shivers down his spine, but they’ll be the wrong height, won’t have arms that could crush but choose not to. They could like children, but maybe they don’t like music so much. Maybe they hate dancing but love board game nights.
Seoho’s type has become hyper-specific, and he’s too far deep into his feelings to stop now.
He’s never actually told Hwanwoong about his feelings, but he thinks that his friend knows anyway. The younger boy isn’t blind, and only appears to be unobservant. Seoho has seen him raise an eyebrow when Seoho laughs too hard at one of Geonhak’s jokes, leans in too close when Dongju isn’t around. Just because he hasn’t said anything, doesn’t mean it’s not happening. Seoho often wonders how pathetic he must look to Hwanwoong, clearly craving love and affection but rebuking any opportunity that comes his way.
So, when Hwanwoong announces that he’s bringing a new friend from his dance class to their board game night, accompanied by an incredibly not subtle wink in his direction, Seoho can’t find it in himself to be surprised. His roommate has done this before, and all attempts have failed. Their friend group is inundated with couples and Seoho’s bad jokes, and no newcomer ever stays for long. It’s a shame, really, because he’s really looking forward to the day when he no longer has to fifth-wheel around his friends. Even if the future sixth person is just platonic, Seoho wants someone to sit next to without having to hyperfocus on every subtle touch between the couples (but mostly between Geonhak and Dongju).
What he’s not prepared for is the wide smile he had gotten used to seeing at the cafe, coupled with a name that won’t stop echoing in his ears.
Keonhee is surprisingly genuine and easy to get along with. Seoho learns that the cadence of his laugh comes from his heart, and the smiles he gives at the cafe isn’t plastered on for looks. He wants to make sure people start their day off well. Although being a barista is not a forever career for him, Keonhee is satisfied with where he is at the moment.
When he walks into Geonhak and Dongju’s small apartment and sees Seoho, the grin that follows is nothing short of breathtaking.
“Large hot chocolate with a shot of espresso?” and Seoho can’t help but laugh back. If nothing else, it’s hilarious the way fate works sometimes.
Keonhee is a student of Hwanwoong, learning how to dance for fun in between shifts at the cafe and his hectic school schedule. Hwanwoong had become so platonically enamored with the taller boy that he knew immediately that Keonhee had to become part of their friend group. It’s a surprisingly astute observation on Hwanwoong’s part since Keonhee does seem to be a missing puzzle piece found.
He’s dramatic in the most hilarious of ways, flailing this way and that, and he’s startled by the slightest of sounds. Dongju finds particular sadistic joy in seeing all the different ways Keonhee can jump when something drops next to him. He revels in the - normally overwhelming - affection that Youngjo can dish out, and joins in with Hwanwoong’s sarcastic eye rolls when the eldest goes a little too overboard. Even Geonhak delights in the teasing, because Keonhee is so naturally forgiving that he knows better than to take any of it to heart.
And Seoho? Seoho is surprised to find that he likes having Keonhee around. He’s the missing link, in a sense, to make board game nights less awkward. Instead of being the odd one out, Keonhee meshes so seamlessly that Seoho has someone to sit next to, joke around with; a teammate for when someone brings out a video game.
It’s oddly nice. Seoho knew he wanted someone just to be there next to him, but he didn’t realize how nice the feeling would be. Keonhee is comfortable, he decides.
Going to the cafe in the morning loses its awkwardness as well, as he and Keonhee can joke around while his drink is being made. Sometimes, Keonhee adds a little bit more whipped cream than necessary, and it brightens Seoho’s day.
“Does he?” Hwanwoong asks when Seoho tells him about it.
“Yeah,” he swallows around a rock in his throat that feels out of place, “Just a favour for a friend,”
“Sounds suspicious,”
“He’s my friend and he gives me extra whipped cream sometimes. I don’t see how that could be suspicious,”
“Suit yourself,”
He runs into Dongju on campus one day, and they decide to get lunch. It’s a rare occasion for Seoho and Dongju to be alone together, with all their interactions being due to their mutual connection to Geonhak, but Seoho is happy to sit across the table from the youngest in their group.
Their conversation is slow and unsure; they don’t have much in common. They don’t usually speak to each other much either. Seoho wonders about how much of Dongju he’s missed out on over the years.
There’s some guilt there, bubbling beneath the surface; an understanding within himself that reminds him that he’s never given Dongju a fair chance. He’s never disliked the younger, but he could always feel the anger of losing out on love driving a wedge between them. He never thought that Geonhak and Dongju were a good fit. Geonhak is so mild mannered, only losing his temper when someone goads him a little too much. He spends his days at the gym, prioritizing his health over all else. He wants to be a kindergarten teacher, and his practicum sessions end with him covered in marker and colourful lines.
Dongju is in business school practicing esthetic work on the side. He wants to open a salon one day, and aims to spend his days making people feel as beautiful as they deserve. Even Seoho has to admit that it’s a worthy goal to pursue. The younger understands people better than they understand themselves. Seoho has watched Hwanwoong model for him before, and Dongju could instinctively find the correct colours for the dancer’s eyes, contouring his face seamlessly. It’s a type of art, Dongju always said, and Seoho couldn’t help but agree.
All that doesn’t mean that Dongju and Geonhak are a perfect pair, no matter how many public cuddles and calling each ‘babe’ Seoho endures.
But, perhaps, he should cut Dongju some slack and try .
The younger sips slightly on his strawberry milk, smiles at Seoho, “I’m really happy that Keonhee has joined the group,”
“Me too,”
“The two of you really seem to get along,”
“Yeah, he’s shaping out to be really awesome friend,”
“Friend, yeah,” Dongju swigs back his drink, places the carton on the table as if he’s at the bar, “Listen, I can tell he really makes you happy,”
“Yeah?” Seoho cocks his head, confused, “Like I said, really awesome friend,”
“Right,” Dongju gets up, lets Seoho know that he has to go to class, “It’s nice seeing you happy. You’re always so uptight when we’re all together. He relaxes you. Let him.”
And Seoho watches Dongju walk away, trying to read between the lines that he doesn’t understand.
He has a free morning, so he ends up studying in the cafe. He watches Keonhee work in between reading paragraphs of the genetics paper he’s editing. The taller is serious in his work; his brow furrows as he tries to perfect each mug of latte art for the never ending clientele. The constant bending over seems to make him stiff; Keonhee is always rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side. Being a student probably doesn’t help either, Seoho thinks, and makes a mental note to suggest to his friend that he go to massage college for some cheap relaxation.
The longer he stays, the less he finds he can concentrate on his work. His fingernails tap mindlessly on the side of his laptop, and the metallic noise is a metronome for his procrastination. He tries to focus on the words in front of him, but they make him dizzy and his eyes fall back onto Keonhee. It’s a strange sort of distraction, one that he’s not used to with Keonhee. The only person that distracts him like this is Geonhak, but that’s because his friend is irresistible, perfect, borderline glorious.
He wants to dissect his brain to figure out what’s so captivating about Keonhee at this particular moment.
He chalks it up to being stressed from school.
An hour or two passes, and Seoho has barely made headway on his work and his mug sits empty. He absent mindedly goes to take a sip, only to find that what’s left is chocolate stains on the white porcelain. He wants to ask for another one, but Keonhee seems so busy and hardworking that he can’t bring himself to get out of his seat.
The decision is made for him, out of his control.
“It’s my breaktime,” Keonhee’s voice is liting, sweet, full of energy, “Want me to make you another one of those in fifteen minutes when I have to go back?”
Seoho looks up from his work, shocked to see Keonhee sitting across from him at the table. Had he noticed him staring? Was he freaked out by it? Would he gossip about Seoho’s creepiness later with Hwanwoong?
“Yeah, I’d love another one,” is what he manages to say. Keonhee grins at him, effortlessly and beautifully. Seoho blames his medial prefrontal cortex for focusing on the details that remind him that Keonhee is naturally pretty. They talk for a few minutes, Keonhee asking questions about what Seoho is working on that day. He stumbles out his answers.
Fifteen minutes pass, and Keonhee taps Seoho’s calf with his foot, “I have to go. I’ll make you your drink super quick,” His eagerness is blinding, and Seoho can only blink and smile in response.
Soon enough, Seoho has another large hot chocolate with a shot of espresso sitting in front of him, and the heat numbs his brain momentarily from the thoughts that have started racing through his mind.
The dream starts off nicely enough.
There’s a calm, a serenity, as two individuals lay in each other’s arms. Seoho sighs; he thinks he would enjoy being held and cuddled like this. There are strong arms wrapped around him; a comforting joy that lifts him up. He feels cherished, adored. Keonhee laughs, sharp and loud, and it travels down Seoho’s spine in a pleasant tingle.
This is bliss, he thinks.
He only has time enough to burrow deeper into the deep chasm of the junction between Keonhee’s neck and shoulder before something in his brain sets off. It’s like dynamite, a chain reaction of explosions that shatters him.
“When did you start imagining this?” Keonhee’s voice is light, inquisitive.
Seoho shivers.
“When did you start thinking of me this way?” And the voice is not unkind, yet goosebumps raise on Seoho’s arms.
“When did you start wanting this?”
“When did you start wanting me?”
And Seoho’s alarm goes off. His room is still dark, despite the glimmer of light that peaks through his curtains. There’s sweat on Seoho’s brow, but he lays motionless under his blankets.
It’s another morning, another chance for fallout from his dreams.
Another morning alone in a bed that always feels too large for one body.
Yet, it’s a new morning to start wondering when he stopped wanting Geonhak.
Yet, it’s a new morning to recognize that he doesn’t want Geonhak to be his.
A new morning to drown in the confusion that his own desire brings.
It’s 6:45 in the morning.
He doesn’t know who the fuck he is anymore.