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He stuffs the envelope into his pocket, makes his way towards the little dish at the door, grabs his keys, and heads out.
He bumps into a few drunk office workers on the way to the train station, but the streets are otherwise deserted. It’s a temperate, unremarkable August night, still warm enough for the air conditioning in the subway car to send a chill down his spine when he steps in. The train headed towards town is empty, the rows of seats left open something the regular of peak period commutes isn’t used to seeing.
He alights a few stops before the heart of town, at a station that’s a little dirty and run-down. With quick steps, he’s at street level again. He walks briskly, but not hurriedly, until he just passes a little chalkboard.
On it, ‘Funiculi Funicula’ is handwritten in white swirling chalk script, below that ‘Coffee and Pastries Downstairs’ in smaller, slightly lopsided text. A light layer of dust coats the hinges of the sun-bleached easel.
When he pushes open the glass door to the cafe, the twinkling chimes above announce his arrival to the room. The dim lighting fills his vision with sepia hues, a refreshing change from the fluorescent train cabins and streetlights.
“Welcome!” The broad, towering man at the counter says with a hospitable smile. He’s half-hidden as he peers over his awkward posture, bent behind the too-short coffee machine. It doesn’t take long, however, for his smile to fade, as his eyes track the customer’s movement.
The tall, thin man walks with his chin raised slightly. He doesn’t look around the room as most first-time customers do, eyes flicking in indecision between the booth, table, and bar seats. His eyes are set on the table at the furthest corner of the cafe, and with long strides, it’s in no time that he’s settling down on the chair, legs crossed.
“Minghao,” The man at the counter calls out quietly. He makes eye contact with his partner in the kitchen, out of view from the customers, and then gestures with his chin to the new customer.
Minghao’s eyes widen slightly, as if communicating an “Are you sure?”. He stands, stretches, and tightens the apron around his waist before he leaves the kitchen, moving towards the only occupied table in the cafe. It takes only a few steps from the counter for him to recognise the man sitting in the seat, arms folded on the table, looking at nothing in particular.
“Wonwoo-hyung. It’s been a while,” Minghao greets with a small bow and a tight-lipped smile.
“Hi, Minghao-ya. This is the table, right?” Wonwoo asks with a polite nod back.
His question contains no context, but Minghao knows exactly what he’s asking about.
“Yeah. The rules...” Minghao responds, his sentence too unfinished, but perfectly understood.
Wonwoo adjusts his glasses and looks back down on the table, the rules surfacing from his memory.
“I can go into the past or future, but I must leave before the coffee goes cold. I cannot leave my seat or else I will be sent back to the present. I can give items to and receive items from people in the past and future,” Wonwoo enumerates without being prompted, and then pauses.
He looks up at Minghao with a wry smile before continuing with the last, the most critical rule.
“Nothing I do in that window of the past or future will affect the present.”
Minghao’s gut twists, and he has to get away.
“I’ll get the coffee prepared,” he says quietly with a turn before disappearing back into the kitchen.
The man at the counter, who had been watching the entire exchange silently, coffee machine ignored, shuffles into the kitchen as well, leaning on the doorframe.
“He looks familiar, you know him?”
“I suppose I could call him an old friend. He used to be a regular,” Minghao replies, reaching for the carafe tucked in the lowest drawer.
“Used to?” Mingyu says, stepping into the kitchen fully.
Minghao pauses in the middle of rinsing out the carafe, and the only sound for a moment in the kitchen is of the rushing water drumming against the metal sink.
“Oh, I— I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to answer that,” Mingyu quickly follows up, a concerned hand on the small of Minghao’s back.
“No, no. I was just thinking about something for a moment. But I think you should ask him instead. He might tell you,” Minghao finally says, barely audible over the running tap. He leaves a kiss on Mingyu’s cheek, and then exits the kitchen, grabbing a tray on the way.
Minghao sets the carafe under the coffee machine and presses a button. The coffee flows in an unending column, slowly filling the vessel. Minghao looks back at Wonwoo, who has taken a book from one of the cafe’s shelves. He thumbs through the pages, but Minghao knows he’s not reading it. There’s no furrowed brow, no absentminded fingers at his mouth. It’s a blank, empty stare at the text, and Minghao wishes he didn’t know that.
A sharp beep from the coffee machine alerts Minghao to the now half-full carafe. He quickly transports it to the tray with a cup, walking towards Wonwoo without losing a second. Before he’s anywhere near the table, Wonwoo’s already clearing space on the table, book and wallet placed aside. The expectation is clear in his expression, pursed lips and gaze following Minghao’s hand as the coffee cup is placed on the table, followed by the red-tipped stirrer.
“It’s the alarm. It’ll beep when you have 10 seconds left,” Minghao answers the wordless question.
Minghao usually repeats the rules again at this point, but today this is replaced with a tacit glance at Wonwoo, who speaks decidedly.
“Three years ago. 7 August 202X. Just before 3pm.”
The stream of coffee is poured from the thin spout of the carafe into the coffee cup, and the steam that rises from the cup disappears into thin air. As does Wonwoo, whose presence becomes vapour.
Minghao gingerly places the carafe back on the table. His roughly wipes his trembling hands on his apron before he’s sure he can walk back to the counter without shattering anything on the way.
Wonwoo feels the world melting away with the shimmering steam. As his consciousness fades, there’s a familiar pull at his heart, of anticipation and eagerness, feelings he didn’t realise he missed so much.
When he comes to, the cafe is busier as it usually is in the afternoon. Light chatter from the other tables fill the air, and he turns around to soak in the ambiance, until a familiar head instinctively drops his heart to his stomach.
Wonwoo takes a deep breath, remembers that the man sitting there is not the same man from the present, and has to muster all the courage he can to call out for him. The acute awareness of his limited time fuels his every move, replaces his senses with impulse, and when the man finally turns around, a smile lighting up his face, he remembers why he came.
“Hyung! I didn’t see you there, didn’t you say you were caught up in something?” Chan says, as he moves from his seat to the one facing Wonwoo, settling into the chair.
“Oh. Yeah, well, it finished a lot earlier than expected. I forgot to tell you,” Wonwoo says, shaky at first, as his hand reaches tentatively across the table.
Chan’s hand immediately meets his in the middle and laces their fingers together like it’s second nature, his voice lilting and so normal when he comments on the coffee Wonwoo’s ordered. He asks if he’s going to get a pastry to go with it, and raises his hand to call for the waiter. Wonwoo’s wished for this for so long, spent countless nights imagining how he’d go back in time and now that he’s done it, it’s agony.
He touches the cup, relieved to find it still scalding hot.
“What can I get for you guys?” Minghao’s the only one manning the cafe today, and Wonwoo’s glad that his partner isn’t here right now. God knows how he would have reacted to see a man materialising from thin air.
Chan makes his order, the lemon pastry, and Wonwoo asks for the strawberry tart.
When Wonwoo turns back, it’s like he’s back on their first date, and he can’t maintain eye contact with Chan’s smiling eyes. They’re bright, and they’re feel like they’re boring holes into him. He knows he should say something, but there’s a dozen different things that every part of his heart wants to say- I want you, I miss you, I wish you were here; none of which make much sense for the casual Tuesday afternoon date he should be on.
“So, you came from the future, huh,” Chan casually says, and the blood in Wonwoo’s veins turns to ice.
It’s at that moment that Minghao comes back to the table with their food. Wonwoo has to grapple with most of his grand plan collapsing before his eyes as Chan nonchalantly tears at his puff pastry, eyes still fixed on Wonwoo for a response as he lifts his fork to his mouth.
“...Okay. You got me.” Wonwoo admits. There’s no lying to Chan once he figures out a situation, and this is no different. Chan’s smile stretches even bigger, seemingly satisfied.
“You travelled through time just to go on a date with me. That’s pretty flattering.” Chan says, as he offers Wonwoo a bite of the puff which he accepts, of course. It tastes better without bile in his mouth.
“Well,” Wonwoo begins after swallowing, and he makes sure to choose his words carefully, “I missed you. A lot. And I didn’t really have another way of meeting you like this.” He lifts their interconnected hands and leans his face on Chan’s hand. It’s so warm, and the moment has never felt more vivid, more real.
“Well, I’m glad I get to meet you here. Did I die? In the future?”
Chan asks the morbid question while pushing Wonwoo’s fringe out of his eyes, and the words come as easily as a “How was your day?”.
“No. God, no. You’re not dead,” Wonwoo chokes.
“Mmm... Missing?” Chan tries.
He twirls his fork in the air for a bit before he comes to his final conclusion, his eyes sparkling, "Car accident."
“There’s no horrific tragedy, Chan, don’t curse yourself,” Wonwoo says in a gentle rebuke. But really, he’d missed the dark jokes, told with the most saccharine smile, and he hides his own quirking lips behind the coffee cup.
It’s clear from Chan’s scrunched nose, eyes moving side to side with every slow chew that he’s not letting this go until he figures out his own fate.
“You know that time you were telling me about that dance company in America?” Wonwoo says, and Chan’s eyes widen.
“No way,” Chan lifts a hand to his mouth, “No fucking way.”
“I actually told you– well, future you this plan to meet you because it’s been hard for you to get a chance to come back. He thought it was ingenious,” Wonwoo says.
There’s an acridness in his mouth that doesn’t go away even with swills of the aromatic coffee as he utters the word “future you”. It surprises him too, how easily the conversation flows even as he spins lie after lie. He doesn’t know a future Chan, let alone have an amazing long-distance relationship with him, but Chan doesn’t have to know that, and neither does he in this world.
He keeps the golden rule at the back of his mind, that this will not affect the future, well, his present, in any way. It’s the line he knows people despair at the most, but he finds it more a comforting mantra. Like a good film or game, it sinks his time into a limbo, gives him a sandbox to try again and again.
Except, he’s reminded that he doesn’t have a second try at this when he takes the next sip of the coffee and it’s significantly cooler. He tries not to let the grimace slip, but yet again, Chan is too sharp for him.
“How long more do you think you have?” He diverges from the topic of conversation to ask, concerned.
“Maybe a couple minutes,” Wonwoo says. If I’m lucky, he thinks, but doesn’t append that on his answer.
“Wow, time passes so fast,” Chan comments, pursing his lips, “Though I bet you’d want it to go faster so that I’d return faster too, right?”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Except you are,” Chan says, and Wonwoo’s confused.
“Except I what?”
“You’re not a bad liar by any means, hyung, but you can’t lie to someone about their own life, you know,” Chan’s smile is uneasy now, and Wonwoo gulps.
As Chan speaks, it’s as if the cafe goes silent around him. The comfortable buzz of chatter a distance away is gone, and every word Chan enunciates is a kick to the gut.
Wonwoo tries to speak, but he finds his throat closing, blocked by the lump his words can’t eke through.
“I never wanted that job because I knew you couldn’t leave your position. I would have never gone if you didn’t too,” Chan says. He folds his hands in front of him, leans forward.
“Tell me. Did I die?”
The perpetual nonchalant smile is gone, Chan's thin lips precariously settled. Wonwoo can only sit rooted to the chair watching the light die in his boyfriend's eyes.
“No, no, no,” Wonwoo repeats, but it’s futile. There’s also no swaying Chan when he thinks he’s got the answer. The younger man pushes his plate forward and takes another deep breath. The half bitten pastry on the plate falls apart.
“There’s no— There’s no other reason why you would need to come all the way from the future just to see me. You don’t even look too different, so it’s like, what, a couple years I have left?”
There’s a wan, shaky smile that accompanies the words.
“And... and I think, normally, I’d be pissed. That you come here just to tell me that I’m going to die. That you’ve cursed me with this knowledge that I don’t need. But I can only be angry for how long, compared to you having to— be without me. Because I don’t know how I’d live without you.”
The way Chan tinged his words with unnecessary melodrama often made him the butt of people’s jokes, but Wonwoo thought it admirable instead. It was unique, the honesty and sincerity that he pieced his words together with. Other couples had their repetitious “I love you’s”; Chan had spontaneous “I don’t know how I’d live without you” moments.
Wonwoo wanted to think that he had a plan when he pushed open the doors of Funiculi Funicula. But he knew he didn’t, really. He just wanted to see Chan again. He remains silent, unsure of how to respond to Chan, how to face the fact that he had one chance at this and he’d fucked it up and given his boyfriend an existential crisis in the process all because he couldn’t tell the truth. Out of nervousness, he picks up the cup again only to see a residual little pool of coffee left. He’s really out of time now.
He calms himself with the tiniest sip possible, and repeats mentally the rules of the cafe again. He repeats the last rule a few more times.
“I know it’s selfish of me to come here, like I’m the grim reaper or something. I just don’t know—” Wonwoo says, before he is cut off by the loud slide of Chan’s chair against the floor. He looks up, sees Chan standing, looming over him and it’s almost like the last time all over again. The difference is that this time, Chan leans down and Wonwoo moves his head forward, closes his eyes, and savours that taste. Its barely a second before the stirrer starts beeping, and Chan pulls away, but this time Wonwoo speaks over him.
“5 seconds more, I can make it back in time.”
He threads his hands through Chan’s hair like it is the only thing that grounds him to this reality, to commit to false memory his lips and skin. Chan inches down and nips hard into his neck. Wonwoo leans in and gives himself three extra seconds. He has to.
The countdown runs out, as all things do, and he lets go, breathless. He had tuned out the stirrer’s beeping, but it returns again, even more insistent, the pitch going higher and higher.
He grabs the cup, a hand still resting on Chan’s shoulder, and finishes the liquid. Chan’s eyes follow his movement, and Wonwoo sees the emotions flicker through his face. There are flashes of sadness and shock, even clearer is the helplessness is his eyes. Most of all, he sees himself in a mirror reflected three years late.
The sensation of pins-and-needles takes over quickly before his vision blurs and he falls into unconsciousness.
When Wonwoo awakens, the taste of cool, bitter, coffee is all that remains. No one sits opposite him, and the table is empty save for his belongings and the coffee cup. He stands, takes his things, and walks to the counter. Mingyu’s unsubtle gaze weighs on him even as the distance between them closes.
“That would be 5000 won, please.”
He takes out a bill and slides it across. Mingyu receives it with a small bow and presses a few buttons on the register. The receipt churns out, and the broad man tears it out of the machine deftly. Holding it in his hand, he pauses.
“Are you, um, doing alright? You used to come here a lot, right? I remember seeing you a couple times when I first started out here.” The part where Wonwoo disappears from the list of regulars is left unsaid.
“Yeah, I think I will be,” Wonwoo says, “Will you throw this away for me?”
He fishes the envelope from his pocket, in it the card he took all the way from home, and slides it across the counter.
“Oh, of course. Here’s your receipt, and thank you for visiting!” Mingyu takes the envelope and hands over the receipt, slightly taken aback from the sudden request.
The man walks out the same way he walked in, decisive steps taking him out of the door, up the stairs.
Perhaps he’s a fool, he thinks with every step, for going back into the past just to meet a lover. He’s squandered the singular chance he got to bend all the rules of human existence on his romantic affairs. But there’s a feeling of calm throughout him, and not a bit of regret.
On the walk back, Wonwoo feels like he can breathe again. The temperature feels a little colder, and the announcements that blare at the train station sound a little louder. He steps into the subway carriage to find it empty, and he picks a random seat to slouch into.
When he licks his lips, even the barest hint of coffee is gone. He entertains the thought that the café and its time travel concept is all a simulation, a product of some high-tech brain reading, hallucination inducing drug they put in the coffee to make you dream about whoever you want to see. Still, when he opens his phone camera and takes a peek at his neck, the ruddy bruise is clear as day.
He touches it, and it hurts a little, but it’s not too bad.
It’s not long before the chime for his stop sounds and he gets up to leave the carriage, to an unmanned, desolate station. There’s no imagined boyfriend leaning his head onto him left in the train, no imagined hands entwined with his going up the steps of the station, and certainly no one in the house when he opens the door.
It all hurts a little, but it’s alright.
When he climbs into bed, it feels just right for the first time. He watches the LED clock at his bedside tick away until reaches midnight. It blinks and flashes 13 October in electric blue. He closes his eyes and lets Chan, real, fake, past, present Chan, go.