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The human body is weird.
For instance, you’re walking but you don’t fully realize that you are, you aren’t conscious of it. You just suddenly are when—say, the bed and its springs creak when you decide to roll out of it and plod towards the fridge, and only for it to be a showcase of barely anything edible. A piece of cake that has been sitting in a Tupperware for two weeks (not yours), a teared-open chocolate bar (again, not yours), and bottles of soju that an auntie bought for New Year’s countdown even if it’s still weeks away.
That’s that. The usual, the everyday. It also happens to be almost in the middle of the night and the people that you live with are sensitive ears within thin walls in an old building, so that throws out any chance for you to cook.
Here’s the third option then: you go outside. Once you’re outside, you realize that you don’t have to tiptoe anymore. The sound of your flip-flops on concrete is replaced by muted steps on padded streets and winter air embraces you in a distinct comfort as you walk and walk until you’re pushing open a door into checking off things in your itinerary of a high ceiling and short rows of aisles. You already have what you want in mind, that’s that. The routine, the habitual.
Pick someone, anyone and ask the one thing about an en-route schedule. They’ll say that it’s autopilot. It just comes naturally. When a trivial thing such as routine falls in seamlessly in your life as where the skies begin and end, you’d be damned not to follow it, too. So it kind of flies over your head—flies over Sunwoo’s head when he fishes crumpled wons out of the depth of his jacket, expecting the least out of a usual night. But when he looks up, what he gets isn’t some old man in his early sixties, smelling of tobacco, and loves the generational mart like it’s the reason to wake up every morning and conquer the world as it spins.
Sunwoo gets...He gets some guy around his age who is currently saying the total of his things. Who’s too bright under harsh lights, too put-together to be here. And who doesn’t make any sense when out of nowhere, the blanched, yellow-ish color of a worn vest looks better than it actually is.
He hands over the money, suddenly hyperaware and paying too close of an attention of how unkempt he must look: slipped-on flip-flops, a padded jacket over his sleepwear, idly combed bed hair, drizzles of snow all over him probably. For some reason, those aren’t enough to stop his mouth from running.
“I could’ve sworn the usual guy was—” not in the possession of a nice smile “—at least a head taller.”
Smooth, Sunwoo. Smooth.
Every night, he gets a carton of cold milk from the display fridge and a cup of ramen from the instant food aisle. Every night, the old man would heave a breath as he shakes his head at what’s sitting on the cashier counter, and Sunwoo wouldn’t have the heart to grumble that the stick of cigarette caught between wrinkles and sagging lips is a reason enough not to comment on his choice of refreshments.
This night, predictably enough, Sunwoo gets a face of a deer caught in headlights. Watch the same movie one too many times and you’ll be able to catch things before they happen. He talks to someone and it usually goes: he says what he says, they’ll either be taken aback, maybe even be charitable and laugh it off; or, they’ll laugh it off, tapering into a reason of having somewhere to be.
The unpredictability comes in right after. The guy’s smile widens. While he’s not showing teeth, it’s certainly showing the highs of his cheeks that Sunwoo shouldn’t find cute. But he does. They’re absolutely adorable.
“The usual guy is sleeping upstairs. If you listen close enough, you can hear him snore,” the guy breezily replies. “I’m the new guy.” He taps on the pin on his vest, cheap plastic glistening under glares. “Haknyeon.”
Routine is squinting hard when you first walk in because the place that you live in thrives in the dark and dim lights. It’s sitting at the eat-in, adjacent to a rack of old and new magazines, sipping on a carton of milk while waiting for the ramen to soften. Routine is idly swaying in your seat and trying not to get caught up in your head when you go outside for a breather in the first place.
Sunwoo always gets a clear view of the cashier counter like this. Some trot music that was once golden in its age has turned into a bronze of remembrance, playing through a CD player and accompanied speakers that are set up somewhere in the mart.
(Every night, the old man would grunt at him and tell him to face outside like he’s a kid on time out.)
(This night, he gets a clear view of—Haknyeon.)
The guy hums along to the song, looking out the windows. He must be totally aware of Sunwoo’s fleeting gaze because when he acknowledges it and their eyes hold each other in arching brows, his lips curl and the song mellows into soft timbres along with his voice. He sings to the tune, “You’re not that tall yourself, stranger.”
Because Sunwoo is an awkward mesh of pettiness and dignity, long limbs and unflattering postures, and the addition of trying not to making a fool out of himself in front of a cute guy, he simply coughs out a scoff. Turns towards the table to find his ramen mushy and dry.
Pick someone, pick Youngjae for instance. Few cities away, a chatroom that’s long left untouched. He would say that Sunwoo is absolutely stupid with the most encouraging smile someone could have.
—
A week later, Sunwoo receives a question that’s thrown into the shabby renovation of his routine. “So how come you haven’t told me your name yet?”
Not really thinking much of it, he answers with, “The element of mystery of a handsome stranger would be rendered useless.”
On the contrary, what he just said is the one being rendered useless. Haknyeon doesn’t seem fazed by it. He looks amused though, shaking his head, a smile desperately tugging at the corners of his lips as he jots down numbers on a ledger. The old man is old-fashioned like that. Even his handwriting looks nice to Sunwoo: the sharp edges and connected lines that shouldn’t be there; hard to decipher for someone who isn’t familiar with their language.
Continuing on to write, Haknyeon says, “Okay, handsome stranger, tell me your name. I don’t want to keep referring to you as ‘the not-so-tall guy who comes in to eat cup ramen five times a week’ in my head, that’s too mouthful.”
A quick Google-search would tell you that the weakest muscle that a human can have is the one inside your ear. But facts aren’t important and Sunwoo’s opinionated enough in letting the muscles of his mouth be the feeblest ones known to men. Nobody and nothing can convince him otherwise, not even Google. Call him dumb, call him a—an airhead, but to some defensive extent, he makes sure to have slipped on some actual shoes from that night and onwards.
Sunwoo smiles down at the top of Haknyeon’s head. “You refer to me often in your head?”
“I don’t exactly have a wide range of choices here,” Haknyeon reasons, though one might say that he’s teasing by the lilt of his tone. “You’re my fifteen minutes of actual company.”
“That’s actually so sad,” Sunwoo says, enunciating the last two words. “Working retail isn’t as much fun as you thought it’d be?”
Haknyeon hums. “My shift’s at odd hours, any customer would be a nice company.” He looks up, leaning over the counter, eyes alight. He lowers his voice as he tells Sunwoo: “Just the other night, there’s a guy who spent a good minute eating snacks by the aisle. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him in the eye when he was paying for five empty packagings.”
Maybe the crawling ants and occasional flies are capricious listeners to Haknyeon speaking as if he’s sharing gossips over a get-together. Sunwoo doesn’t quite know what he titters at when the air escapes him. Either that or the fact that he has an inkling of who that person might be.
(Every night, that person pours potato and cassava chips into a hefty bowl and carries cough drops with a thermos of hot water to his own room.)
Sunwoo says what he says. He’s a one-man show who takes the role of an embellishment in times of need. He mimics Haknyeon’s previous movement, letting his voice drop, too. “I think you just described my landlord. It’s one way to destress when living costs are skyrocketing.”
“Huh. Small world, hm?”
“Small neighborhood. I’m guessing that you’re not just the new guy at the old man’s shop?”
Haknyeon leadenly blinks as he slouches his shoulders to a little shrug. (Dude. His lashes are so pretty. Dude.) “Haven’t had much time to know anyone around.”
“Well, you’re working on it already. The old man, the guy who stress eats,” Sunwoo replies. “I’m that guy who’s not so tall, comes by to eat ramen five times a week but you already knew that. That’s already three out of like, the whole twenty people on this street.”
Who is he kidding? Who is he fooling? If he wants to laugh out all the merriment and poke fun at his landlord, he’d do it first thing in the morning when the coffee is bitter as hell and the heater is broken as fuck, and his landlord is looking like a giant teddy bear—all bundled up in layers of blankets. When fatigue clings onto every resident of the place and their lives seem kinder in the wake of a morning sun, his landlord is genuine attempts at holding a conversation longer than telling him to pay rent.
Beg a pardon, beg for a plea and Sunwoo is begging to not be dumb, not be an airhead and do something uncool like tripping over the weight of his own feet when Haknyeon so much as breathes out a laugh.
“Thanks, I feel reassured already. Right, so. Handsome not-so-tall guy who comes in to eat cup ramen five times a week.” Haknyeon leans back and gestures at Sunwoo’s things. “You know how much.”
“That’s a given, I’ve only been coming here for two whole years way before you came.” Sunwoo’s own damned lips spreads. Too wide, too high. “Sunwoo. My name. Does that answer your curiosity?”
Haknyeon’s brow lifts, nodding his head along. “Puzzle solved.”
When he echoes Sunwoo’s name, it’s muttered under his breath and he repeats it a few times, lips puckered. As if he’s testing how it sits on his tongue, how it rolls off and bounces into actual sound.
The trot music sounds more off in Sunwoo’s ears. More distant.
(Every night, it’s the old man’s grating voice calling him a foolish kid for not taking care of himself while he’s still in his youth. Every night, it’s Room 4A, don’t forget to take a look at tomorrow’s schedule! Every night, it’s different people lingering in his ear with loads to get off their chest and a brisk thank you depending on his answer.)
(Some nights, it’s a stained mirror in the bathroom under a yellow light and thinking, you, why are you—why the fuck are you like this?)
When he thinks about how nice Haknyeon’s voice sounds, he wants it to drown out all of the voices that he hears.
—
Sunwoo learns a couple of things in hindsight the next few nights.
Five: Lee Gwangeun is first and foremost, the proud owner of a five-decade old kitty-corner shop that went through changes as often as the world spins. Through a screen and a picture within picture shot in stilted lighting, Sunwoo can make out lit-up store signs, married couples in their late twenties, maybe early thirties, and a small kid measly reaching their thighs that looks a lot like Haknyeon. Smiles as bright as the squint to their eyes.
Four: Lee Gwangeun is the friend that you’d be indebted to before you realize that he’s doing it for his own benefit, too—though the latter is only assumption on Sunwoo’s end. “My parents catered for Uncle’s wedding.” Haknyeon locks his phone, the picture replaced by blackout, and slides it under the counter. “You know, I tried to pay for utilities the other night and he got mad at me. The least I could do is help around, right? Let a stubborn old man with a bad back do what he’s supposed to do.”
Three: Lee Gwangeun is someone whose name Sunwoo had failed to learn despite hearing flicks of newspapers before the old man even went to sort them out; despite silence wafting for moments on out, and old music that he’d subconsciously hum throughout his days. (What a fucking hypocrite.)
“Is that why I never see you around during the day?” he prompts out of the blue, passing minutes turning ten and diluted conversation being brought up. He nibbles on a much flattened straw, attached to a much emptied-out carton. “Because you tend to sleep in?”
“I wouldn’t call it that, it’s more of a schedule thing for me,” Haknyeon answers through accompanying laughter. Arms folded, chin hooked. “I work at this one cram school and it happens to take up a good portion of my evening.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Sunwoo asks again, mumbly and almost fatigued. “Living on autopilot? Doing the same thing everyday?”
Haknyeon’s laughter mellows out like a song reaching the end of its runtime. When he laughs again, it’s small, it’s caving in. “Well, yeah, that’s guaranteed. Only sometimes. It’s not the exact same thing every single day anyway, you chose strawberry milk tonight after weeks of coconut.”
Sunwoo almost chokes, the straw scraping his bottom lip on its way out. He doesn’t really get shy. He gets embarrassed, heat on his cheeks. “We’re talking about you, not me.”
Two: Ju Haknyeon wreathes comfort into things about himself and lives knowing he’s trying his best, and it’s good. An undergraduate, has been for two years, Education major. Looking for a job is like looking through grains of rice and being accepted for one is three meals a day plus an extra room for desserts and late-night snacks.
“Why not talk about you, hm?” Haknyeon lifts his brows, lips thinned in a way that makes his cheeks puff out even more.
Sunwoo guesses that’s where the aftermath of desserts and late-night snacks materialized. Finds it cute then finds his guess so assuming, and he’s left with being disgruntled and a deaf ear to Haknyeon’s moving mouth.
He blinks and fiddles with the straw. “Because making a habit of doing this at wee-hours is the most interesting about me and that says something.”
“Come on, give me something after I answered your questions,” Haknyeon cajoles; whines a little. “You dress like a college kid, is revising your essay for the thirtieth time stressing you out into an unhealthy lifestyle of depending on instant food? It’s the lecturers, isn’t it? Got unlucky this semester?”
(Oh, that’s what the guy was saying.) He didn’t even last a year. “That was in the past. Now it’s mostly just...I work by the handbook, incoming calls and all that. Instead of essays and teachers, I’d say unprecedented around-the-clock services to and for our loyal customers deserve all the blame.”
“That must be rough.” Haknyeon hums his sympathy, his tone changing, too. On paper, sympathy isn’t that closely-knitted to pity, not interchangeable. Sunwoo doesn’t need both, they never sit well with him.
For some reason, Haknyeon perks up. It melts all those bad feelings that are about to bubble in him. Waters them into casual curiosity of Haknyeon’s alight gaze and twitching smiles, and dismissive chuckle when he asks, “What got you all smiley? You were spot-on, it is rough.”
Haknyeon titters then. “Nothing, just thinking that it makes sense, that’s all. No wonder you’re so silver-tongued.”
His is rusted copper actually and it usually takes more than a couple of nudges to satisfy satisfaction. He doesn’t say that though, keeps it to himself. To Haknyeon, he tries not to smile so much and turns his head to check on his ramen because God damn it, it’s fucking rough.
He hears Haknyeon laughing, light-hearted, almost wholehearted. At first, he doesn’t really pay attention to it—too wrapped up in his own head, Haknyeon’s compliment echoing inside. But when he feels composed enough to leave his ramen alone again, he sees that Haknyeon is being idle right now: cheek on his folded arms, smushing out his cheek to its fullness. Haknyeon keeps looking at him, huffing small laughs while shaking his head. It lolls against his arm and his hair sways.
Haknyeon was laughing at him but it didn’t feel cruel, didn’t feel unkind. “This habit of yours is not the most interesting thing about you, debunk it.” His voice is muffled with how his mouth is pressed against his arms. “Even if it was, it doesn’t make you any less fun to talk to, Sunwoo. You’re a sunshine at twelve at night, sure you’ll be the same any other time.”
(he’s just saying things ‘cause you’re the only one here)
(but—)
(gotta make with you have)
It’s a little bit bitter, a little more accepting to poke fun at himself when he smiles and replies, “My sister always did say that I’m one of a kind.”
—
One: Sunwoo learns some. He learns a few.
Kim Sunwoo wants to sprint away before he can puke flowers and effortlessly turn this silly, indulging crush into something more. Ju Haknyeon is the first fall of snow before it overwhelms you, the chill of autumn breeze that feels just right. He’s bylines of opportunities and seizing new things, and gravitating people into his orbit like it’s second nature.
—
Sunwoo has done his fair share of walking this time around in the night. He stands in front of the cashier counter as he always does, leftover fares in his jacket’s pockets because he’ll be using them for this anyway, no need to take them out. The difference is that instead of taking the money from his hand, he gets his carton of milk set aside and a solid No.
Sunwoo frowns, brows furrowed. “That’s not the total of my things.”
The look that Haknyeon gives him is new, never encountered ever before. He points that out, too. Gets pointed out back that, “You’re shivering.”
Sunwoo slides the wons over the counter and tucks his hands in his pockets. It’s colder this week. The mart isn’t as close as it feels but he’s used to it. “I’m currently waiting to warm myself up with a nice cup of ramen. And don’t forget the milk.”
“Forget the milk, wait a sec,” Haknyeon counters almost instantly. He disappears into the back, the door lightly creaks as it swings to a stop. When he comes back, it’s with a disposable cup—no lid, a cup sleeve hugging it, fumes in the air. “Take this, I’ll only charge you for the ramen.”
Sunwoo hesitates, unsure glances between the cup and the raise of Haknyeon’s brows. It hasn’t been the best day. Hasn’t been the best week. Feels like it all falls on him tonight so he sighs, and dumbly mumbles, “I don’t think this is the right way to treat a customer’s order.”
Every night, the perpetual starless skies stare at him with its engulfing force through the tiny window in his room. Some nights, he wants to drive up to the mountains, take a hike and sit on the edge of catching stars and the wishes they might hold. Once in a while, it feels like no matter what he does, it leads to nothing and some stars that he wants to see won’t make it any better.
The disposable cup is seeping warmth to his palm, fingers wrapped around. The tea bag is still inside, its thread sitting across the back of his fingers, particles of sugar gradually becoming unknown.
Over logging Sunwoo’s purchase, Haknyeon’s lips twitch up. “By all means, please don’t leave a bad review.”
Sunwoo carries the cup ramen in the crook of his arm. Watches as the cash register dings and Haknyeon hands him his loose change and won bills. “Mm, don’t give me any reason to do so.” Their fingers touch. He feels his skin burn.
“Yeah, well. Don’t get sick, okay?” Haknyeon offers instead.
(He looked concerned before, now that Sunwoo’s able to place a finger on it. It never does look good on anyone, Haknyeon included.)
When he sits at the eat-in, his employer’s texts leave a hole in his pocket. He thinks about the taste of passionfruit down his throat, about the silence that settles over tonight. If what he does won’t amount to something someday, then why bother doing anything at all? Still. He thinks about being proud and having pride. About going home for New Year’s and having something good to share. Share a hug or two. Long enough that those embraces will make things seem as they actually are; that they’re not so bad after all.
His skin still burns. Silence has never felt comfortable in so long.
—
For as long as he can remember, the mart’s never been decorated before, no matter what. It’s surprising to see it celebrating along with wreaths and tinsels at the entrance, even more tinsels on every aisles. The display fridges and freezers’ handles got either green or red gloves slipped around them. The music stays the same though. Haknyeon laughs and tells him, “That’s the only compromise Uncle gave.”
Minutes of fifteen are drawn out into thirty. Then into sixty. Sunwoo has an idea how, also has an idea why. It’s already one in the morning and he has to wake up in a few hours if he wants to take a shower before the hot water runs out.
Haknyeon finds Mr. Gwangeun’s repeated CD tracks charming. Music’s timeless—he says. It reminds him of his grandparents actually; back when he was counting numbers through abacus and learning to roll his Rs and the countryside was the only place he knew existed. They exchange anecdotes about what it’s like to have a sister and while Sunwoo doesn’t share as much as he’s coaxed to, he listens. Listens a lot. He feels like he knows Haknyeon’s friends even without the faces to attach to the names, like he knows what Haknyeon means when the road to growing up is growing pains but he had his sisters to share them with.
Haknyeon has a driver’s license but he doesn’t have a car exactly, not yet. Speaking of owning things, he’d like to have his own farm one day. Maybe fifty years down, back to his grandparents’ village, take his mom and dad along with him, too. Speaking of the people in his life, he tells Sunwoo that he’s already acquainted with the woman from the laundromat a couple of buildings over—enthuses really, with his pretty smile, pretty voice.
“Glad to see that you’re feeling good enough to ask me all these things,” Haknyeon says, genuine, a little sarcastic maybe. “When is it my turn to ask you stuff?”
Someday.
Sunwoo licks his lips. Smiles lopsidedly. “No, no, you were about to tell me why you want to start a pig farm out of all farm animals.”
“Such a dodger.”
It’s already one-past-fifteen in the morning. Sunwoo burps into the back of his hand, the sound thrumming in his eardrums. Everything that he hears feels light-years away for a fast second. It feels hot from the ramen’s soup, the taste coming up his throat before going down again.
Haknyeon snickers at him, calls him gross. The passerby by the cashier buying a cigarette pack and a tub of ice cream doesn’t give a shit. Neither does Sunwoo. Not when Haknyeon is all teeth and alight eyes as he wishes the passerby a nice night, but he keeps his gaze on Sunwoo through it all.
—
Pick someone, pick anyone for that matter. For this one instance though, Sunwoo volunteers to be the test subject.
Picture this: you’re trying to placate a customer’s complaint. It’s stuffy, it’s finding solutions without making empty promises, and it’s almost the end of your shift. You dread this part of the day to some extent because time and time again, it fucks with you as it dawns on you that you’d rather pick this over stilted attempts at bonding that goes nowhere.
Or this: your co-workers are headed home, so should you. Work ends early today, it’s a holiday after all. You stay back to take a few more calls, view a few of your friends’ stories of adorned trees and matching scarves. You don’t celebrate Christmas but the small plastic tree that your landlord put out once a year makes you want to go to the mall and see the real thing.
Or this: you’re on a video call now, your parents are pixelated statics on the other line. You’d think that you’d be already used to it because it’s what habit does. But it punches another hole in the wall when you make out the looks of disappointment washing over that they instantly cover up. You’re still their son in the end; still someone that they hope will come and stay over the holidays. You don’t have any good news to share. So you tell them you won’t be coming home this year. They’re not okay and so are you.
Or maybe, something in the middle, like this: you’re staying on your typical route, your stomach kind of grumbles but you feel sick tonight. A treat for a surprise could come in the simplest of form. It comes in the empty seat that’s right by your side becoming not-so-empty anymore.
And Sunwoo—
Sunwoo.
He blinks. Doesn’t even realize that soggy noodles are hanging by the thread of his chopsticks close to his agape mouth until Haknyeon titters at him. “Keep looking like that and you’d swallow a fly.”
Haknyeon’s wearing a headband tonight, reindeers flopping and catching him off-guard when he first saw it. He closes his mouth and lays the chopsticks down on the ramen cup. “I don’t think the only available employee should be here.”
“Relax, there’ll be no other people anyway,” Haknyeon brushes him off. Sways in his seat while looking at Sunwoo with—something. After a few moments, he says something again. “I thought you wouldn’t come tonight. Jam-packed even during the holidays?”
“Something like that,” Sunwoo answers. “I’m not married to my job if that’s what you’re implying.”
Haknyeon turns to face him, their knees brushing. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“What about you? You’re spending the first hour of Christmas still staying true to the 24-hour brand. Sounds like a devoted, unpaid employee to me,” Sunwoo playfully jabs.
It’s a movie that he hasn’t seen before so he stays still. Plays it so carefully that he won’t miss any details to come. Even a bit of movement would make their knees touch again and it’s hard to know whether it’s a good thing or not.
Haknyeon is sitting here for a reason and it’s taking a huge part of Sunwoo not to think too much of it.
“This is actually my plan of spending the first hour of Christmas,” Haknyeon says, matter-of-fact. When he props his elbow up on the table, his tone gets lazy; leaning a cheek on his fist. “Not a foolproof plan, there was a 50/50 chance it would fail.”
Maybe it’s relief instead of laziness. Sunwoo’s not that great at picking things up but he’s well-versed in second-guessing himself—worse when the guy that he’s been harboring feelings for is holding his heart for ransom by being this cute.
“So did it fail?”
Haknyeon hums, seemingly in thought. He shrugs then. “Depends. You’re here, I guess we’ll just have to see where it goes from there.”
Or maybe. Maybe. Try picturing this: you have your off days and today seems like it’s one of them. Life goes on, you stay put. Everybody has their own lives to live and it fucks with you, too. That all you can do is stand there and watch. You tried putting yourself out there a few times and it felt so humiliating when at the worst, you ended up with a table for one.
You’re tired, you’re worn out because life isn’t as kind but you’re living, and it’s good. You’re trying and it’s fine. Nothing is almost comparable to a little something called hope and you hold onto that, hold onto your wishes. You talk to people hoping that, just once, maybe they’d be the one coming to you.
You try to find nice things in the littlest of things, the most mundane things, and lately, sometimes, it’s as easy to be done as it is said.
Sunwoo speaks even when his throat feels dry. Licks his lips as if the moisture would lead to his throat. “Why am I included in your plan though?”
Haknyeon smiles, wide and thin. The end of his lips disappears into his fist. There it is again. The light in his eyes. “It’s not exactly a one-person job.” This time when he moves, he lets their knees stay as each other’s weight. Lets the unfamiliarity that plays in between them to take over and charges towards what’s been building up for some time now. “You can look up to find out, job’s right there.”
Taped to the ceiling right above where they’re sitting, Sunwoo sees a bright red ribbon before he sees the plant it’s wrapped around. The mistletoe manages to dangle, a thread keeping it faced down.
It evokes a smile out of him. For the wrong reason. He looks at Haknyeon, cheeks getting hot. “I thought people hang it over a doorway or something.”
Haknyeon grins, covering his face for a moment. He tries not to laugh but he does in the end, blush painting him, too. “I wasn’t going to ambush you by the door, it would look so unnatural. This way, I can ease my way through.” This time, when he moves to sit up, he looks so earnest that Sunwoo feels his chest swells. “So. Is it still a 50/50 chance?”
(Zero: Kim Sunwoo hasn’t watched this movie in full view in his life. He wants it to be his favorite.)
“You can try your chances now,” Sunwoo breathes out. Tries not to sound as shaky as he feels. “If you want.”
Sunwoo doesn’t really have a clue what he’s doing. He traces the curve of Haknyeon’s elbow with his palm when two hands land on his shoulders to pull him close. He lets Haknyeon take the lead, make the first move. Finds it incredibly dizzying when lingering soft lips are huffing small laughs on his, cupping his jaw and going in for a full kiss. He doesn’t entirely get why Haknyeon feels the same as he does but maybe that’s just life. Not everything has to make any sense.
Their kiss oddly tastes of MSG flavoring and the overdrive of orange cream on his tongue.
“Hey,” Haknyeon lowly says once they part, his thumb continuing to brush the juncture of Sunwoo’s jaw, “go out with me.”
(he’s just—)
(stop)
(he’s—)
(don’t) (please)
It’s not an emotional moment but his visions blur and his nose stings either way, and he really doesn’t get why Haknyeon likes him enough to do all this. He wants to be brutally honest for once so he says, “You haven’t seen me at my lowest.”
Haknyeon smiles. Even lets his teeth show. He rests his forehead against the sorry excuse of Sunwoo’s bangs, eyes ever so sincere. “You haven’t seen me at mine. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to try. Doesn’t mean I’d run away, too, when I’m there to see you like that.” Sunwoo lays a feathery touch on Haknyeon’s wrist. Just to touch him. Feel him. “Go out with me, let’s go somewhere that isn’t Uncle’s mart. Hold my hand, lean on me, tell me more about you, tell me everything. I’ll ask you out again after we’ve gone on our first date and then I’ll ask you again after that.”
Write a letter that gets tucked under the layers of your towering books, sing your poem that only you seem to understand. Sunwoo’s sniffles is something that he usually keeps in the quiet corner of his room but he can’t really hold them back right now.
Sunwoo tries, voice breaking but he’s smiling. “Your plan worked out and you want more?”
“I didn’t struggle for half an hour trying to put that thing up just to kiss you and be done with it,” Haknyeon says, incredulous.
Sunwoo tries again, his smile getting out of control. Says, “You don’t even have my number, how are you going to ask me out again?”
Haknyeon snorts into laughter, lifting his head up and hand sliding down Sunwoo’s arm. “Oh fuck, oh right.” It’s hard not to get affected by how it sounds so through sniffles and wiping things away with his sleeve, he gives in; laughs along. “We’ve never exchanged contacts,” Haknyeon dryly agonizes. “Let’s change that.”
The reindeers-headband sits sort of crookedly on Haknyeon’s head. Sunwoo reaches out, fixes it in place. “Okay,” he whispers.
They comment on each other’s profile pictures—bits of Haknyeon’s face that can be seen while rest of the space is taken up by golden fur and a stuck-out tongue of a retriever. He stares down at it for a bit too long and if Haknyeon notices, he doesn’t say a word. Sunwoo uses a default icon, never bothered to replace it. His background is a family picture though, taken years back and the shutter had gone off while they were too busy laughing at his dad’s popped button.
It’s one that has Haknyeon looking back at him, commenting, “What a sunshine.”
The mart is deserted, the narrow street up front is lulled to sleep with falling snow serenading all night long. Haknyeon is a warm presence pressed to his side, watching him as he attempts to eat the lump that his ramen has turned into.
It’s a little less lonely.
It’s comforting.