Chapter Text
The S&B Cafe is described by foodie magazines as quaint and vibey, cozy with a small-town feel despite its location in the heart of Daegu. Small confectionaries, quirky desserts and breakfast staples, line the glass counters at the front of the cafe, the day’s specials written on a chalkboard in artistic calligraphy. The furniture is mismatched in a purposeful sort of way, a detail that is never lost on critics, matching table sets traded for wooden tables and bean bag chairs, plush couches matching the eclectic tapestries decorating the walls.
Beomgyu’s favorite part is that it always smells like home. No matter the time of day, a gentle herbal aroma that Beomgyu takes deep breaths of whenever his skin crawls with anxiety. Fresh and bright, like the raspberry tea Soobin makes every morning, hot in the kettle when Beomgyu wakes up to the other side of the bed cold. The walk to the cafe is brief, but Soobin always leaves long before dawn, when their first customers arrive. Businessmen, mostly, then students later in the day, the need for caffeine a siren song transcending boundaries of age.
It’s quieter at night than in the morning. Early mornings are Soobin's domain. He says that he likes to watch the sun rise through the tiny windows in his beloved kitchen, that hearing the birds chirp as he rolls dough and perfects minute details in the frosting of multi-tiered cakes is what brings him peace. He has a perfect view of the gardens out back, although his dough is usually in the oven by the time Beomgyu makes his way out to tend to them, the grass along the walkway still wet with morning dew.
Beomgyu, though, likes sunsets, his eyes drifting to the rainbow of deep colors painting the sky as he greets the last customers of the day. Hues of sapphire and amber shroud him from the glow of his laptop as he closes the books for the day, tackling an endless list of managerial tasks as a good-natured part-timer mops the floors with a citrusy detergent or sanitizes the coffee makers, each of them preparing for the next morning, when the cycle repeats itself.
It’s rare that Beomgyu is left to work the front alone these days. He’s never been one to glamorize the life of a barista even though Soobin speaks about his baking as though he’s a side character in a Ghibli movie. Working up front means frantically typing on his laptop between brewing shots of espresso—shots he longs for but avoids taking because he knows that it bothers Soobin when he can’t fall asleep and tosses and turns in bed all night, keeping him up instead of letting him rest before his alarms wake them both hours before he had ever preferred to wake up during college.
The tea helps the insomnia, but it doesn’t keep him still. Instead, Beomgyu occupies himself with his poetry, filling his thoughts with lines and stanzas that echo in his mind until he writes them down on paper, which is exactly what he’s doing when Choi Yeonjun steps through the front door of the S&B Cafe and into his life.
Beomgyu sees hundreds of faces every day. Thousands per week, but the man who enters his cafe with sunglasses perched on his nose after sunset, the sky inky black and starless, is one he remembers.
Even with his sunglasses and a plain mask covering his mouth, his face is striking. Foxlike, especially his eyes when he pushes up his sunglasses to rest on top of his head instead. His hair is dyed black, shockingly dark, as deep as the sky.
Beomgyu averts his eyes and looks back down at his notebook as the man scans the menu, self-conscious of the possibility of being caught staring, which would make anyone feel unwelcome. There’s only twenty minutes until Beomgyu locks up for the night but he won’t scare away a customer no matter how late it is, with how slow business has been recently.
He doesn’t make any progress on his spreadsheet before the man steps up to the counter, and oh, he’s stunning up close. “Hi,” he says, and even just this one word is melodic, grabbing Beomgyu’s attention, not just another coffee order for Beomgyu to forget as soon as he seals the lid on his compostable cup. “Just an iced americano, please. Um, a large.”
Or—maybe Beomgyu will forget his coffee order, but it’s the only thing that makes him fit in with the usual crowd. Businessmen and college students. He doesn’t look like a businessman, dressed down but stylish, and he doesn’t have the dark circles under his eyes that a college student might.
“For here or to go?” Beomgyu says, tapping at the register. The man already has his card in his hand, sleek and black.
“For here, if that’s okay,” he says, sparing a glance at the watch adorning his wrist. Beomgyu hadn’t noticed it before, but he does now. The way light catches on the ornate face of it makes it look expensive, something someone wouldn’t wear out on a daily basis unless they had spare change. Not something Beomgyu would wear, period, but Soobin would, if he could.
“Your name?” Beomgyu says, turning to grab a cup and uncap the marker he keeps in his apron pocket.
There’s a beat of silence in which the man looks at him with parted lips. “What?” he says, as if he hadn’t heard right.
“Your name. So I can call it when your drink is ready.”
“Oh,” he says, and nothing else.
“Well, you don’t have to tell me,” Beomgyu says. “I can bring it to you. There’s no one else here.”
There’s one girl hunched over her laptop by the windows. The sound of her typing had slowed considerably since she had nodded off the first time.
“No, it’s okay,” the man says hastily. “It’s Yeonjun. My name is Yeonjun.”
He says his own name on a sigh, like he’d been holding his breath when Beomgyu asked. There’s vulnerability in names, Beomgyu knows.
“I’m Beomgyu,” Beomgyu says reflexively. He pauses, pen hovering over Yeonjun’s cup as he scrawls Yeonjun’s name on the side. Yeonjun hadn’t asked. He’s just a customer. Beomgyu is just a barista.
Yeonjun taps his own chest. “I know. You have a name tag.”
“Right,” Beomgyu says, embarrassed. He isn’t used to wearing one, but Yeonjun doesn’t seem used to ordering his own coffee either.
Yeonjun lingers, even as Beomgyu turns to the espresso machine. “Just a minute,” Beomgyu says, his hands shaky with lingering feelings of the odd interaction as he reverts to muscle memory, preparing Yeonjun’s drink.
When he turns back around, Yeonjun has taken a seat at one of the far tables, curled up in a beanbag chair and scrolling on his phone. An open laptop is propped up on the table, but he doesn’t seem to have any interest in it.
There are fifteen minutes left until Beomgyu closes the cafe for the night, and the sleepy college student is packing up her things. Fuck it. Beomgyu might never see Yeonjun again, but it’s late, and he’s intrigued by him. He steps out from behind the counter and brings Yeonjun’s coffee to him, setting it down next to his laptop.
Yeonjun looks up with a start, having been totally engrossed in his phone. “Oh, thank you,” he says. “You didn’t have to…”
“I don’t mind,” Beomgyu says. He points to the chair opposite Yeonjun. “Do you?”
Yeonjun shakes his head. The mask obscuring his features makes his eyes look even bigger. He doesn’t pull it down to try the coffee.
“Are you new here?” Beomgyu asks. The question comes from him without much thought. He’s always been a big extrovert, starting conversations with strangers whenever he finds them interesting even though his anxiety flares when an exchange strikes a wrong note.
“Why do you ask?” Yeonjun says, sounding curious rather than evasive. And not at all standoffish; he pocketed his phone as soon as Beomgyu started speaking to him, curious about what he had to say.
“I know all of the regulars, and you aren’t one. So you’re either new or just passing through,” Beomgyu explains.
Yeonjun hums, but Beomgyu can tell that the answer doesn’t satisfy him.
“You looked lost,” Beomgyu says. A poet’s answer, maybe a presumptuous answer, but it’s the one that makes Yeonjun’s eyes light up.
“I guess you could say so,” Yeonjun says. The corners of his eyes wrinkle like he’s smiling.
“I don’t mean to assume anything. I don’t know you,” Beomgyu says.
Yeonjun shrugs. “You’re very perceptive.”
Beomgyu isn’t used to being noticed. His work is all quiet, behind the counter, usually out of sight and out of mind. He knows how to make himself present in a crowd but he’s never the type of person that sticks out to people unless he makes himself heard.
Beomgyu cocks his head. “You don’t know me either.”
It’s fun and light, a game to play that only exists in the liminal space of the cafe.
“If I’m going to become a regular, I’d like to,” Yeonjun says, leaning back in the bean bag chair and crossing his arms. He looks exceptionally cozy, relaxed, despite being in an unfamiliar location, which is exactly what Beomgyu had hoped for when he’d started to take his cafe dream seriously.
It’s Beomgyu’s territory, but that doesn’t help the way his stomach flips at Yeonjun’s words.
“You’re planning on becoming a regular without trying your drink first?” Beomgyu says. “What if you don’t like it?”
“But it looks good,” Yeonjun says. He waves his hands in a vague direction. “I have faith in the ambiance. If I didn’t like it, I would just try something new.”
Beomgyu doesn’t have much of a choice anymore, but he likes spending time in his cafe. His life’s work, a place he created together with Soobin. Yeonjun’s compliment is surprisingly honest, and makes Beomgyu’s chest warm with pride.
“What brings you here then? To Daegu?” Beomgyu says. Then, in case Yeonjun doesn’t want to tell him: “It’s late for a coffee.”
Yeonjun laughs sheepishly. “I hadn’t noticed the time, to be honest. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep you. You’re closing soon, right?”
Beomgyu shrugs. There isn’t much to do to close, anyway. It’s been quiet for a few hours, and Beomgyu had been able to get ahead on almost everything he could, so he won’t be lingering long after hours even if Yeonjun keeps him talking. “Well, I’m a co-owner, so I make the rules. I have plenty of late nights, too.”
“Oh, wow,” Yeonjun says, sounding genuinely impressed, even though it doesn’t feel like a big deal to Beomgyu. “Is it difficult?”
“Some days,” Beomgyu says. “The hours, you mean?”
“Anything. I don’t love my hours, either.” Finally, Yeonjun takes a sip of his coffee, pulling his mask under his chin and letting it snap back into place after. “I want to fix that while I’m here, actually. You know, sleeping while the sun is down.”
“Is it good?” Beomgyu says, nodding at the coffee.
“The best I’ve had in Daegu so far,” Yeonjun says.
Then he takes his mask off, looping it over his ears and tucking it neatly into the pocket of his coat. He lifts the cup to his mouth again, his soft lips squishing against the rim. He’s gorgeous in a familiar sort of way, but Beomgyu is sure that they’ve never met before. He sees pretty people every day; the difference is that most aren’t as mysterious as Yeonjun is.
Beomgyu blinks, jolting out of his reverie.
“You’re staying here for a while, then,” he observes.
Yeonjun sets the cup down and nods. “It’s supposed to be a vacation, but it doesn’t feel like it. It’s mandatory, so it feels like work to relax.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be complaining. I’m lucky to be able to take time off.”
“I understand,” Beomgyu says, although he doesn’t, really. “If you don’t mind me asking… what do you do?”
Yeonjun traces patterns in the condensation on the side of his glass with the tips of his fingers. A nervous habit, maybe. “I work in the entertainment industry.”
Not something Beomgyu can relate to, then. He lives a quiet life, the most glamorous part about it being that he has a partner to spend his life with. That’s all he really needs, anyway. Soobin, and their cafe with pretty views at sunrise and sunset, the brilliance of Seoul 237 kilometers away.
“Oh, I see,” Beomgyu says. “Fast-paced. You came here to slow down?”
Yeonjun nods. “Something like that, according to my boss.”
“What brought you here so late? Couldn’t sleep?”
“I’m looking for inspiration,” Yeonjun says. He looks up from his glass and directly into Beomgyu’s eyes. “Or the best cafe to write lyrics at, at the very least. Somewhere to recharge and get creative.”
Music. Of course he’s a musician.
“Is that what you came here to do?” Beomgyu says, glancing at Yeonjun’s laptop.
Yeonjun sighs. “I’d like to, but sometimes the words won’t come. It’s best not to force them.”
“I get that,” Beomgyu says. Finally, something he can relate to.
Yeonjun smiles. “You’re an artist?”
To call himself an artist feels like an exaggeration, but Beomgyu has a feeling that Yeonjun doesn’t care about semantics. “I like poetry,” he says.
“Poetry! I love poetry,” Yeonjun says, his voice brightening with excitement. “I try to read a poem a day, you know, to help with music. I signed up for a website that sends a few to my email every day. I’m sure you’d be very musical, if you ever gave it a try.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Beomgyu says.
Yeonjun drinks his coffee, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Have you ever been published?”
“No, I don’t think I’m that good,” Beomgyu says, thinking of the dozens of times he’s perused the profiles of publishing websites, online zines and local newspapers. He’s never even tried.
“Nonsense,” Yeonjun says. “As long as you create from the heart, it’s worth reading.”
The sound of Beomgyu’s phone ringing startles him from his thoughts. “Sorry, I have to get that,” Beomgyu says, leaping up from his chair on reflex.
By the time he makes it behind the counter, his phone has stopped ringing. Beomgyu scrolls through his notifications.
Soobin
Missed you today. Call me on your way home!
Soobin
Missed call
Beomgyu sighs softly. Relief. He only calls when there’s an emergency, but Soobin says that he just likes to hear the sound of Beomgyu’s voice.
Beomgyu looks up and finds Yeonjun lingering at the counter, laptop tucked under his arm.
“I should head out,” Yeonjun says. “I don’t want to hold you up, but thank you for tonight.”
“It was just coffee,” Beomgyu says.
“Not just,” Yeonjun says. “I’ll see you around?”
Beomgyu nods, a lump in his throat as he watches Yeonjun disappear into the night, leaving him alone in his quiet cafe, a starless sky overhead.
At twenty-nine years old, Beomgyu can carefully divide his life before Choi Soobin and after Choi Soobin. He had dreams before Choi Soobin, after all, but it was only the dreams after that seemed to matter.
The place Beomgyu calls home is small and thus slightly cluttered, but all that matters is that it’s warm and safe. Maybe a little too warm in Daegu’s scorching summers, especially when business is slow and they can’t afford to keep the single dingy air conditioner they use to cool the apartment running all the time.
But it’s just right at this time of year, even when late nights and early mornings are a bit too chilly for comfort. The heating in their apartment is unreliable at best, but on the hot side, usually kicking up a few degrees too high so that Soobin huffs and threatens to open the windows to combat the heat. But their bedroom is always a perfect cocoon of warmth, and this is where Beomgyu finds Soobin when he returns home, tucked under the sheets and his hair damp from a shower.
It can’t be past 9 PM by the time Beomgyu makes it back to the apartment, face flushed from the cold, but Soobin yawns twice as he greets him. “Have a good day, baby?” he says, and sleepily kisses back when Beomgyu slots their lips together.
They had talked about a few things on Beomgyu’s walk home from the cafe, but nothing serious. All light topics, the only kind either of them can stomach after a long work day—and every day is a long day, with how often their schedules are the exact opposite of each other’s. Not always, of course, but the frequency of this is still too high for it to lead to any sort of contentment, more of a temporary solution than a forever.
“Good day,” Beomgyu says. Nothing had happened to sour his mood throughout the day, and nothing new had come to weigh on his mind. It was just a day, and there had even been a few things that made him smile. Like how Soobin had left him a fruit tart for breakfast, a messy I love you scribbled on the napkin tucked under it. Like how one of the regulars had come in and showed him pictures of the new puppy she had adopted. Like how a stranger had told him his poetry was worth reading. “Yours?”
“Not bad,” Soobin says, and yawns again. He tugs Beomgyu down by his scarf and presses another kiss to Beomgyu’s cupid’s bow before unwinding it, soft fabric slipping through his fingers. “Did you eat yet? I left dinner in the fridge, but you can have it for lunch tomorrow.”
Beomgyu’s dinner had consisted of leftover pastries he knew wouldn’t sell. The thought of real food is tempting, but not as tempting as spending a few extra minutes with Soobin before he falls asleep. He’s working before opening again tomorrow too.
“Maybe later,” Beomgyu says, and sits on the edge of the bed, letting Soobin grab his hand and hold it like he’s something precious. Even with so much left unsaid, this part never changes.
“I missed you,” Soobin says quietly, his hand crawling up Beomgyu’s wrist, fingertips resting on bare skin. He says so much with so little and it makes Beomgyu’s heart throb, his chest ache, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the energy thrumming beneath his skin other than to let Soobin hold him.
“I know,” he says. “Me, too.”
“Tell me about your day,” Soobin says, his hand dropping back down to weave their fingers together. “Something that made it good.”
The one thing Beomgyu wants to share with him is the thing that will make him feel the most. Soobin is his partner for life; there’s no walking on eggshells with him, but sometimes it feels like there’s a delicate balance to strike that comes from knowing him so well. Knowing what he needs, and knowing what’s hard.
Sometimes the line is worth crossing. Sometimes Beomgyu doesn’t even know where the line is.
“There was this customer who came in a few minutes before closing. A musician. He came to Daegu to write music,” Beomgyu says.
“Oh, really?” Soobin says. He doesn’t sound disinterested, but maybe distracted, like he’s too tired to register what Beomgyu is trying to tell him.
“He asked if I’m an artist.”
“You are, aren’t you?” Soobin says.
“I’ve never published anything,” Beomgyu says.
“That doesn’t make you less of an artist,” Soobin says, frowning a bit, trying to figure out where Beomgyu is going with this. His dimples show when he frowns just the same as when he smiles. Beomgyu wants to sink his thumbs into the divots in his skin, feeling his warmth, their seamless familiarity.
They’ve had this conversation dozens of times before. A stranger is more willing to listen, obviously. What would Soobin have left to say after years of watching Beomgyu struggle, knowing that he loves their life together but always longing for the dream he never had the opportunity to chase? Knowing that he lives vicariously through others, imagines a future that will never come, and seethes with jealousy even when he has more than most could ever wish for?
“Maybe,” Beomgyu says, although it doesn’t feel that way when the only people who have ever read his poems are Soobin and Taehyun.
It’s enough, Beomgyu tells himself, and it is. It’s enough to pay the bills and a little extra, which used to mean more than it does now, but it’s enough. It’s enough to give him Soobin, it’s enough to give him fulfillment even if he craves more and tries to stamp it out. It’s enough.
“The customer said he liked the ambiance,” Beomgyu tells Soobin. “I think he’ll come back. Maybe he’ll be a regular.”
For a reason Beomgyu can’t quite place, he desperately hopes that Yeonjun does. So many people come and go, but he’s never forgotten the ones who stay. He wants Yeonjun’s approval. It feels like it means something more because Yeonjun is an artist, too.
“He liked it?” Soobin says, sounding relieved. Every customer counts these days, more than ever before, even when they’d first opened the cafe with almost nothing but their own dreams to guide them.
“I think we could be friends, if he did,” Beomgyu says. “All of us.”
Soobin’s smile softens. It isn’t conceited for Beomgyu to say that the way to Soobin’s heart is through Beomgyu’s happiness. “I’m glad, Beomgyu-ya,” he says gently. “You’ve been so lonely these days.”
But what does Beomgyu have to feel lonely for, when he’s so loved? A husband and a warm bed to return to every night, friends who invest in him and who work alongside him. He’s surrounded by love every day and there still isn’t enough of him to express it.
“Come here, baby,” Soobin whispers, soft soft soft, and his hand is scorching hot in Beomgyu’s grasp. “Come to bed.”
Beomgyu’s wish comes true just two days later as he works the closing shift at the cafe, sitting behind the counter and pouring over his poetry notebook, customers attended to and working in a peaceful silence. A couple sits by the window, speaking to each other in low voices as they share a slice of cake. A man in a suit sits in a straight-backed chair, the tension in his face easing with a cup of tea.
None of them look up when Yeonjun steps into the cafe, but Beomgyu does. Not just because it’s instinct for him to greet customers when they arrive, but because of his presence. Even with a mask, bundled up from the cold, he’s recognizable.
When he steps up to the counter, he’s smiling all the way to his eyes.
“You came back,” Beomgyu says.
“Of course I did. I told you I would,” Yeonjun says.
He’s fidgety, Beomgyu notes. He hasn’t stopped looking around the cafe since he arrived, taking in his surroundings even as he directs his energy to Beomgyu.
“Do you want to try something new?” Beomgyu says.
Yeonjun nods. “I want to try everything. What do you recommend?”
“Any preferences?”
“Nope. Surprise me.”
Beomgyu has a few ideas. “Just a drink?”
“I haven’t eaten all day, actually,” Yeonjun says, giving a short laugh.
It’s late, but not quite as late as the last time Yeonjun had come around. Beomgyu frowns. Maybe Yeonjun had slept through the day—or maybe he’s just used to letting other people take care of him. “What are your thoughts on breakfast for dinner?” Beomgyu says. “What about croffles?”
It isn’t until Yeonjun is seated—his back to the windows, like last time—that Beomgyu lets out the breath he’d been holding. There’s something in him that wants, badly, to take care of Yeonjun. To impress him. Very simply, to befriend him.
It’s hard to think of Yeonjun as a regular customer after the conversation they’d had last time, and Beomgyu finds himself watching the clock, willing time to pass, longing to break up the monotony of his day by talking to him. He finds it difficult to focus on his poetry—or the budget analysis he’d promised Soobin he would finish tonight—but he also knows that Yeonjun likely came to the cafe for a chance to work in peace, not be bothered by Beomgyu entertaining himself.
Beomgyu tries not to stare, but it’s difficult not to search for signs of approval in Yeonjun’s expression. They’re hard to come by. Yeonjun doesn’t fully take off his mask to try the croffles until the last customer has left the cafe, and Beomgyu counts five long minutes before he gives in and takes a seat at Yeonjun’s table.
It’s only up close that Beomgyu is on the receiving end of the full force of Yeonjun’s dazzling smile. “Did you make these?” he asks, pointing at his dish. The excitement in his voice is almost childish, and incredibly endearing. “They’re amazing.”
“No, that’d be Soobin-hyung,” Beomgyu says.
“Co-owner?”
Beomgyu nods. There isn’t a reason yet to elaborate more than that.
If he really wants to be friends with Yeonjun, he’ll have to be honest about his relationship with Soobin at some point, but there isn’t a reason to rock the boat quite yet. There’s still time for Beomgyu to feel out Yeonjun’s vibes. After all, there are still some regulars who don’t know yet that Beomgyu and Soobin are married. No matter how legal it may be, this doesn’t mean that people are automatically more accepting, especially in Daegu.
“He’s talented,” Yeonjun says, impressed. “Does he make everything here?”
Yeonjun isn’t talking about Beomgyu, but Beomgyu feels a rush of pride anyway. It had taken him years before he finally convinced Soobin that he was good enough to pursue his passion, even though he’d shied away from it for years.
“Mostly,” Beomgyu says. “There’s no way he could do it alone, though, even though he tries. We have a great team.”
“I’m sure,” Yeonjun says. “All good things have a good team behind them. Takes hard work to make a team like that. And patience.”
Yeonjun seems like the type of person who knows a lot about many things, but Beomgyu doesn’t really know him yet. He doesn’t know many things at all about Yeonjun; everything else is a presumption, and if he had to presume anything about Yeonjun, it would be that he’s made up of multitudes—unexpected layers that come together to make someone totally fascinating.
“I meant to ask this last time,” Yeonjun says, setting down his coffee, “but are you from Daegu? You don’t have much of an accent.”
“I was born here, but I moved to Seoul when I was a teenager,” Beomgyu says. “I stayed there through university and then moved back here a few years ago to start the cafe. I don’t have an accent anymore, unless I’m speaking to other people from Daegu.”
“Ohh, I see,” Yeonjun says, and it’s that simple. Question answered, no other explanation needed. “I’ve never lived anywhere but Seoul. Actually, I think the time I’ve spent in Daegu might be the longest I’ve been anywhere else, but I still don’t understand it at all yet.”
He probably doesn’t want to pry beyond polite questions, but the questions that might naturally come after are ones that have defined Beomgyu’s entire life. Why Seoul? Why Daegu? Why the cafe, so different from everything he had ever dreamed of the first time he’d set his eyes on Seoul’s bright lights?
Beomgyu wonders if Yeonjun would understand. If he works in entertainment, surely he must have had peers who failed. Maybe they remained friends after, or maybe they started drifting apart as they continued on different paths. Yeonjun doesn’t know Beomgyu’s history, though. Regardless of his past, for Yeonjun, Beomgyu is a clean slate.
For whatever reason, though, Beomgyu doesn’t have to change the subject. Yeonjun does it on his own. “Were you writing when I got here?” he says, gaze drifting towards his own laptop screen. “Sorry to be nosey. It’s been forever since I talked to another writer who wasn’t asking something from me.”
Must be tough, actually being able to make art a career. “I was,” Beomgyu admits. It’s easy to talk to Yeonjun when they’re alone. Their conversations feel too real and like they don’t exist at all. “But it’s nothing serious. It’s just for myself, obviously. No deadlines or anything like that.”
Sometimes Beomgyu wonders what it would be like with a publisher nagging him for updates. Would it help his progress or hinder his creativity? There probably won’t ever be a way for him to know.
“You can write seriously even if you never share your writing,” Yeonjun says, smiling. “I’m sure you have things to do… but if you have a minute, do you want to work together? I always work better when I have people holding me accountable.”
When was the last time Beomgyu had written with anyone? It must have been sometime in university, during the creative writing electives he had squeezed into his schedule between the required classes for the major his parents had chosen for him. His parents will always love him, but Beomgyu knows that, even if they never say it, they’ll always have wished for something more from their youngest son.
“It doesn’t have to be today,” Yeonjun adds quickly. The silence must have been longer than Beomgyu thought, Yeonjun feeling the need to clarify. “But, in general, if you’re interested… I haven’t made any friends around here yet.”
Yeonjun wants to be friends, then. The realization makes Beomgyu feel like he’s glowing. “I’m interested,” Beomgyu says. “Just let me—”
There are a dozen things Beomgyu could be doing— should be doing—but they seem unimportant as he retrieves his notebook from behind the counter and returns to sit with Yeonjun. He feels self-conscious for only the briefest moment before Yeonjun smiles at him and he feels welcome again.
There’s only an hour left until closing, and they work in a peaceful silence together. Beomgyu only needs to get up a few times. For once, he’s thankful that business is slow, even though he feels guilty for thinking it. When he reviews the day’s sales, it might sting, but now Beomgyu has a good thing to think about.
He latches on to it so desperately it consumes him, and his feelings spill out onto the pages of his tattered notebook without much thought.
It’s Yeonjun who eventually points out that there are only a few minutes left before the cafe is supposed to close, insistent on helping Beomgyu clean up a bit, as he’d been the one to distract him. “Thank you for tonight,” he says, lingering by the door even after the floor is mopped and the chairs have been rearranged to their original positions. “You look happy when you write. It makes you happy?”
Beomgyu has never thought much about it. It’s just something he does, and it’s an escape from all of the things he has to do. He must like it, then. He nods.
“Then it’s something worth investing in, isn’t it?” Yeonjun says. He tucks his laptop and headphones into his bag. “I’ll see you soon,” he promises.
Once again, he’s gone before Beomgyu can say goodbye properly. But Beomgyu knows he’ll be back. He’s never been so sure of a new beginning.
It isn’t quite a routine, but it isn’t not a routine.
Yeonjun doesn’t come to the cafe every day, but he does most days. He’s always alone, and usually brings his laptop. Often he’ll stay for hours, working and occasionally making phone calls that Beomgyu tries his best not to eavesdrop on no matter how heated they sound. Yeonjun always speaks gently to Beomgyu, but his voice hardens on the phone. Beomgyu wonders if the calls are about his job, or something personal, but he would never dare to ask.
Sometimes they write together, when Beomgyu isn’t too busy, although it feels like a small thing to make time for him when he feels his whole demeanor change whenever Yeonjun walks through the door.
It doesn’t take long for Yeonjun to work his way through the whole menu. On the days that Yeonjun stays late, engrossed in his work, he’ll try a few things. When he starts gravitating toward his favorites, Beomgyu swears to himself that he’ll never change the menu as long as it means that Yeonjun keeps coming.
Yeonjun tells him that he sometimes visits the cafe when Beomgyu isn’t working, and he’s always treated nicely no matter who is. But eventually he starts asking Beomgyu for his schedule, and he visits the cafe no matter what time of day it is, even in the busy mornings and early afternoons. Beomgyu supposes that his schedule is flexible if he’s been mandated not to work for real, but it still surprises him at first. Yeonjun is always tense when there are more people around, but his energy is always bright. Beomgyu doesn’t care for MBTI, but there’s no doubt in his mind that Yeonjun is an extrovert.
They haven’t even exchanged contact information, but it feels like Yeonjun is a friend.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Beomgyu chides himself whenever he realizes that he’s hanging off Yeonjun’s words a little too closely. Don’t get too attached. Everybody comes and goes. He doesn’t belong here.
Eventually, Beomgyu works up the courage to ask Yeonjun how long he’s staying in Daegu.
Yeonjun doesn’t seem to know himself. He shrugs and says, “A few months,” and Beomgyu doesn’t press any further, as if questioning Yeonjun about it will make him leave sooner.
One day Yeonjun’s heart will call him back to Seoul, just as Beomgyu’s called him back to Daegu. Ships in the night, and that’s just the way it is.
Two weeks after Beomgyu meets Yeonjun, Beomgyu and Soobin renew their lease on the cafe property.
It doesn’t come down to any sort of debate because there isn’t any sort of discussion that needs to be had. The cafe is everything to both Soobin and Beomgyu—their shared dream, their passion, the way in which they make a living and the basket that they have placed all of their eggs in. Not renewing the lease isn’t an option.
Beomgyu has never given a moment of thought to the possibility of ever moving locations. After all, there isn’t anywhere better to be in Daegu than downtown. Finding such a perfect location in the first place had been a rare stroke of luck that they had taken to be a sign that they had chosen the path that they were both destined for. After months of searching, the property had opened up, and was somehow affordable for them despite their meager wages after graduating university in Seoul.
They had known that Daegu wouldn’t quite have the real estate that they had grown used to in Seoul, but it was much more significant to experience this as potential business owners than in theory. Beomgyu hadn’t understood even though he had grown up in Daegu, and Soobin had only visited the city a handful of times before moving there, trusting Beomgyu to guide them.
Soobin will never admit that Beomgyu had done a reprehensible job of this, but knowing this haunts Beomgyu even now.
It’s why the little things feel like they matter more. Like how they go out to dinner together to celebrate the lease renewal, splurging on reservations for a higher-class restaurant even though the anniversary isn’t even a monumental one. This year, it feels like a momentous occasion—not so much as the first year, but the fact that either of them had had any doubts about continuing on for another year, whether they had voiced them or not, was a first. They hadn’t even had second thoughts back when their debt seemed like an untouchable number; this number was instead their biggest motivator.
They don’t talk about the cafe at dinner, even when they order a small dessert and eat it outside the restaurant, blowing out a single candle and promising each other a better year. The cake has lemon frosting that makes Beomgyu’s tongue tingle. He tells this to Soobin and Soobin makes it his job to suck on it until Beomgyu begs for Soobin to take him home.
After a decade, they communicate without words, but Beomgyu thinks that this might be when words matter the most. But the last place they might talk would be here, tangled in their sheets together, and Beomgyu decides that maybe there isn’t anything to talk about at all.
They stay up so late that Soobin is late to the cafe for his morning baking, but he’s nothing if not a professional. He sends Beomgyu pictures of rows of tiny multicolored macarons before Beomgyu has even gotten out of bed for the day, restlessly dozing in and out of sleep, huddled under the blankets to cling to any last traces of Soobin’s warmth.
Beomgyu doesn’t rush to the cafe that morning. He enjoys the quiet stillness of the apartment, lonely but self-assured, sipping at Soobin’s raspberry tea and flipping through the poems he’d penned during his last writing session with Yeonjun.
He’s early to his shift anyway, greeting Jungwon at the counter and ordering himself coffee before claiming a table by the windows. A good spot to people watch, both inside the cafe and to the streets outside.
He likes to experience the cafe as a customer sometimes, although he knows that he’ll never really be unbiased considering that the cafe caters to his and Soobin’s taste exactly. He scrolls through online reviews sometimes—and even the occasional travel vlog filmed at the cafe—but he’s never been good at taking criticism objectively. He calls himself sensitive; Soobin says that he feels emotions deeply.
It’s important to Beomgyu, at least, that the cafe is a place he wants to spend time in no matter how long each day is—that it’s a place where he can happily work through management tasks to keep it running and not feel at all resentful from the effort it takes. He doesn’t feel that he has a right to complain when the cafe is enough to sustain his lifestyle, even though he’s taken on more and more aspects of business throughout the years—even the parts he hates, that Soobin had intended on being responsible for at the beginning, but hadn’t been able to manage along with his baking.
His love for the cafe, and his gratitude, still doesn’t save him from a splitting headache as he works through inventory for their next stock delivery. He hates being the one to have to make decisions about where to cut corners, but if Soobin won’t do it, he has to.
“Rough day?”
Beomgyu startles at the sound of a chair scraping the ground. But it’s only Yeonjun, sliding into the seat across from him. He’s smiling, a drink already in hand, his mask pulled down.
“Good day, but I’m doing math,” Beomgyu says.
Is Yeonjun good at math? Not like Beomgyu could ask for help. He’d rather die than show Yeonjun the cafe’s budget for the upcoming month. The numbers probably aren’t quite what someone like Yeonjun is used to.
“Sorry,” Yeonjun says. “Can’t help with that. I’m here if you want company, though.”
For however long Yeonjun stays in Daegu, he’s awfully good at fulfilling Beomgyu’s fantasies about them being friends—that Beomgyu has a willing companion whenever he wants, someone who seems just as lonely as he is.
Yeonjun might be even more lonely than Beomgyu, though. What kind of life does someone in the entertainment industry live? Does he have time for a partner? A family? Does he have someone to go home to every night in Seoul—someone that he’d left behind?
“Yes, please,” Beomgyu says.
Yeonjun grins. His gaze drifts to the window, at a family walking down the street, a dog nipping at the child’s heels.
“Thought you didn’t like window seats,” Beomgyu says.
“I’m more of an aisle guy,” Yeonjun jokes, opening up his laptop.
Beomgyu works through inventory, and Yeonjun hums along to a beat that Beomgyu doesn’t recognize. Mostly, though, he doesn’t work. Every so often his typing pauses and he looks outside, eyes distant as though he’s lost in thought.
They don’t talk again until Beomgyu begins to pack up his things before the start of his shift, busy with their own projects. It feels good not to be so self-conscious in front of Yeonjun anymore, knowing that Yeonjun, as stunning and fascinating as he is, chooses to keep spending time with Beomgyu.
“Make any progress?” Yeonjun says, looking up from his own work. “Sorry I couldn’t be any help. I was never very good in school.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Beomgyu says. “Not without paying you, anyway. I promise you don’t want to do this kind of work for free.”
Yeonjun watches Beomgyu intently as he shuts down his laptop and sorts through the stack of papers he’d brought with him. Bills, mostly, that Beomgyu had hidden from Yeonjun until he was absolutely sure he wasn’t looking.
Yeonjun’s gaze flicks down, catching on Beomgyu’s hands.
“Your ring,” Yeonjun says, his eyes wide as they flick back up to meet Beomgyu’s. “Are you…?”
“Oh,” Beomgyu stutters. “My ring?”
Had he ever worn his rings around Yeonjun? He almost always takes it off before he works with food, just like Soobin does. Most days Soobin wears his wedding band on a necklace unless they’re going out or he has the day off. Beomgyu has never had a reason to give thought to the significance of not wearing it because this has never been unusual for either of them.
It’s not as though Beomgyu had meant to hide this from Yeonjun. Will he think that it’s weird that Beomgyu had never mentioned his husband in the weeks that they had been bonding?
Will he think of Beomgyu differently now that he knows that he isn’t alone?
“Yes,” Beomgyu says. “Um. Yes. I’m married. Coming up on our three-year anniversary.”
“That’s amazing,” Yeonjun says, sounding as genuine as always, his smile coming just as easily. “Is it…”
Why does it matter what Yeonjun thinks of his marriage? Soobin is the most important thing in Beomgyu’s life. He was going to find out eventually, and if he isn’t okay with it, then they can’t be friends.
“Soobin-hyung,” Beomgyu says. “Our baker.”
There must be something else he should say to introduce him, but words always seem to fall flat when it comes to Soobin. Beomgyu could say we met in university and it felt like fate or he helped me when I was having a hard time or we fell in love because we shared a dream or I always wanted a big wedding and hyung didn’t think he would ever marry but we did it as soon as it was legalized, as soon as we could book a venue.
They can’t be friends if Yeonjun has a problem with any of this.
Totally unfazed, Yeonjun nods. “I don’t think I’ve met him yet. You have to introduce me sometime.”
Not a word about the fact that Beomgyu has married a man. He hadn’t even blinked. Maybe he’s trying too hard—maybe he’ll ghost Beomgyu, or write a scathing review about the cafe and its owners online, or maybe…
“Of course,” Beomgyu says. He answers quickly because he can’t bear for there to be a moment of silence, an awkward note in the conversation. Not with this. “I’ve told him about you. He says he wants to meet you, too.”
Surprise flashes across Yeonjun’s expression for the first time. Beomgyu doesn’t blame him. A few minutes ago Yeonjun hadn’t even known that Beomgyu had a partner at all, and now he knows that Beomgyu has someone to share every part of himself with—to share his life with. That there’s someone Beomgyu tells about the best and worst parts of his days, the things that worry him and inspire him, and about the new people he meets.
“I’d love that,” Yeonjun says, and he smiles warmly. “Have you told him how much I love his cooking? I need to thank him directly.”
He wouldn’t go that far if he was only trying to be civil. Beomgyu feels himself start to relax. Beomgyu hardly knows anything about Yeonjun, but he doesn’t think that he’ll make a big deal out of it, or change the way they interact because of it.
It isn’t a big deal. Beomgyu has no reason to be so paranoid.
“You’ll flatter him,” Beomgyu says. “Sorry, I should…”
“No, don’t apologize,” Yeonjun says. “I kept you.”
Still, Beomgyu doesn’t move. It feels like something has been left unsaid, but he doesn’t quite know what it is.
Yeonjun looks at him expectantly, and Beomgyu realizes that he’s been staring.
“If you’re hanging around, refills are on me today,” Beomgyu says, flustered. “Let me know if you need anything?”
“You’re too good,” Yeonjun says, shaking his head. “Thanks, Beomgyu.”
Beomgyu can’t even look at his face. He scurries behind the counter as fast as possible without looking like even more of a mess, and makes himself look busy until he eventually gathers the courage to look in Yeonjun’s direction again. It isn’t that hard to pretend. Business is picking up for the day, which means that Yeonjun won’t stay for much longer.
Yeonjun waves goodbye on his way out, but he doesn’t come up to the counter because there’s a line, and Beomgyu has his hands full with orders. Sometimes he waits, sometimes he doesn’t. He doesn’t today. He doesn’t today, and it doesn’t have to mean anything, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but Beomgyu’s heart sinks anyway.
As soon as there’s a lull in customers—what feels like an excruciatingly long time—Beomgyu locks the doors and takes a break. In the back room, he sinks to the ground, holding his head in his hands and breathing in deeply.
Why does he care so much? Why is his heart heavy with disappointment even though Yeonjun had had a perfectly fine—even good —reaction to the truth about Beomgyu’s relationship? Beomgyu is used to scorn, neutrality at best, but Yeonjun had been pleasant and welcoming and kind, no different from how he usually treats Beomgyu.
The answer is obvious, the whispering at the back of Beomgyu’s mind echoing and building and shaking him to his core.
Beomgyu is married, not immune. But he doesn’t get to look, and he certainly doesn’t get to feel. Whatever he’d done before Soobin, those doors had been closed the moment he’d accepted Soobin’s proposal. Hell, they’d been locked shut when Beomgyu had kissed him for the first time.
Soobin is the best thing in his life. The most important thing, indisputably, and every choice Beomgyu makes is with the intent of making their life together better, of making himself better for Soobin.
Whatever Beomgyu feels about Yeonjun—it stings. But it’s only a scrape. Nothing like the gaping wound in Beomgyu’s chest, the perfect cavity for Soobin to hold Beomgyu’s heart in his hands and cradle it gently even though he has all the power in the world to break it.
Nothing changes. There’s no reason for it to, until Soobin finally meets Yeonjun.
Beomgyu works the morning shift that day. It’s a Saturday, and the cafe is at. Its busiest, but Yeonjun lingers to drink his coffee anyway, chatting with Beomgyu whenever he has a few moments to spare. By early afternoon, at the end of Beomgyu’s shift, the flow of of customers finally begins to slow.
He’s busy wiping down tables when Soobin enters the cafe.
For a moment Beomgyu is surprised—Soobin at the cafe in the middle of the day isn’t unheard of, just rare—but then he remembers that Soobin is covering a shift, isn’t he?
Soobin meets Beomgyu’s eyes and melts into a soft smile.
“How did this morning go?” Soobin says, setting his bag down behind the counter. “Sorry you had to handle the morning rush alone. Taehyunie is sick?”
“It was okay,” Beomgyu says. When they had first opened the cafe, and hadn’t been able to afford to hire employees, they had suffered through much more burdensome days on their own. “Good for business, and Taehyun will be back on Monday. Hey, Soobin-hyung—there’s someone I want you to meet.”
As if on cue, Yeonjun looks up from his table, smiling at Beomgyu in a way that makes his heart flutter uncomfortably.
Beomgyu had told Soobin enough about Yeonjun that it would be off if he suddenly didn’t want to introduce them to each other. But it isn’t just that. Even though Beomgyu does think that Yeonjun is handsome, and charming, and he likes being on the receiving end of his attention, it doesn’t have to mean anything. Beomgyu is confident, actually, that his crush will fade away on its own. He hardly even feels it anyway.
If Soobin knew, he would probably tease Beomgyu. He trusts him completely, just as Beomgyu does him.
“Your friend?” Soobin says. Beomgyu nods. “Sure, baby. I’d like that.”
Beomgyu swallows down a sudden swell of anxiety and takes Soobin’s hand to lead him to Yeonjun’s table. Truthfully, he’s excited. He knows that Soobin is happy that he’d made a friend, maybe even a real friend, and Beomgyu wants so desperately to share this joy with Soobin.
As far as Beomgyu knows, Yeonjun has never seen Soobin, or even a picture of him, but there’s no way he doesn’t recognize him, standing up to greet him as soon as they’re within earshot. “Yeonjun-ssi, Soobin-hyung,” Beomgyu says, his hand sliding out of Soobin’s grasp. “Soobin-hyung, Yeonjun-ssi.”
Soobin beams, although Beomgyu can tell that he’s nervous. “I’ve heard a lot about you. All good things.”
Yeonjun doesn’t miss a beat, even though he definitely hasn’t heard as much about Soobin as Soobin has heard about him. “You’re incredibly talented. I told Beomgyu-ssi that I wanted to thank you for everything myself.”
And then—Soobin ducks his head, red all the way to his ears. He’s always been shy when it comes to compliments, but he isn’t usually this affected. “Thank you,” he stutters. “It’s—it’s nothing, really. We do our best.”
“The best I’ve had in Daegu,” Yeonjun says, the same thing he had told Beomgyu when they first met. “I mean it. I’ve lost interest in every other place by now.”
Soobin lifts his head, but he still can’t quite look Yeonjun in the eyes, even though Yeonjun tries to. “Thank you,” he repeats, more quietly. “It’s an honor that you think so.”
There’s a beat of silence that isn’t quite awkward, but is uncertain. Yeonjun grips the strap of his bag tightly. “I was just heading out,” he says. “I’ll leave you to work. Thank you again.”
“Thank you,” Beomgyu and Soobin echo, Soobin completely frozen next to Beomgyu.
Yeonjun catches Beomgyu’s eye one last time before he leaves, smiling in a way that Beomgyu thinks is meant to be reassuring.
Soobin doesn’t say a word until Yeonjun has exited the cafe. Then he grabs Beomgyu’s arm and drags him into the back room, to the kitchen.
“Hyung, what? There are customers out there,” Beomgyu protests. It’s not as though there haven’t been situations in which Beomgyu was forced to leave the front unattended for a brief moment, but he’s more confused than anything. Soobin wouldn’t break his own rules unless it was really important.
“What the fuck,” Soobin breathes, unhearing. “Beomgyu. Do you know who he is?”
“What do you mean?”
Soobin grabs his shoulders. “Yeonjun. Choi Yeonjun. You know him?”
Beomgyu frowns. Yeonjun had never mentioned a family name. “I guess? He’s a regular. We don’t really talk about much, honestly. Just everyday things, and writing…”
“Holy shit. What did he say he does for work?”
“Something in the entertainment industry. He never specified,” Beomgyu says. “Hyung, I don’t get it.”
But it’s already coming together, everything that Yeonjun has told Beomgyu—and everything he hadn’t told him—over the past few weeks finally clicking.
Soobin’s hands are shaking too badly to keep holding him. He lets go of Beomgyu and wrings them together. “Beomgyu-ya, he’s Choi Yeonjun. He doesn’t just work in entertainment. He’s an idol.”
“An idol?” Beomgyu repeats numbly. Yeonjun is an idol? A celebrity? The same Yeonjun who had been coming to his cafe for weeks, begging for inspiration, asking Beomgyu of all people to keep him company as he writes music?
Beomgyu had always known that they were different, but he hadn’t suspected something like this. He’d thought that maybe Yeonjun was vague about his job because he’d signed NDAs, or maybe he really was just lacking motivation, or needed a break from it being his whole life.
Maybe these things are also true, but Yeonjun was vague about his work because he’s a celebrity.
“You really didn’t recognize him?” Soobin says. “Even after all this time?”
“Not at all,” Beomgyu says, stricken. “You know I don’t keep up with idol music anymore, hyung.”
Has he heard Yeonjun’s voice before? It’s not as though Beomgyu avoids idol music; he enjoys a song every so often, but he never seeks it out. Not since he was a teenager. Or maybe it was in college that his love for it had fizzled out, watching his boyfriend engage with fandom culture the same way he had when he was younger, attending concerts with his friends but never asking Beomgyu, walking on eggshells even though Beomgyu insisted that he was fine, that he didn’t care, that he would only feel worse if Soobin didn’t share his passions with him.
“I know, I just… his face is everywhere. Even in convenience stores,” Soobin says. “Fuck, he’s an actor too. He was in the last drama we watched together, you remember the one—”
“The summer romance with the dog?” Beomgyu says. God, he can picture Yeonjun’s face exactly. “He wasn’t in the lead role.”
“He’s had plenty before,” Soobin says. He lets out a breath. “Beomgyu. Choi Yeonjun, in our cafe.”
Soobin’s words barely mean anything to him. Beomgyu doesn’t know Choi Yeonjun, idol. He only knows Yeonjun, the man he drinks coffee with as they write verses together under Daegu’s starless sky.
Beomgyu swallows hard around the lump in his throat. “Is he…”
“Popular?” Soobin fills in. “You have no idea, do you?”
Beomgyu doesn’t. Not at all. The realization leaves him sick to his stomach.
Beomgyu doesn’t even know Yeonjun. He knows the parts that Yeonjun had chosen to share with him, as selective as Beomgyu had been with himself. But Beomgyu is a simple person, and he doesn’t have much to hide. He can pretend to be secretive, offering himself an illusion of control, but the reality of it is that he is nobody, and Yeonjun is somebody. Somebody that everybody seems to know, except Beomgyu.
“I went to one of his concerts in college,” Soobin says. He’s pacing now, up and down the short hallway leading to the dining area. “Back when he was in a group. Before they really blew up and it got too hard to buy tickets. By the time they disbanded he was too popular to even attend his solo events.”
“Do you, like…” Beomgyu feels silly asking. He listens to all of Soobin’s playlists, and knows exactly which songs Soobin listens to to get out of bed and pump himself up every morning, exactly what he needs to start his day with sunrise. Shouldn’t he know if his husband is passionate about an idol? “Stan him?”
“I like some of his solo music,” Soobin says, and that’s enough of an answer.
His words sink in for a moment. All of them. All of it—the weight of Yeonjun’s profession, and everything it changes.
“I thought you thought he was hot or something,” Beomgyu says. “But it was actually this?”
Soobin just laughs, a bit dejectedly, and Beomgyu glares at him. They’ve spent plenty of nights ogling over attractive actors together, but they’ve never had one walk into their cafe.
But then Soobin smiles. And, as always, his smile is infectious.
“You know, he was probably glad to meet someone who didn’t recognize him right away,” he says. “I hope I don’t ruin that for you.” He chews his lip anxiously. “For both of you.”
It would have been so much easier if things had stayed simple. Simple, with an inevitable conclusion.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Beomgyu says hollowly.
“I’ve got to get back out there,” Soobin says. “Say bye before you leave?”
Then he kisses Beomgyu. The slightest moment of a kiss, and suddenly tears well up in Beomgyu’s eyes, tears he blinks away as quickly as possible.
How could he have been so stupid? No wonder Yeonjun had been so skittish at first, vague about his career and avoidant of people. He must have been testing Beomgyu to see if he would recognize him, or even make public the fact that he’d been frequenting the cafe.
Beomgyu doesn’t blame him for keeping his celebrity status a secret. It would have come up eventually, but Beomgyu understands why he might have wanted to keep it hidden for just a bit longer, as much as something in him feels horribly, irrationally betrayed.
Beomgyu doesn’t see Yeonjun again for nearly a week. He misses a few of his shifts after catching Taehyun’s sickness, bedridden as Soobin handles the extra burden on his own. Soobin diligently returns home each day and takes care of him, and Beomgyu struggles not to feel guilty as his anxiety slows his recovery.
It isn’t just about Yeonjun. As he lies in bed, he replays moments from the past few weeks in his mind over and over. But not just those weeks. Moments from the past year, since they started struggling. Moments from before, when they first started, and before then, when it had only been a dream.
On the fifth day, Beomgyu is opening the cafe on Soobin’s day off when Yeonjun appears.
It’s still dark out. The sun rises late in winter, and the sky has only just started turning pinkish by the time Beomgyu arrives at the cafe. He isn’t expecting to see anyone—it’s so early and cold that everyone Beomgyu had passed on the street had continued on with their heads bowed against the morning chill.
But Yeonjun is there, waiting by the door, his expression tense with anxiety.
“Beomgyu, are you feeling better?” is the first thing he says, hovering close as Beomgyu unlocks the doors. “Soobin told me you were sick.”
“Much better,” Beomgyu promises him, even though the hand he holds the key with is shaking. Soobin always tells him that he needs to be more careful about staying hydrated.
The cafe is mostly ready to go, Soobin’s pastry assistant having prepared everything for the morning, but it’s still impractical for Beomgyu to let a customer in with him early. But Yeonjun isn’t just any customer, and Beomgyu knows this now more than ever.
Beomgyu doesn’t mean to sound elusive, but a ripple of tension crosses Yeonjun’s face again. “Yesterday was my first day back,” he elaborates. Yeonjun hadn’t visited the cafe yesterday. Not during Beomgyu’s shift, anyway.
Yeonjun follows him all the way to the counter, watching as Beomgyu begins preparing the coffee machines. He looks less put together than usual, his hair flat instead of styled and his eyes tired. Beomgyu doesn’t even think he’s ever seen Yeonjun wear sweatpants, but he supposes that even idols have off days.
Beomgyu should have known the second he saw Yeonjun’s watch.
It takes Yeonjun seven minutes to bring it up. Beomgyu counts, all too aware of Yeonjun’s gaze on him, the oppressive silence they stand in. “You know, don’t you?” Yeonjun says, and Beomgyu breathes in slowly, holding it.
“Yes,” he says simply.
Yeonjun only nods, accepting it. If he’s trying to hide the way his emotions are mirrored in his expression, he’s doing a poor job of it. “Soobin recognized me, right?” he says. “That’s how you figured it out?”
“He’s a fan of idols,” Beomgyu says.
“You aren’t?”
Beomgyu smoothes his hands over the counter, looking down at the rows of perfect pastries that keep his business alive. Worries that Yeonjun doesn’t share, if everything Soobin says is true. “It’s complicated.”
“Liking something shouldn’t be complicated,” Yeonjun says.
Beomgyu looks away. “Then I guess that’s my answer.”
He almost expects Yeonjun to leave, taking this as a rejection, but he doesn’t. He lingers by the counter, still looking at Beomgyu, and it doesn’t make any sense.
“I wanted to tell you that Soobin-hyung and I aren’t going to… I don’t know. Invade your privacy,” Beomgyu says. “We won’t tell anyone that you come here. And… when you go back to Seoul. We won’t say anything then, either.”
After that day, he and Soobin haven’t talked much at all about Yeonjun. Beomgyu hadn’t even known that he’d seen him—Soobin hadn’t mentioned it, although Beomgyu would have thought that he would have.
“Thank you,” Yeonjun murmurs. “I appreciate it.”
“It’s just basic respect,” Beomgyu says.
Yeonjun shrugs. “It’s just the nature of my work, but I’ve grown to expect less.”
Beomgyu doesn’t know what to say to that. Of course he knows this, in theory, but he doesn’t know what Yeonjun is thinking—if he had assumed that Beomgyu wasn’t safe to tell, if he didn’t already know him, or if he suspects that Beomgyu will go back on his word eventually. Beomgyu is sure that some people do.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Yeonjun says earnestly. “I was going to eventually, but I didn’t know how.”
Beomgyu finds this hard to believe, considering Yeonjun’s age, but maybe he has his reasons.
“You don’t need to explain,” Beomgyu says, uncomfortable and unsure of what Yeonjun wants from him.
Yeonjun lets out a breath. “Did you look me up online?”
“No,” Beomgyu says, and Yeonjun visibly relaxes, tension releasing from his shoulders. “Is it rude to say I have no interest in doing so? I don’t know you for who you are to everyone else. I only know you from here.”
“Not at all,” Yeonjun says quickly. “Usually it’s the other way around. I like this way.”
It’s just like Soobin had said, then.
“I know we don’t really know each other, but I’d rather you know me this way, I think,” Yeonjun says. He meets Beomgyu’s eyes, suddenly more confident. “If that’s okay.”
Yeonjun is the celebrity, but he’s giving Beomgyu all the power—and Beomgyu doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want it to be complicated, either. Not if Yeonjun wants to know him the way Beomgyu wants to know Yeonjun. Not if Beomgyu can have this for just a bit longer.
Whatever Yeonjun is running from, he won’t be able to hide forever. How could Beomgyu turn him away if he’s chosen to hide here?
“Do you want to know me?” Beomgyu asks.
“I’m older than you, aren’t I?” Yeonjun says. “You can call me hyung.”