Work Text:
Gunwook walks home from work with his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, phone clutched tightly in his right hand, the harsh edges digging into his palm. Just in case. He has it just in case his boss needs him. His phone rings at odd times after office hours at least nine times a night, be it the senior secretary, Matthew, giving him that morning’s eccentric coffee order or some other inane task that Gunwook will have to have completed before stepping foot in the office; or their actual boss, Ricky, with a direct instruction to pick up a piece from a local supplier at sketchy times at night, or just to change the coffee order that Matthew already sent him because Ricky decided he wants strawberry syrup instead of lavender.
Not to get things twisted, Gunwook loves his job at the fashion magazine.
In Bloom is currently doing a special issue on a beautiful Chinese musician whom Ricky knows personally, as well as the man’s dancer husband, who is apparently one of Matthew’s friends, and Gunwook has quite enjoyed working with the pair during their fitting sessions. Gunwook even likes his co-workers and his boss, although Matthew is so neurotic that Gunwook sometimes wonders how he manages to relax at the end of the day, and Ricky must have made some sort of deal with the devil for the amount of information that he manages to get his hands on before literally any other fashion magazine in South Korea. But, sometimes, Gunwook would just like a moment to himself. A moment without Matthew shrieking for him across their noisy office, or Ricky appearing out of the shadows with a list of new things that need to be fixed immediately.
At some point, Gunwook’s feet have turned him around, and he finds himself wandering towards the night markets that are a block over from his apartment building. He really should just go home; it’s already nearly one in the morning. Gunwook has to get up at five to go to Ricky’s favourite coffee house on the other side of town to pick up some new limited-edition peach-infused bubble tea that they’re selling for the owner’s birthday that Ricky and Matthew both want to try. But, despite that, Gunwook’s feet continue towards the night markets.
One of the permanent stalls only opens after midnight for some strange reason, and their prices are always absurdly discounted in the hours between half twelve and the sun rising.
The bell over the door has been pulled off its hook and stays silent when Gunwook pushes it open, so he assumes that at least one of the staff members is asleep in the booth by the counter, a sight he has seen a few times over his late-night visits to Bambi and Thumper. Sure enough, the very tall boy who Gunwook believes is the stall owner is asleep there, his large body curled around the U-shaped seat with his black uniform cap, embroidered with a cute little deer, pulled down low over his eyes. Someone has draped a fleece blanket patterned with pawprints over him, the edge of it clutched in one of his spindly hands.
Gunwook takes careful steps towards the counter, not wanting to wake him up.
“Good morning,” a gentle voice calls out, and Gunwook jumps when the other barista appears – seemingly from nowhere, but most likely from the door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’ that is behind the counter. The boy wipes his hands on a towel that he tucks into his pocket, and then he offers Gunwook a tiny smile, none of his features really moving but a warm look taking over his face regardless. “Would you like your usual?”
Maybe Gunwook has come to this café more than a few times. Actually, it’s something close to three or four times a week at this point, and his cheeks flush pink when he starts thinking about why he visits this particular café, in this particular market so often. Instead of saying anything embarrassing, Gunwook just nods his head and pulls his hand and phone out of his coat to pay for his order.
“No need,” the barista says with a sly twinkle in his eyes. “Your drink’s already been paid for tonight.”
“What?” Gunwook asks, confused. His eyebrows pull in slightly. Who on earth is even in the café to pay for his coffee? He doubts it was the two baristas. Paying for their own wares doesn’t seem like very sound business practice, even if Gunwook has become an alarmingly regular customer. “By who?”
The barista just grins, which is more of an upturn of the corners of his mouth than anything else, and inclines his head towards the window. Gunwook looks over his shoulder, eyes immediately falling on the figure standing outside the café on the other side of the footpath, guitar in hand. It might be nearly one o’clock in the morning and half the stalls in the market are closed, but the street is still bustling with late-night activity, as these market streets are a shortcut from the business district to the nightclub district if you know where you’re going. Plenty of potential listeners for keen little buskers.
The busker in question already has a few notes in the velvet-lined case at his feet, an unbearably cute duck plushie wedged inside to hold the lid up.
At the sight of him, Gunwook’s blush darkens, his whole face hot all over, and he tries to hide his disgustingly wide smile behind his hand as he turns back to the barista, who has already started making Gunwook’s drink. “How did he know that I’d be coming in tonight?” he asks.
“He didn’t,” the barista replies, drizzling house-made vanilla syrup down the side of the pretty glass mug that he has pulled down from the rack over his head. “He left us ten thousand won in an envelope on Monday and said it was for ‘the tall guy with the In Bloom lanyard, the one with the pretty blush and the hunky shoulders’.” The barista wraps a neatly folded serviette around the mug and then pours the dark roast coffee into it. “I assume that that’s supposed to be you.” He places a small stencil over the foam and taps cocoa powder over it, leaving an impression of the café’s logo behind, a cartoon deer mid-step with a bunny on its back. “Go and sit by the window so you can hear him play.”
Gunwook was going to do that anyway, but the barista doesn’t need to know that, and he shuffles towards the seat closest to the window, which he finds is already open. The barista follows after him and sets the coffee down in front of him, a tiny chocolate muffin on the plate next to the glass. “Thank you,” Gunwook murmurs quietly, and he watches as the barista walks away and approaches the other boy sleeping in the booth, shaking his shoulder and telling him that his shift starts in fifteen minutes.
Turning his attention out the window, Gunwook finds himself straight into the bright eyes and dimpled smile of the busker with the guitar. The bite of muffin that Gunwook took gets stuck in his throat as the busker turns that devastating smile on him, looking absolutely thrilled that Gunwook took his offered coffee. Thank you, Gunwook mouths to him after coughing into his wrist and swallowing the muffin.
In response, the busker strums his guitar and starts to play. It’s an older song that Gunwook doesn’t know, something mellow and bouncy that makes Gunwook tap his toes on the vinyl floor and the passers-by stop to listen, their heads bobbing as they reach into their pockets for the last of the day’s change. Gunwook can’t catch the words enough to follow along properly, but the look on the busker’s face as he looks at Gunwook throughout the entire song is enough to clue him in to what it might be about. The busker’s voice is rich and velvety, warmer than the coffee in Gunwook’s hands, and Gunwook can’t keep his eyes off him.
His guitar has the name Taerae painted on the elegant curve of its body.
Gunwook’s glass is empty and he has turned the tiny muffin wrapper into the world’s smallest origami duck by the time the barista comes back to tell him that the café is closing early that night. “I’m not trying to rush you, but he forgot he has an assignment due tomorrow that he hasn’t finished, and if I’m not allowed to fail out of high school, then he’s not allowed to fail out of college.” He jerks his thumb to the boy who owns the café, who is sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry to cut your personal show short.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Gunwook says hurriedly, handing his empty crockery to the barista, who smiles again and waves him out the door. He’s more than used to accommodating sudden changes, it’s practically part of his job description. “Thanks for the coffee!” Gunwook calls before pulling the door shut behind him and stepping back out into the bustle of the markets. When he turns around, the busker is standing nervously a few feet away, guitar back in its case and the duck plush tucked under his arm. “Hi,” Gunwook says breathlessly, utterly failing at keeping the goofy grin off his face.
He really should go home.
“Hi,” the busker replies, sounding equally as breathless.
“Thank you,” Gunwook blurts out. “For the coffee, I mean. And the song.” He blushes again, curse his complexion, and he thrusts his hand out towards the busker. “I’m Gunwook. Park Gunwook.”
The busker grins, that horribly endearing dimple appearing again, and he takes Gunwook’s hand almost reverently. Despite the significant difference in their heights, the busker tilting his head up as they’re drawn closer together, their hands are almost the same size. “I’m Kim Taerae,” he says. His fingers are calloused. “I’m so happy you took the coffee – I was afraid you might think it was creepy.”
Gunwook shakes his head. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciate it. It’s been a long day.” And it really has. Matthew got into an argument with Jiwoong in the printing department over typesetting, and Ricky had sat at his desk with his feet propped up to watch the entire thing unfold until Matthew realised that it wasn’t the typesetting that was the problem, he just needed some coffee and a sandwich so Jiwoong dragged him out for lunch. And somehow all of this was Gunwook’s fault. “Do you… Taerae, do you want to go out for breakfast with me?”
“At two in the morning?” Taerae asks as he checks his phone for the time. “Sure.” His smile is so bright, as warm as his voice, and as warm as the hand he still has tangled with Gunwook’s.
They hold hands all the way to the stall on the corner selling giant bowls of chicken soup, of which they buy one and decide to share, getting to know each other with their spoons clinking in the hot broth. Taerae’s cheeks flush as pink as Gunwook’s when Gunwook feeds him the last piece of chicken. The next morning, Gunwook calls in sick for work, his arm curled around Taerae’s waist in bed, and they stay in bed for the rest of the day.
It’s more than worth the disappointed puppy dog face that Matthew gives him all day the day after that, and even Ricky is forgiving when Gunwook leaves a takeaway cup from Bambi and Thumper on his desk, and he declares it the second-best coffee he’s ever had. Gunwook considers this high praise from the self-proclaimed coffee snob.
Gunwook can’t complain too much about how much his work drives him towards caffeine addiction after that – he got a boyfriend out of it, after all.