Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A gust of humid air welcomes Wonbin, fogging up his glasses as soon as he steps onto the air bridge.

The Japanese air is damp on his skin — still cool from the frigid cabin temperatures — and he stills for a moment near the vents to let the outside heat seep. Into his limbs, down his chest, then through his lungs, finally soothing the itch that accompanies 14 hours of stale air.

Briefly, he lets the taste sit on his tongue, as if the air would somehow contain the unspoken secrets of the continent he’s just landed in. 

It’s just a thing that Wonbin does. A ritual that he adheres to, if you will — where he lets his first breath at a foreign city tell him if his stay here will be good to him.

When he’d first told Sohee about it the time their exhibits coincided in Paris, Sohee had stared at him blankly with half a churro stuffed in his cheeks. “You’re so weird,” he’d said, syllables coming out garbled around sugared dough and nutella. Then he’d decided that the matter wasn’t worth his time, and proceeded to shove the remaining half in his mouth. 

Logically, Wonbin is aware that there is no basis behind this belief. Sneezing after his first breath of local air doesn’t mean that the city doesn’t vibe with him or anything along the lines of that — it’s more likely just the dust, running rampant after being stirred up by the parking aircraft.

But at this point, 13 countries and 23 cities of the same routine later, he’s attached. And maybe more than a little convinced, too, if his time in London is anything to go by. 

Eight months ago, he’d exited the plane at Heathrow, duffel stuffed full of equipment because he did not and does not trust luggage porters to treat his cameras right. First step onto the tarmac, and he’d somehow ended up choking on air.

The London December was unforgiving, the chill slicing into his airways, and as Wonbin stood there hacking his lungs out, he knew then and there that his projects in London would not be a smooth ride. 

He was right.

Three weeks before the date of an exhibit he’d been a part of, he was politely informed by the organizer that they’d like to tweak the theme a little bit, and that he should adjust his pieces suitably. 

Naturally, he told them to fuck off. Politely. Apparently not politely enough though, because he found out later that he’s been blacklisted from all future events under that particular organizer. 

It’s not a huge loss (it kind of is). He’s not so desperate that he needs to settle for any invite that comes his way (arguable). At least, that’s the conclusion he came to, after days of wondering why he couldn’t have turned down the unreasonable request without offending anyone's delicate sensibilities.

People skills. Definitely not his forte.

In any case, this entire ordeal goes to show that London, just like its air, had not been kind to him. Call him superstitious or whatever, but his weird first breath thing might hold some truth to it after all. 

And right now, it tells him that Tokyo will be different. He feels it. It’s in the way his first breath warms him up just the right amount, in the way it holds just enough moisture to soothe his dry throat without being grossly wet. Even his allergies seem to let up within Japan borders, and that’s as good of an omen as he could get. 

But if (and that’s a big if) — if his ritual-intuition-thing really is the load of bullshit that Sohee insists it is, and Tokyo turns out to be absolutely awful… Well, it wouldn’t matter. 

He’s not staying here for long anyway. 

—

There are a few things about Tokyo that catch Wonbin off guard. 

First: Tokyo is — complicated.

He’d taken a cab from the airport because he hadn’t felt like lugging his suitcases halfway across town, so he doesn’t quite appreciate the complexity of the city’s public transport system until after he’s dropped off his bags, when he’s sitting cross-legged in the flat he’s rented for the next four months, looking at the very elaborate, very convoluted instructions on Google Maps.

Google Maps, literally the most dumbed down version of a navigation system available in 2024. His eyebrows twitch. 

It was around 10 pm when he finally settled in. He probably should’ve cleaned up for bed if he wants to have any semblance of a normal schedule, but he works better at night and he’s not exactly sleepy yet — so he’s doing this instead. 

Back in London he’d been researching his next trip, and he’d marked down a few districts he'd wanted to feel out as soon as he had the chance to. Mainly big districts like Shibuya or Roppongi, famous for their cityscapes, where Wonbin knows he’d be able to take some phenomenal shots. He likes being prepared, likes knowing what to expect, so he figured he’d try to familiarize himself with how he could get to the places he’d likely frequent.

What he did not expect, though, was for the first step to already be this hard.

He takes in the metro and JR lines of various colors, a spider web spanning his entire phone screen, then the twelve different platforms and twenty exit gates that somehow all fit within one station. There are even specifications to which carriage he should board for the shortest walking distance to the transfer line.

It’s inclusive. It’s too much.  

He chews on his lower lip. Maybe he should save this for tomorrow afternoon. When he can actually take the time to physically scope out the railway, get lost between the intricate metro lines as much as he needs. 

Tonight, he’ll do something that demands less of his jet-lagged brain.

With a few hours to kill before his usual bedtime, taking a walk in the area around his apartment is probably as good a place to start as any. Maybe he could map out the surrounding neighborhoods, do some grocery shopping, all that boring stuff. 

Pondering, he pauses at the entryway, and then, thinking better of it, doubles back to grab his laptop and one of his smaller cameras. 

He officially wanders onto the streets of Shinjuku, and, approximately five minutes into his walk, has his second realization of the day:

Tokyo nights are busy.  

He’s managed to catch the area in the in-between hours, right when the shops and restaurants are closing down and the post-dinner rush is switching over to the nightlife scene.

At this time, the streets are filled with the bustle of the crowd, and central roads are shrouded in blinding light from electronic billboards and lightbox signs. People clad in business suits tear away from the rowdiness of the izakayas, rushing to catch the last train home, while youths with brightly colored hair hightail it to karaoke bars, laughing and shoving at each other as they go. 

This level of vibrancy at night is a bit disconcerting. Not because it’s strange, per se, just — unfamiliar.

His time abroad these past few years has mostly been in Western cities. Before London was Sydney, and before that had been Paris. It’s been a while since he’s touched down on Asian ground, and he’s forgotten just how much neon illuminates the city centers. 

He makes his way down narrow backstreets and ends up in a quieter neighbourhood, away from the buzz of the main streets. It looks to be a residential area, mainly typical Japanese houses within sight, and is dimly lit save for a few streetlights here and there. The difference in noise level is immediate.

A structure resembling a log cabin is nestled away from the bulk of the houses. If not for the warm golden glow emanating from its windows, it would’ve been pretty easy to miss. As he nears its exterior comes into focus, and he finds that it poses a striking contrast to the sleek, modern vibe of the neighbourhood; a splash of rich, earthy tones in the sea of white and grey. 

赤い糸 Cafe is etched onto a wooden sign next to the door. Right under it hangs a small chalkboard, swaying slightly in the wind, displaying the words 24 hours in hand-printed English. 

He checks his phone. 11 pm. Not the best time for normal, functioning people to get coffee, but Wonbin is a freelance photographer. He doesn’t need to be normal or functioning. Plus, the cafe looks like it serves decent coffee. If it does turn out to be a good spot — so close to his apartment no less — his caffeine fix for the next four months would be all set. 

Orange light filters out from the fogged up glass, spilling onto the grey concrete. Despite the conflicting color scheme, it feels strangely right.

Wonbin has known about the cafe for all of five minutes, but if asked, he'd compare the impression it gives to a safe haven for weary souls, purposefully set apart within the harsh constraints of the city. 

Hm.

Well. He was planning on getting some work done tonight anyway. It’s just a matter of doing so in the welcoming warmth of the cafe, or within the dull, sterile walls of his apartment. 

He doesn’t need to think twice. 

A bell chimes softly above him as he enters. Little by little, the inside of the cafe reveals itself, unfurling a blend of rich, smoky roast and cream.

He’s not a caffeine addict— he's stopped considering himself one after witnessing Sohee’s six cups a day keep the doctors away logic in practice— but even he has to admit that he wouldn’t mind breathing this in for the better part of a day. 

A few customers are scattered around the shop — the typical college student and exhausted white-collar, Wonbin notes, each minding their own business. He casts a quick glance at the interior before making his way over to the counter. 

Now, there is a third item on Wonbin’s list of ‘Japan things he was not prepared for’, and it's one he’s kind of ashamed of: Japanese, despite the course he’d taken in highschool for two semesters and aced, is hard.  

He had to find that out the hard way during his ride from the airport, when his conversation with the driver started with simple English vocabulary and ended in exaggerated hand gestures.

To be fair, it’s been four years since highschool, and his initial proficiency (questionable) has dwindled to the size of a chia seed. That meagre, distant knowledge was what he was banking on when he chose to not Duolingo the basics before boarding the plane to Tokyo, and unfortunately for him, it just doesn’t cut it. 

Needless to say, he downloaded a translation app the moment he connected to wifi. He wouldn’t have felt safe leaving his apartment otherwise. Even then he’s still not confident he could survive alone in the city, but ordering a drink with an internationally standardized name? This he can do (hopefully). 

The employee behind the register looks half-asleep as he keys in Wonbin’s order. His voice comes out in a soft mumble that Wonbin strains to hear before he realizes he wouldn’t understand anyway. Instead, he looks at the numbers displayed on the register and hopes that the other is referring to the price of his order. 

He seems to have gotten it right, thankfully, and mumbly cashier — Anton, according to his nametag — hands him his change before motioning for him to pick up his coffee at the other end of the counter.

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

“Wonbin-kun!” A voice calls out from behind the counter. It’s bright against the muted hum of the cafe, startling Wonbin from the lull in his thoughts. He looks up, shaking his head a little to clear the drowsiness that’s set in all of a sudden, and meets the eyes of a barista who just might exude the most golden retriever energy Wonbin has ever seen in a person. 

“Ah,” the barista’s mouth parts slightly to form a small ‘o’, and then a string of rapid-fire Japanese escapes his lips. He stares expectantly at Wonbin when he finishes, eyes sparkling like those Shonen Jump anime protagonists, and Wonbin— Wonbin withers, shamefully, because he has absolutely no idea what the other has just said and now he kind of wants to crumple up and die, thank you very much. 

To his credit, Wonbin isn’t normally this dramatic (it doesn’t matter what Sohee has to say because he’s wrong and his opinion doesn’t matter, full stop), but he might have encountered a minor, insignificant problem this time round. 

The barista is kind of… cute. Like really, really cute. And if there’s one thing Wonbin manages worse than people skills, it’s people skills involving cute guys. 

To this day he still cringes in the privacy of his blankets when his brain decides to, in its wakeful vindictiveness, bring up how he’d first met Eunseok. In vivid detail.

They’d met during the introduction meeting for a photoshoot, and Eunseok had been so breathtaking and Wonbin so head-over-heels that the latter had lost his brain-to-mouth filter and straight up announced to everyone present — magazine director, brand representative, and Eunseok’s manager alike — that he had the model’s pictures from his nude photoshoot plastered on his wall. 

It'd been mortifying, to say the least. He’d been fully prepared to be escorted out of the meeting and the whole project by extension, on the grounds of unprofessionalism, but the model only raised an eyebrow, unperturbed, and offered him a bland “nice”. Looking by all means like this happens all the time. 

Fortunately, this tiny divertissement was brushed over and forgotten (by everyone but Wonbin), and he and Eunseok never talked about it again, despite them having become acquaintances.

So this is kind of a deja vu moment for Wonbin. Good looking guys, first meetings, his intrinsic awkwardness around strangers.

Eunseok flashes through his mind, then all the times he’s made a fool out of himself before and after that. He’s so absorbed in the collective cringe of it all that it takes golden-retriever-barista a few tries to grab his attention. 

Bright brown eyes stare at him, eyebrows pulled together in concern. He’s saying something, hiragana twisting together into syllables that don’t make sense to Wonbin. The photographer blinks, then jumps like a cat whose tail has just been stepped on. 

“Oh. I, uhm–” Wonbin fumbles around on his phone, pulling up the translation app to let it finish his sentence. “I don’t speak Japanese. Sorry.” 

He braces himself for mortified apologies. Or worse, awkward silence. To his surprise, cute barista takes one look at the characters Wonbin input into the app and his face breaks into a blinding grin. 

“You’re Korean? Sorry, you don’t look like a foreigner, so I just assumed…” 

“Huh,” Wonbin says, intelligently. Then his brain catches up to his mouth, and he scrambles to add, “It’s not– It’s no problem. Don’t worry about it. You…” He sneaks a glance at the barista’s nametag. Shotaro. Very Japanese. Very not Korean. “You speak Korean?” 

Either Wonbin is wearing his emotions on his face or Shotaro is just really good at picking up cues. Anyhow, Shotaro must notice his confusion, because he laughs, a relaxed, happy sound that rings through the room. 

“Yeah,” Shotaro says, voice tinged by the echo of his chuckles. “Stayed in Korea for a bit on exchange during uni. Had to pick it up after a while, considering there’s only so much tteokbokki and jajangmyeon I could eat in a row.” He shrugs at Wonbin, corners of his lips still lifted up playfully. 

“Oh,” is all Wonbin manages to say. He needs a new brain. One that doesn’t straight up abandon its post whenever he’s just trying to speak normally to attractive people. “You’re, uh– good at it. Korean, I mean.”

He winces internally. It’s nothing less than a miracle that Shotaro doesn’t turn around and abandon Wonbin and his dry ass responses in favor of his more important, more interesting coffee brewing duties. Or maybe the barista is just a genuinely polite human being who feels sorry enough for Wonbin that he’s willing to put up with his awkwardness for however long. He certainly looks the type — fluffy hair drooping over downturned eyes, full lips drawn into a smile. 

The same lips that are currently stretching into a radiant beam, the sight of which causes Wonbin to instantly lose track of his depressing train of thought. “And I thought I was getting rusty. Anyway,” Shotaro motions around the cafe. “So you’re traveling here, in Tokyo?” 

“Kind of. Not exactly.” At Shotaro’s raised eyebrow, Wonbin elaborates, “Half work half travel kinda thing. I guess it’s why I’m getting coffee at–” He glances at his phone screen. “—11:12 pm on a weekday.” 

“Ahh,” Shotaro nods in understanding. “A night owl, are you? That’s what they call people who prefer working at night in Korean, right? Or,” He taps his chin, eyes glinting mischievously, “Was it vampire?” 

Wonbin blinks, caught off guard. 

Then Shotaro is chuckling again, eyes crinkling into small crescent moons. “I’m just messing with you. Here,” he hands Wonbin his hot latte, paper sleeve already wrapped snugly around the cup. “Don’t let me keep you, yeah? I’m not gonna stand for being the reason you’re behind on your progress.” 

Their fingers brush in an accidental, heart-attack-inducing moment. Wonbin’s brain liquifies. He turns around on autopilot. 

But then he remembers something, and he whips his head around mid-turn. “Wait. What you said to me in Japanese in the beginning. What did it mean?” 

Shotaro pauses in the middle of wiping down the counter. Wonbin thinks he sees color creeping up his cheeks, but then he blinks and it’s gone. 

The barista looks up and smiles. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just that the drink is hot, and you should be careful with it.” 

Wonbin’s gaze lingers on Shotaro for a few seconds. Shotaro looks back, smiling innocently. 

Wonbin’s eyes grow lidded. 

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He ends up coming back to the cafe. A second time, a third, then many more after that.

赤い糸 has this… comfort to it, like a resting place for travelers at different points of their journeys. A place where you can be part of a collective and feel that you’re not alone, all while still hustling away on your respective tasks.

To Wonbin, who’s been adrift in the world for a long time, the cafe is like the warmth of a fireplace in the middle of a chilly winter. And— well. The presence of one particular barista may also have contributed brownie points. 

Every time Wonbin has visited the cafe, which is almost every night at this point, Shotaro is there behind the counter. He greets Wonbin with a beam as the bell chimes to signal his arrival, and he leaves cute little messages on Wonbin’s lattes with colored sharpies. 

Out of everything, Shotaro seems to have a penchant for drawing this doraemon-looking cat-mouse hybrid — Rizuko, as he proudly calls it — and Wonbin doesn’t have the heart to tell him that this… character– has been the object of his nightmares for the past week. 

But in spite of how unlikely it is, it seems even Rizuko is starting to grow on him. The more he stares into its soulless, mocking eyes, the more he sees the charm; it’s cute, in an obnoxious, holier-than-thou way. Wonbin supposes Shotaro’s little scribbles work somewhat like exposure therapy. 

At times they talk.

In between Wonbin’s bouts of intense focus and during lulls in cafe business, Shotaro would plop down onto the chair opposite to Wonbin’s and level him with that smile, sporting his own (very effective) version of puppy eyes until Wonbin gives in and drops whatever he’s pretending to do. Shotaro would shoot him a triumphant little smirk and proceed to unleash the torrent of new questions he’s managed to come up with, about Wonbin and his travels. 

Wonbin doesn’t consider himself to lead a particularly interesting life, but it seems Shotaro would disagree. 

“So you’re saying,” Shotaro’s eyes are round, “you’ve been abroad since you were 18, and you’ve never been to the same place twice?” 

Wonbin nods, and Shotaro whistles. 

“How does that work, exactly? Like, do you have a bucket list of places you wanna visit, and now you’re just ticking them off one by one?” 

Wonbin takes a sip of his latte, now cold, and licks the residue off his lips as he contemplates. Shotaro’s gaze flicks to his mouth. Wonbin doesn’t notice. 

“I usually try to book several projects in the same area, and then just stay there until they’re all completed. It’s really less about where I want to go and more about which city will have me,” Wonbin shrugs, fiddling with the lid of his paper cup. “It’s nothing special, honestly. Just the same cycle over and over again.” 

He looks up to find Shotaro gaping at him.

“How can you say that?” When Wonbin tilts his head, uncomprehending, Shotaro gesticulates widely, “How can you say that like this isn’t the coolest thing I’ve ever heard someone do for a living?” 

Shotaro’s eyes are practically glowing. As Wonbin feels a flush spread across his neck, uncontrollably fast, he's suddenly hit face-first by the question— what is it that makes Shotaro so special? 

Wonbin is no stranger to compliments. From his photography to his looks, there’s no shortage of people who admire him and make that abundantly clear. But while he can acknowledge their praises gracefully without batting an eye, something in him just starts to malfunction when it’s Shotaro who’s saying it. 

Maybe it’s the way the Japanese is so unabashed about it, calling Wonbin cool with such earnest words and shiny eyes that it’s like he genuinely believes it. Or maybe, for one reason or another, Wonbin actually cares about Shotaro’s opinion, unlike those of his colleagues or industry acquaintances whose names he doesn’t even remember. 

He has a pretty good guess as to which one it is. (He just doesn’t want to admit it yet.)

Shotaro is still staring at him, so intensely that Wonbin has to avert his eyes. 

“It’s nothing special,” he repeats, fixating on a very interesting swirl on the table. 

Unconvinced, Shotaro hums, but he thankfully drops the topic. The blessed silence doesn’t last for long though, because he leans forward again and starts chattering about a family of strays that have been showing up near the cafe at first light.

Wonbin groans, looking mournfully at the half-edited photos of Milan that he still has open on photoshop, at the color corrections he has yet to run. 

He hangs onto Shotaro’s every word anyway. 

By now these little conversations between them have become their routine. Most of the time, Shotaro talks and Wonbin listens, letting out the appropriate “yeah”s and “uh-huh”s when Shotaro’s pauses call for it.

Wonbin is typically one for the quiet, but he finds that he doesn’t mind this. Shotaro’s voice is smooth enough that Wonbin can tune it out if he so wants to (not that he does), and the barista seems to have this gift of knowing when Wonbin wants some peace and quiet.

They make it work, somehow. 

Another part of this routine (one that barely scratches the surface of his nonexistent guilty conscience) is that Shotaro has taken to leaving pastries at his table at random hours of the night. Wonbin would return from a toilet break to find a slice of the cafe’s signature taro crepe cake, a post-it tucked underneath the plate. On it, in squiggly Korean, is a note: Late night snack for hard worker Wonbin-kun (۶ •̀ᴗ•́)۶. 

The sharp edges of the hangul characters are synonymous with the ones on his cup. Subconsciously, the corners of his lips tug upwards. 

Some days, it’s matcha. Other days, it’s cafe specials that could be anything from lemon to milk tea. There’s also chocolate, a customer favorite, but then chocolate days become fewer and further between until they stop entirely, and when Wonbin asks Shotaro about it, the Japanese only cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t like chocolate,” he states, and Wonbin strangles the funny feeling in his stomach long enough to ask how he could tell. 

Shotaro smirks. “As much as you like to believe you have a poker face, you do have some tells.” He doesn’t elaborate any further. 

Exactly two weeks into this familiar groove, Wonbin’s guilty conscience finally wins over.

He re-enters the cafe after stretching his legs to spot yet another sweet on his table, a circular stump of tree trunk in the corner that he claims as his workspace every night. Behind the counter, Shotaro is emptying a bag of coffee beans into the grinder. Wonbin pads over. 

“Hey,” Shotaro greets, looking very much like a dedicated chemist with the way he’s squinting at the scale. 

“Hey,” Wonbin points to the millefeuille on his table. “How much is it? I’ll pay.” 

Shotaro glances up from evening out the coffee ground in the portafilter, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. When he realizes what Wonbin is referring to, he waves him off. “Nah, leave it. It’s on the house.” 

But Wonbin doesn’t budge.

At this rate, the cafe’s account won’t add up, and it’s not that Wonbin cares about the cafe’s finances; he doesn’t, not really. What he cares about– is slightly concerned about– is that someone would go through the numbers, or a nosy client would tattle, and Shotaro would get into trouble. That… doesn’t sit right with him.

Wonbin sighs. “You’ve given me a free dessert every night I’ve been here, Shotaro. Sometimes two. If you’re going to continue doing that, at least let me pay for them.” 

“Hmm,” Shotaro wipes his hands on his apron, tilting his head as if deep in thought. But his lips are curled into what Wonbin has come to know as his I-have-an-idea-and-you’re-not-gonna-like-it smile, and Wonbin already knows what’s coming next. 

“Your suggestion has been taken into consideration. But— and I regret to inform you this— the answer is still no,” Shotaro waggles a finger at Wonbin, and the Korean resists the urge to heave another sigh. “Look, Wonbin-kun, they’d be wasted if I don’t give them to you anyway. We bake a new batch every morning. These,” he gestures at the few remaining cakes in the display counter, “get thrown away. So really, you’re doing us a favor.” 

“But it’s not company policy. The other customers don’t get free cakes.”

“That’s ‘cause they don’t drop by often enough," Shotaro winks at Wonbin, mischief dancing in his eyes. "So keep it between us, 'kay?"

It dawns on Wonbin, belatedly, that Shotaro is very good at playing his cards right. So much so that Wonbin has to physically shake himself out of whatever trance Shotaro has sent him into. “I can help you finish the pastries and still pay you,” He insists, off-balance but slowly finding his ground. 

Shotaro groans. “You’re not getting the point. You’re doing us a favor. A favor, okay? Who pays the person they’re doing a favor for? Now. Shoo,” He puts his hands on Wonbin’s shoulders and spins him away from the counter, leaving no room for argument. “Go back and work on your LA pictures or something. Whatever you’re doing today.” 

Owlishly, Wonbin blinks up at Shotaro as the barista steers him back to his seat.

“Is this a ploy to keep me coming back?” He means me as in part of a larger collective, as in is this a marketing strategy to keep cafe regulars coming back.  

But then Shotaro raises an eyebrow at him and asks “Is it that obvious?” and Wonbin doesn’t feel like they’re talking about the general collective anymore. 

Wonbin’s mind blanks. The weight of Shotaro’s hands on his shoulders is suddenly glaringly noticeable. He zeroes in on it, on the slight ridges of Shotaro’s rings and the warmth of his fingers, burning through the thin material of his T-shirt. “Uh,” it comes out as little more than a croak, so he clears his throat. “But why?” 

“No particular reason,” Shotaro shrugs. His hands move away, but not before giving him a small squeeze. Only then does Wonbin realize with slight disappointment that they’ve arrived at his table. “Because you’re interesting. And you take amazing pictures.” He pauses, contemplative, then shoots Wonbin a cheeky smile. “And maybe because night shifts are boring, and having a pretty face around makes it better.” 

It takes a second to register. But when it does, Wonbin’s face flames.  

Shotaro turns around laughing. 

—

Wonbin is very much a routine kind of person. 

Every day, without fail, he goes to bed at 5 am and wakes up at noon. Brushes his teeth with Colgate — cool mint flavor — and gurgles seven times. Spends his afternoons on the strips of Tokyo or on set if he has a shoot booked. Then he calls Sohee over dinner regardless of the time zone the other is in just to hear him complain about having his peace disturbed. 

As someone whose life is segmented into one routine after another, he knows they’re prone to deviations, tiny breaks in the pattern that are beyond his control.

Maybe the neighbouring flat renovates and the noise wakes him way too early to be acceptable. Maybe he’d stop by the grocery store and find his favorite toothpaste out of stock. Maybe Sohee scores a date, and leaves Wonbin with nothing to accompany him except for his miserable (delicious, if he’s finished sulking) chicken onigiri from the konbini. 

These hiccups in his routines, he gets over them. Because that’s all they are. Hiccups.

The construction won’t go on forever; Aeon will restock sooner or later; Sohee will tell him all about the amazing (or not amazing) date over phone the next day.

He bears with the interruptions, and moves on. 

That’s why, the first day, he thinks nothing of it. He orders his cup of hot latte to the residual jingle of the cafe bell, collects it from a towering barista whose face resembles Bambi, and spends the night retouching the portraits of an influencer who’d hired him. Maybe Shotaro took a day off. It happens. People take leaves from work all the time, and they’ll be back after a day or two. Nothing unusual. Nothing significant. And if the latte tastes just a little off, he doesn’t linger on it.

The second time he enters the cafe to Shotaro’s absence he’s expected as much, so it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. What does take him aback, though, is how he’s jolted from responding to his work emails by a grumble. He looks down at his stomach. Then at the surface of his table — empty except for his Macbook and a paper cup. No dessert of the day, no colorful post-its. He sighs, stretching his shoulders with a satisfying pop, and heads over to the display counter for something diabetic. 

By the third day he’s a little unsettled, because he’s starting to realize that being out with a cold might not be the only possibility behind Shotaro’s no-shows. As Anton the mumbly cashier types in his order: a hot latte and a hojicha creme croissant (he’s learned from his mistake), Wonbin scuffs his shoe against the weathered hardwood floor. 

He clears his throat. “Excuse me,” he says, in stilted Japanese, “Do you happen to know where Shotaro is?” Anton blinks at him, slowly, and Wonbin hurries to explain, “I promise I’m not… a creep or anything— It’s just. He usually works the night shift, right, and I haven’t seen him in a few days, so I was just wondering if… if he’s okay.” He finishes lamely. 

Anton holds up a hand, a signal for Wonbin to wait, or to back off, Wonbin doesn’t really know honestly — but he waits anyway. He watches as Anton slowly slides open the door of the display case, slowly grabs the pastry with a pair of tongs, and slowly places it on a plate. Wonbin has flashbacks to when he was fourteen and watching the sloth in Zootopia, except this time he’s the one approaching an aneurysm instead of Nick. 

Finally, after Wonbin has read through the whole of the cafe catalogue four times, Anton hands him his croissant along with his receipt. “Shotaro called in sick,” he murmurs, “But he still works here, if that’s what you’re wondering.” 

Wonbin cocks an eyebrow. That was in English. Fluent, with an American accent, even. He hadn’t known that the other employees of the cafe were aware he spoke English, since he never really bothered interacting with them past ordering. But that’s not the point right now. “Did he say when he’ll be back?” 

To this Anton only shrugs. 

Wonbin squashes the hint of disappointment that’s niggled its way up his chest, thanking Anton, and makes his way to the corner seat. 

He’ll have Shotaro make it up to him, Wonbin decides. Two slices of ube cake once he gets better, and no more Rizukos on his lattes or his post-its. That’s what he gets for disappearing without a word. 

On the fourth day, Wonbin does the most work he’s ever done in the three weeks he’s visited 赤い糸. In truth, his productivity has been at an all-time high these few days, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Shotaro, despite his uplifting effect on people (Wonbin), is also a massive distraction. The number of times Wonbin has been sidetracked by an enthusiastic Shotaro rivals the number of duck memes Sohee sends him on a weekly basis, and that says a lot. 

(Still, he kinda hopes that Shotaro would just get better already.) 

Day five: Boring. Like the four days before this. Wonbin hadn’t noticed how quiet the cafe was without Shotaro’s constant chatter. He doesn’t remember the cafe being this dim either. 

On day six he’s ready to march into the cafe and demand Shotaro’s phone number from someone, because really, he’s getting concerned. What kind of flu knocks someone out for so long? Some kind of new COVID strain on the market?

That’s it, he resolves, staring up at the antique hardwood door. If Shotaro isn’t in today, he’ll ask (bully) Anton for his number and spam the barista with all the COVID vaccination sites around Shibuya. 

Fortunately for him (and for Anton and maybe for Shotaro too, if you think about it), luck is on his side today, because as Wonbin twists the brass knob and pushes the door open, he finally sees a familiar head of ash brown behind the service counter. 

Relief swells in his chest. The urgency that’s plagued him for the past few days vanishes. Wonbin is suddenly very glad that he hasn’t had the chance to put his impulsive, crazed idea into practice. 

His steps towards the register slow imperceptibly. He inhales, counting to three, then lets the mask of cool indifference slip back into place. Keeping his eyes trained on Anton, he goes through the motions of making his usual order. 

The cashier appears restless, a far cry from his usual laidback demeanor, glancing pointedly between Wonbin and Shotaro as if trying to tell the photographer something. Unfortunately, the former is too busy trying to keep his reaction to Shotaro’s return under wraps.

Anton’s gaze slowly despairs. He slides the receipt over to Wonbin listlessly, the photographer paying him no mind.

His brain is overrun with conversation starters — Should he start by asking Shotaro if he's okay? No, that would expose the fact that he cares (a lot), which is too fast, too soon. Would a simple hey suffice? It would certainly align with his cool persona, but he worries it’d be too heartless. The man has just suffered a condition so serious that he had to be out of commission for nearly a week.

He should aim for a middle ground.

Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Wonbin slides up to the side of the counter where customers usually collect their drinks. 

“So,” he says, finally sweeping his eyes along the length of Shotaro like he’d been wanting to since he walked into the cafe. Brown apron cinched at the waist, white dress shirt covering the broad expanse of his shoulders, long, long legs clad in light grey slacks. Wonbin very nearly has to gather his thoughts all over again. “You’re back.” 

Truth be told, Wonbin has been playing this reunion out in his head for a while now. Maybe not as early as the first day of Shotaro’s absence, but definitely as soon as he caught sight of the barista’s figure five minutes ago. That, plus the fact that he has a pretty good grasp of Shotaro’s personality by now (the surface layers of it at least), gives Wonbin a few ideas of the responses he could expect. 

First on the list is a smile. Warm, apologetic, maybe also promises to make it up to Wonbin with some of his favorite ube desserts.

Up next is a smirk and a lilting comment, like “Why, miss me?”, to which Wonbin’s breath would probably stutter but he’d still reply with an exaggerated eye roll.

And lastly, if he’s really sick, Shotaro might just stare at him with round droopy eyes, which would be the absolute worst case scenario. Wonbin has no idea how to counter that. In fact, he might melt into a puddle of goo on the spot. He hopes it doesn’t come to that. 

At the sound of Wonbin’s voice, Shotaro startles, swivelling around to find the other propped against the marble counter with his arms crossed. Inky black clashes with murky hazel, and immediately Wonbin’s recently uplifted spirits lurch in his throat. 

Shotaro looks… Off. 

Not the kind of off that follows a bout of intense illness, rather the kind that’s much more… fundamental. Shotaro doesn’t look sick— he looks defeated.

It’s in the way his eyes have lost their spark, shrouded by something bleak and hopeless that clearly doesn’t belong there — in Shotaro, who’s always bonfires and laughter and clear summer skies. His cheeks have lost some of their fullness, setting off his dark circles even more. Even his hair, which usually fluffs out, seems to hang limp around his face. 

Shotaro smiles. It’s forced, like his muscles are refusing to cooperate. “Hey. Didn’t see you coming in.” His voice lacks its usual cheer. 

Wonbin decides, right then, that his aloof and mysterious image can go to shit. 

He leans over the counter to peer more closely at Shotaro, taking note of the slight puff in his eyes, the downturned lips. “Shotaro,” he starts tentatively, “Are you feeling okay?” 

His concern seems to catch Shotaro by surprise, though even that is muted. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m better now. Thank you for asking, Wonbin-kun,” the barista says, and Wonbin thinks, liar.  

“Here. Your latte.” Shotaro nudges the cup over to Wonbin. There are no creepy Rizukos or colorful messages. But there is a hint of finality in his words, and Wonbin, taking the hint, retires to his tree stump. 

Now, Wonbin is not well-versed in the delicate art of comforting people. He’s maybe passable at reading the mood, but that doesn’t really mean anything right now. With Shotaro walking around the shop like a kicked puppy, anyone with eyes can see that he’s not doing fine; Wonbin doesn’t need to be even more aware of that. What he needs is to be able to do something about it — which is easier said than done. 

Consoling people has never come naturally to Wonbin; he's never had many chances to practice, either.

Growing up, he’s always been the good-looking, unapproachable kid, so he’s never had many friends, not just acquaintances. Sohee had been the first, and he’d thought, with the way he and Shotaro just— work, that the barista would be on his way to becoming the second. 

And he is, Wonbin’s brain argues. Which is why you should cheer him up. Because that’s what friends do. That’s what he would do for you, if your roles are reversed. 

So Wonbin tries. 

He goes up to the counter and attempts to get Shotaro to talk. The latter appears to be distracted throughout the conversation, Wonbin needing to repeat a few times before he gets his point across. It ends up being a one-sided conversation for the most part, and by the end of it Wonbin feels like he’s exhausted all the conversation topics he could think of. 

Then he pulls the I’m-here-if-you-need-anything card, to no avail. Shotaro only shakes his head and reassures him that he’s fine, don’t worry about it, and you should go back to your work, Wonbin-kun. (Wonbin wants to grab him by the arms and shake him so hard that he forgets the meaning of fine.)

Wonbin tries. He really does. But he’s also really, really out of his depth here. He’s tried every trick in his repertoire (which isn’t a lot, he admits), but Shotaro looks no closer to getting over whatever low he’s experiencing. 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

—

“It was a pleasure working with you, Wonbin-kun.” 

The photographer hurriedly pushes himself up from the little stool he’d collapsed onto after the hectic frenzy of the shoot, grasping the offered hand while he bows ninety degrees. “The pleasure is all mine, Gackt-san. Thank you for choosing to work with me.” 

In front of Wonbin, in all his sunglassed, rockstar glory, is Gackt, one of the biggest names in the JPop industry for the past decade. When Wonbin received the email from the other’s agency, he thought he was dreaming. The dude tops the oricon chart religiously. Even Wonbin, who doesn’t dabble in JPop, had heard of the man. 

He's... a pretty big deal. Big enough that Wonbin had never foreseen the invitation — not that he’d been expecting to be seeked out by anyone, to be honest.

It does make sense though. That out of all celebrities, it’s Gackt who reaches out first.

Wonbin remembers Shotaro telling him while they were on the topic of their favorite music artists that Gackt is someone who likes reinventing himself every once in a while, keeping the industry on their toes. Wonbin guesses this makes him more amenable to collaborating with the 'new blood' of different fields. 

He pushes down a small pang of regret. Shotaro would’ve been so excited to hear about the collaboration. But the last time Wonbin had seen him, Shotaro hadn’t exactly looked equipped to stomach the news. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t looked equipped to do anything at all. 

The artist gives his hand a firm shake, easing Wonbin out of his thoughts. “I know talent when I see it, Wonbin-kun. You bring out brand new perspectives in your photography, and I admire that very much.” 

“You think too highly of me.” Wonbin returns. “But thank you.” 

Gackt laughs, shaking his head. Without saying anything else, he claps Wonbin on the shoulder, then waves in lieu of farewell as he heads for his dressing room. 

An idea sparks in Wonbin’s brain. He doesn't give himself the time to sit on it. In the moment it takes for logic to kick in, his body is already on the move. “Gackt-san!” He calls, rushing after the singer. 

The rockstar pauses in his tracks, looking back with his eyebrows raised. 

“Uh, I have… A friend–” Wonbin falters. With his eyes hidden by the shades, Gackt is intimidating when he’s not smiling, like the unimpressed dad of a girl you took out on a date. Wonbin reminds himself that he has one shot. He powers through, words clumsily tumbling out of his mouth. “He’s a big fan of your music, so I was wondering if I could get your autograph? He hasn’t been feeling his best lately, and your autograph would really cheer him up…” 

“Of course,” the artist agrees, sounding amused, “What would you like me to sign?” 

Wonbin did not think that far ahead. So he grabs the first thing he sees, which happens to be a plastic hand fan that the magazine had issued everyone on set. He regrets it as soon as it’s in the other’s hands, but it seems rude to switch it out for something else now.

Well, whatever. It’s the thought that counts. 

“Your friend. What’s his name?” Gackt has fashioned a marker out of thin air, and is filling the blank spaces with bold, flamboyant lines. 

“Shotaro.” 

“Hmm, you must be close.” 

Wonbin blinks. “Uh. Not exactly?” He meant it as a statement, but the tail-end of his sentence takes on an upward turn. It ends up sounding more like a question. 

“Really,” Gackt intones. Before Wonbin could answer, the artist is handing the fan back to him, now filled to the brim with looping kanji. “Well then, I do hope this gift brings you two closer.” 

His smile is enigmatic as they bid their goodbyes. 

—

This time, Wonbin does march into the cafe. With purpose. He orders his hot latte, and, barely sparing Anton the cashier a glance, walks up to the side counter where he slams both hands onto the marble top. 

“Shotaro,” he demands, “Stop moping.” Several feet away from him, Anton buries his face into his hands.

“Uh,” Shotaro says. He seems to be at a loss for words. “I haven’t been moping,” is what he settles on — all the while still sporting sad eyes and a dejected pout. 

“Of course you haven’t,” Wonbin huffs. “And the sweet neighbourhood old lady left you a huge tip because of your awesome coffee-brewing abilities, not because you were looking like a puppy who got rained on.” Wonbin was an unintentional witness to the interaction. The lady had come in yesterday, looking for a late-night snack to satisfy her sweet tooth. She’d ended up spending more time fawning over Shotaro than the pastry display case. 

“She’s just a nice person,” Shotaro says, lowering his gaze. He reaches for the grinder. “Anyway, Wonbin-kun, you should—” 

“I have something for you,” the photographer cuts in hastily. He retrieves the fan from his bag and pushes it over to Shotaro, palms just a little sweaty. He wipes them off on his jeans before jamming his hands into his pockets. “It’s from Gackt-san; he reached out to me for a shoot a while back. I was gonna tell you about it, but you weren’t at work, and when you were you seemed really out of it so I didn’t know how to bring it up.” He’s looking anywhere but at Shotaro. 

“Anyway, you said you liked him? Uhm. I just realized that was three weeks ago, so maybe that was just a phase, and you don’t like him anymore, but. I had the opportunity, and he was really nice, and you’ve been so... sad– lately, so I just wanted to do something for you, to– to make you feel better.” He bites his lip. He has a tendency to ramble when he’s nervous, which is exactly what he’s doing right now. Shotaro has gone silent, and Wonbin is still too scared to look at him. Scared of what, he doesn’t know. 

There’s an intake of breath from Shotaro’s general direction, one that signals he’s about to speak. At the sound of that, Wonbin blurts, “It’s just ‘cause you’ve been really kind to me. You know, with all the messages and stuff. So. Think of it as a thank you. For all the free desserts.” Only after putting the disclaimer out there does Wonbin garner enough courage to peek at the barista’s face. 

He’s gaping openly at Wonbin, looking like he’s never seen the photographer before in his life. 

“You know I like Gackt,” Shotaro says slowly. 

A crease appears on Wonbin’s forehead. Is he not supposed to know? Did his brain somehow cook up the memory of them talking about their music tastes? “Well, yeah,” he says carefully, “You did mention it once.” 

“Once,” Shotaro echoes. He shakes his head, disbelieving. “You were listening to what I was saying?” 

The forehead crease deepens. “Of course I was. You thought I wasn’t?” 

“Well,” Shotaro exhales, still staring at Wonbin like he’s discovered a whole new alien species. Wonbin kind of wants to shrink away. “I kinda thought you were just tuning me out the entire time.” 

And Wonbin couldn't help it — he snorts. Not because what Shotaro said is all that hilarious, but because he, too, dozens of puppy eyed smiles ago, had been under the same impression. 

Now, though? He's come to terms with the plain, undeniable truth. 

As if Wonbin could ever tune him out. He tells Shotaro that. Not in as explicit (embarrassing) words, but considering the barista's tentative grin, they get the point across. 

His smile is still small, still hesitant, but for the first time in a while— Shotaro’s looking like he might be okay again. 

—

Things fall back into place. Shotaro greets him from behind the counter the next day, all sunny smiles and inexhaustible energy. Wonbin glances at the cash register. Anton looks his normal, sleepy self, if a little exasperated. No longer worried sick for Shotaro, it seems. Just slightly concerned for himself and his hearing. 

Wonbin allows himself a small smile. 

Despite the break in their routine, they pick it back up as naturally as breathing, like a dance imprinted into their muscle memory. Wonbin labours in the quiet corner of the cafe; Shotaro feeds him and bothers him just when the color grading becomes a hassle. 

Everything has remained more or less the same (even Shotaro’s love for drawing Rizuko, to Wonbin’s dismay) except for one. 

Wonbin did not think it was possible, but ever since their little heart-to-heart (read: Wonbin’s humiliating one-sided admission of how he cares for Shotato), the barista talks even more. Maybe because he’s realized that under Wonbin’s tough-guy, don’t-talk-to-me exterior, the Korean actually listens to the word vomit he puts out every minute. 

And so he puts this realization to good use — by disturbing Wonbin’s work even more frequently. For almost one-thirds of the hours Wonbin spends at the cafe every night (and no, he didn’t count), Shotaro is over at his table, sitting on the chair across from his, cheek pillowed against his arm. 

He doesn't do work — taking stock, assessing sales, ordering ingredients or whatever baristas do when they’re not backlogged with orders. He doesn’t even pretend to be minding his own business. Instead, he’s all up in Wonbin’s, and he watches, fascinated, as the photographer transforms photo after photo with expert alterations. 

But even ‘new and exciting’ reaches a limit at some point. 

“Wonbin. Bin. Binnieee– ” Shotaro whines next to him. Wonbin doesn’t even need to look at him to know that he’s pouting. He’d stood up from his chair and walked over to where Wonbin is sitting, leaning in over his shoulder to look at his laptop screen. This close, Wonbin can feel the heat radiating off of Shotaro as he crowds into his space. 

Wonbin swallows. Not for the first time he bemoans the fact that he’s so involuntarily aware of Shotaro. It’s distracting. 

“Talk to me,” Shotaro says, flopping back down onto his chair. He seems to be done giving Wonbin potentially fatal cardiac arrythmias. “I’m so bored.” 

The photographer sighs. “Maybe you won’t be if you do your work. You know, the stuff you’re actually supposed to do while on shift.” 

“Noooo,” Shotaro drags the word out dramatically. His head lolls against the back of his chair. “That’d be even more boring. Besides, I’ve finished most of it. All that’s left is wiping down the tables, and it’s better to do that right before my shift ends.” 

“You’ve finished most of it,” Wonbin parrots incredulously. He sighs again. “Must be nice.” 

Shotaro hums in agreement. But then he leans forward, studying Wonbin closely. “Hey, you good? You seem more tired than usual.” 

“Yeah, I’m good. Just–” Wonbin closes his laptop, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Encountered a small problem.” 

“What is it?” The barista’s expression turns worried. “I mean, I doubt I could help much if it’s a work-related problem, but on the off chance that I could…”

Wonbin breaks out of his scowl for a moment to smile gratefully at Shotaro. Then he remembers the email he received, and his face slips right back into a scowl. “Thank you, but I don’t think you can help me on this.” He scrunches his nose. “I have a shoot the day after tomorrow. Well, had. My model cancelled on me last minute. She hasn’t exactly left me much time to find a replacement, so I’m guessing I’ll have to delay the whole thing.” 

He groans at the thought. The search for another model (which means spending more time on Instagram than he’d like), the back-and-forths to agree on a partnership, the rescheduling — oh, the rescheduling. He’ll have to swap his other projects around to accommodate the changes in his original plan. For someone who’s as meticulous of a planner as Wonbin, that’s never fun. 

Meanwhile, Shotaro looks confused. “Wait, I get the rescheduling, but why do you have to find another model? Shouldn’t that be on the brand, or the magazine, or–” He gestures vaguely. “—I don’t know, whoever the organizer is?” 

“Organizer?” Wonbin cocks his head. “Oh. Oh, no. This isn’t a shoot I’m doing under someone else. It’s like, a personal shoot I’m doing for my instagram. Kind of like my portfolio.” 

“O-kay,” Shotaro says slowly, visibly trying to wrap his mind around it. “And you take portraits of professional models? Influencers?” 

“No, not professionals. Usually influencers. Instagram models. Anyone could do it, technically, even y—” Wonbin pauses in the middle of his sentence, because he’s just been hit by a crazy, crazy idea. 

He straightens up in his chair. Stares at Shotaro. At his small face, flawless skin, broad shoulders, small waist. He’s running calculations in his head as he appraises the barista, going through angles and backdrops and aesthetics. 

It’s a crazy idea. A brilliant one. Wonbin wouldn’t even have to edit the person that much post-shoot, because Shotaro just has a face that would translate well into photos.

Slightly alarmed by the blatant scrutiny, Shotaro shifts in his seat. “Why are you looking at me like that.” 

The corner of Wonbin’s mouth quirks up. “Because, Shotaro, I've just realized that you could help me.” 

Shotaro eyes him warily. “I mean, sur—?” Wonbin can see the exact moment his unspoken proposal dawns on the barista, because he freezes mid-shrug, eyes wide. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I am. One hundred percent.” 

“Well, don’t be,” Shotaro deadpans. “I’ve never modeled in my life. Your portfolio will end up looking wacky as hell.” 

“But you’ve posed for pictures before.” It’s not a question. Wonbin takes the barista’s silence as a ‘yes’ anyway. “It’d be just like that. The photographer plays a bigger role in how the photos turn out, really, especially since I’d just be taking candids of you at the chosen locations. You just have to be there.” 

Sighing, Shotaro rubs a hand over his face. “Wonbin, I do want to help. I really do. But I’m not exactly model material here. There are plenty of people with nicer faces or nicer bodies, people who're actually used to having their portraits taken and won’t flail on camera like an idiot. I’m sure many of them would jump at the chance of being featured on your instagram.” 

“There are others who are model material,” Wonbin allows. “But so are you. You're very good looking, Shotaro. And your proportions are unbelievable,” he says earnestly. “You can do as good as the average influencer I can find on instagram, maybe even better.” 

Shotaro doesn’t seem to be expecting the honest compliment. “I– Thank you.” He coughs, Wonbin only realizing how that sounds when he sees the pink definitely dusting the other’s face this time. 

Oh, damn it. Damn him and his lack of filter. Wonbin wants to dig himself into a hole and stay there, permanently, but that’s not exactly feasible, so outwardly he only shrugs a bit awkwardly. “It’s the truth. But what I meant was—” He hurriedly changes the topic. “You should give it some thought. About being my model, I mean.” 

Shotaro falls silent. He looks down at his hands, appearing pensive as he plucks a piece of lint from his sleeves. 

For a long, dire moment Wonbin thinks that that’s it— the barista’s trying to come up with a way to let him down nicely (because he’s considerate like that), and he’s going to have to resign himself to instagram models with cookie-cutter visuals and lousy attitudes.

He’s almost reconciled himself to it too, when Shotaro looks back up with a small, incredulous smile. He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to say next. “This shoot. It’s important to you, right?” 

“Yes,” Wonbin answers truthfully. “But you could say no. It’s okay if you’re not comfortable with it. I could always push the shoot back until I find another model, easy.” It wouldn’t be, but he’s not going to guilt-trip the barista into saying yes. Shotaro deserves better than that.

“And listen to you grumble about it for the next two weeks because you hate having your plans messed up?” Shotaro snorts. “You’d probably hold it over me too. Then I’d have to give you all the ube cakes this cafe has to offer, and I’m not sure the cafe’s finances could sustain that for long.” He’s rolling his eyes, but the upticked corners of his mouth betray him. 

“Wh– Are you suggesting that I would eat your cafe into debt? You think I could eat that much? And even if I could, I’m not that petty," Wonbin splutters.

“Oh, you think,” Shotaro mutters. Then, louder, before Wonbin launches into an indignant tirade, he says, “I’ll do it– I’ll do it, okay, Wonbin listen to me– When and where do we meet for the shoot—?” 

—

Asakusa is teeming with people even on a weekday afternoon. Wonbin suspects it might have something to do with it being a central location for worship, the many shrines and temples here still running despite their alternate role as tourist attractions. 

The neighbourhood has a character of its own, a mix of red columns, white walls, and brown tiles, all prominent features of old Japanese architecture. Some stretches of the area are made up entirely of buildings preserved from the distant past, and they happen to be the objective of Wonbin’s visit here today. 

He’s waiting outside of the metro station, standing underneath the canopy of a gingko tree where he’s hidden from the sun. The sky is stunningly clear, the first hint of blue in the series of cloudy skies Tokyo has been experiencing in a row. While it’s certainly good luck for the visual aspect of his shoot, the same can’t be said for the comfort aspect of it. 

A bead of sweat trails down the side of his neck and into his shirt. He’s wearing an oversized tee and cargo pants, both of which are relatively heatproof, thankfully, though he’s not particularly eager to press his luck. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, trying to feel the wind more palpably on his skin. 

He really should’ve cut his hair. 

Without warning, a hand clamps down on his shoulder from behind. He jumps, whirling around, ready to give the assailant hell because what if they kidnap him for looking like a loaded tourist, or worse, rob him of his precious, precious camera with all the footage he'd spent hours over and has yet to download— But then he catches a whiff of rain and grass. 

He stops just in time. 

“Whoa, hey– It’s just me,” Shotaro grins, arms raised, close enough for the scent of morning dew to tickle at Wonbin’s nose. He’s wearing a bemused smile as he takes in the photographer’s spooked appearance, and Wonbin has to take a moment to calm himself down.

He glares sullenly at Shotaro. “Couldn’t you have approached like a normal person?” 

“Where's the fun in that?” Shotaro sings, moving even closer now that Wonbin isn’t on guard anymore. “Were you waiting long?” 

“No, just a couple minutes,” Wonbin checks his phone. It’s 2:55 pm, a good five minutes before their agreed meeting time. Shotaro’s early; Wonbin was just earlier. As if reminded of the purpose of their excursion today, his eyes snap over to Shotaro, down the lines of his body, or more importantly— his outfit. 

This is the first time he’s seen the barista in casual clothes, the opportunity never having presented itself before with them always seeing each other at Shotaro’s workplace. He’d never given much thought to what Shotaro’s personal style would be like, and it never really occurred to him to ask, but— 

Oh, Wonbin thinks, running his gaze along the many hoops and studs embedded in the barista’s ear. 

Okay, so. He never knew he had a thing for piercings, and now’s a fabulous time to figure that out, evidently. 

He swallows, tearing his eyes away from the silver glinting dangerously under the sunlight, instead focusing on the rest of the outfit. Up top Shotaro has on a simple white tee, only a small graphic on the left side of the chest. It’s tucked into grey washed baggy jeans, definitely the statement piece of this look, with large, asymmetrical pockets decorating the entire leg of the pants. On his fingers are multiple rings, some of which he recognizes from when the barista would wear them around the cafe. A lightning bolt pendant dangles around his neck. 

Noticing the photographer’s attention on his clothes, Shotaro shifts, self-conscious. “Uh, is this okay? I was gonna send you a pic before coming, but then I realized we never exchanged numbers…” Shotaro shrugs apologetically. “I can change if you want me in something else though. My apartment isn’t far from here.” 

“Oh. No, it’s good.” Wonbin has had to stop his thoughts from wandering into treacherous, inappropriate territory several times in the past two minutes, so he can’t be blamed when, without thinking, he says, “You look good.” 

Shotaro smirks. “That's good to hear." All traces of his earlier bashfulness are gone, so quickly that it gives Wonbin whiplash. While he’s still reeling, Shotaro slings an arm around his shoulders. “So. Where are we going today?” 

Business. Right. He needs to draw upon professional photographer Wonbin. Other Wonbin (the one thinking about running his tongue along Shotaro’s piercings) can wait. 

He digs around in his bag, pulling out a daily planner, and flips to the bookmarked page, knowing that Shotaro is reading over his shoulder. Then he points to the itinerary he’d written, detailed to the minute. 

Shotaro blinks.

“Wow. That’s… precise.” He squints at the schedule — the 3:12 pm Nakamise, the take 5:04 pm train to Kamiyacho, the 6:33 pm sunset shoot, et cetera et cetera. From the way he’s chewing on his lip Wonbin could tell that there’s something he wants to say, but in the end, he only points out somewhat hesitantly, “Just, uh. What if we run late?” 

Wonbin snaps his planner shut. “That’s why we should set out right now. I did plan for some leeway, but it’s not a lot.” He checks the time again, and this time it reads 3:00 pm. “Google Maps says it’s a 12-minute walk, so we should get there right on time.” 

Once again Shotaro blinks. He looks like he might say that something after all, but then he just shrugs. “Sure. Okay. Lead the way, boss.” 

They arrive at Nakamise Street only ten minutes behind schedule, which, Wonbin has come to realize, is a remarkable feat when one is going anywhere with Shotaro. 

It was a 12-minute walk. A 12 minute. Walk. Yet in the span of these 720 seconds, they (Shotaro) had somehow gotten sidetracked, and Wonbin cannot, for the life of him, wrap his mind around it. (Okay, maybe he can, but just because the dog wasn’t an absolute menace, okay?)

They’d been walking through the residential parts of Asakusa as per the instructions of Google Maps, making good time, when Shotaro had let out a small gasp from his place next to Wonbin.

“Bin, look,” he’d breathed, jostling his shoulder until the other man had looked up from the app, eyebrows knit together. Before Wonbin could say anything, Shotaro had rotated him a full ninety degrees, and about three meters from them, in all its tongue-lolling, tail-wagging glory, had stood a cream-colored shiba inu. 

“Shotaro–” Wonbin began, apprehension kicking in because was Shotaro doing what he thought he was doing— but it was too late. Shotaro strode over to the shiba and its owner, a petite girl who looked to be about their age, and grinned. Eye-smile and everything. 

Predictably, the girl blushed. 

“Hi,” Shotaro said, smooth like he wasn’t intruding on a random stranger in the middle of the street. Not that the girl seemed to mind. “You have a really cute dog.” 

“O-oh. Thank you,” she said, shyly. “His name is Tofu.” 

Shotaro had crouched down next to Tofu, so when he looked at her again he was gazing up through his bangs. “Cute,” he commented, not elaborating on who or what he was referring to.

Wonbin thought the girl might combust on the spot.

With how she was cycling through maybe fifteen different shades of red, the situation really would’ve been highly entertaining— That is, if only Wonbin didn’t find her annoying.

(He refused to deliberate on it.)

“Can I pat him?” Shotaro asked, smile just a little crooked.

The girl never stood a chance. 

Expression carefully blank, Wonbin looked on as the barista ran his hands through the shiba’s coat, nuzzling into its fur and cooing into its ears. It occurred to him then, that this was the first time since they’d known each other (not counting the period when Shotaro had been going through… things) that Shotaro hadn’t had at least some portion of his attention on Wonbin, or on what he was doing.

It irked him. 

Tofu barked, tail thumping against the ground, apparently very happy with Shotaro’s undivided attention. Wonbin frowned.

He wasn’t going to be jealous of a dog. He was not.

It was probably a good thing that Shotaro interrupted his thoughts when he did. 

“Bin! Come over,” he called, and Wonbin looked over to see two sets of smiling eyes directed his way. 

Somehow, Shotaro had managed to rope Tofu into sitting between his legs, and they both sat facing Wonbin, one fluffy head stacked on top of the other. Whatever grudge he’d been harvesting drained out of him in less than a second, in its place an overwhelming urge to coo, or squeal, or both. 

He shut his mouth. No fucking way. 

Shotaro was still beckoning him over, so he took a few steps forward and stooped until he, too, was eye level with the shiba. “Go on,” Shotaro mumbled encouragingly, speaking against the top of Tofu’s head. 

Warily, Wonbin lifted his hand, hovering it above the shiba’s ears. He couldn’t quite manage to bring it down, because what if the dog bit him? Tofu might be well-behaved now, but that was ‘cause Shotaro was holding him and Wonbin was pretty sure everyone and everything loved Shotaro. It was a known fact that shibas were temperamental, so what if Tofu decided he hated Wonbin’s guts? Being bitten would hurt like hell, and he might get an infection, and—

A warm hand, gentle but firm, enveloped Wonbin’s smaller one, pressing down. His palm skimmed the soft fur of the cream-colored shiba, and he curled his fingers reflexively, startled.

To his relief, Tofu let out a happy bark, and Shotaro chuckled, ruffling his sides. 

Wonbin looked up at the sound to see Shotaro’s eyes on him, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not that bad, yeah?” He said, voice soft, then proceeded to drop a bomb on Wonbin by murmuring, “Good boy.” 

Eyes. Still. On. Him. 

Shotaro had meant the dog. He’d definitely meant the dog, not Wonbin — but that hadn’t stopped him from staring straight at the Korean while he’d said it, so excuse the fuck out of Wonbin for taking that the wrong way (actually, no, don’t excuse him; tear him a new one so that he can kick the habit of assuming things, god)— but Wonbin didn’t think he could be here anymore, mere inches away from Shotaro and his ability to scramble his brain. 

Hastily (almost desperately), he extracted himself from their tangle of human and dog limbs on the concrete floor. When Shotaro blinked at him, questioning, he only raised his camera with shaky arms and snapped a few photos he didn’t even bother directing through the viewfinder. 

Anything. Anything to stop himself from blurting out his death sentence right now. 

At least he managed to capture Shotaro’s moment with Tofu on camera. 

They spent ten minutes coddling Tofu, long enough for it to be an inconvenience that Wonbin was willing to look past the way the girl was twirling her hair around her fingers, staring coyly at Shotaro and making her interest blatantly obvious. But Shotaro only thanked her, sincere but reserved, and Wonbin tried to ignore the lightness spreading through his chest, tried to pretend he didn’t know what it was. 

(It was relief.) 

Thankfully, they make it to their destination without any more distractions, and it’s as much of a blessing for their itinerary as it is for Wonbin’s physiological wellbeing. (If Shotaro so much as looks at him weird while he’s still unbalanced from the good boy incident, Wonbin’s heart is actually going to give out, end of story.)

Much to his pleasant surprise, Shotaro turns out to be a natural poser.

Nakamise is a busy street, to the point of being too messy for a portrait photo. With tourists and locals milling about and haggling for the best prices, it’s easy for anyone to get lost within the stream of patchwork colors and styles. But Shotaro stands out with an effortless authenticity, posture and expressions shifting naturally in front of the camera without the rigidity that he’d insisted he’d have. 

There isn’t a lot that Wonbin has to instruct the Japanese on, considering Shotaro has a solid grasp of his angles and demeanor, so the shoot takes significantly less time than he’d originally planned for. This revelation seems to please Shotaro (for all the wrong reasons, he later discovers), and the barista spends a good half an hour dragging Wonbin along the many stalls of this famous shopping street, showing him local delicacies and traditional merchandise that he just “can’t miss out on”.

By the time they reach the end of the street, Wonbin doesn’t want to see ice cream for another week at least, and he’s so stuffed that he kind of just leans into Shotaro instinctively, blinking drowsily against the late afternoon sun. 

Shotaro laughs, soft, subdued, then adjusts the placement of Wonbin’s head on his shoulder so the photographer doesn’t end up spraining his neck. 

(They don’t manage to catch the 5:04 pm train.

But it’s fine. Wonbin will learn to live with it.)

The plan had been to take photos of Shotaro against the backdrop of the sunset and Tokyo Tower. Not go up the observation deck of the tourist trap. 

But Shotaro took one look at him after they’d gotten some shots Wonbin had liked, said, “You’ve never been up top, have you?”, and ushered him through the doors of the tower before he even registered what was happening. 

True to the praises of the many travel bloggers who’ve been here, the view of Tokyo 250 meters above ground is, admittedly, phenomenal.

Shotaro had acted just fast enough for them to catch the dying rays of the sun, half of the sky doused in indigo purple and the other half swallowed by the golds and oranges of dusk. In this moment, in the in-between, it’s like the city — with its people and stories and commotion — just freezes for a split second. 

Faster than he could blink, his index has pushed down on the shutter of his camera. He captures the sunset, the skyline, and the city in all their fleeting tranquility, and he captures Shotaro, who’s looking out into the ebb and flow of Tokyo with a mellowness that's unfamiliar to Wonbin. 

“It’s pretty,” Shotaro says, quietly. 

“Yeah,” Wonbin concedes. He can almost forgive the delay this visit will pose to his planned agenda. Almost. He looks at the Japanese from the corner of his eye, at the tufts of brown hair that glow amber in the fading light, the soft features that sharpen below the growing shadows. “I thought you would've come here before.” 

“I have. A few times,” Shotaro turns to face Wonbin fully. There's something soft and faraway in his eyes. “The earliest was when I first came to Tokyo seven years ago, and then a couple times on different occasions since then.” 

Huh. Wonbin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re not from Tokyo?” 

“Nope. Kanagawa. Born and raised.” 

“And you moved to Tokyo because…?” He can’t exactly be blamed for his curiosity. For as much as Shotaro could go on about the newest episode of D.P. or his dream house if he were a billionaire, he doesn’t really talk about his life. Asides from the bits and pieces that Wonbin has gleaned from the rare offhand comment, this is perhaps the first time he’s brought it up himself. 

“I received an offer from a school I couldn’t refuse,” Shotaro replies with a shrug, and that’s the end of it. “But I still remember the first time I stood here. I was fifteen, and the world had never seemed so big.” He raises a hand to the glass as if he could touch the towering skyscrapers that don’t seem that towering anymore, from where they stand 250 meters above ground. 

Wonbin turns back to the view outside the windows, watches as the city takes on a brand new ambience as the sun recedes. One by one Tokyo’s city lights flick on, until all of a sudden, they’re blinking white, yellow, and neon against the night. 

“It’s very pretty,” Wonbin repeats Shotaro’s words, because he doesn’t know what to say. 

And it is. The view is breathtaking. But he doesn’t really know how to react, doesn’t know what the barista wants to hear. These are facets of Shotaro that he’s only starting to uncover in the past three hours, ones he’s never seen when they’d only been interacting in the context of the cafe, and they throw him off-balance, teetering between the blurred lines of what he’s used to and what Shotaro is revealing to him now. 

He really should’ve known, though. That at his core, Shotaro is, and will always be the Shotaro who notices his miniscule habits and tiny quirks, who accommodates with a warmth that Wonbin is increasingly defenseless against. 

As if he senses the photographer’s uncertainty, Shotaro plants both his hands on Wonbin’s shoulders so that they’re face to face. “Hey, don’t overthink it,” he says, holding his gaze, nose scrunched up like he’s talking to a baby (and maybe he is). “I brought you up here because I wanted to show you the moment that made me fall in love with Tokyo, and there’s absolutely nothing else you need to think about right now. So let’s enjoy the moment, yeah?” 

Like he said, Wonbin is weak.

So he takes this advice to heart and tries not to think about the ever-present playful glint in Shotaro’s eyes and the way it sends his heart into overdrive, and breathes, “Yeah.” 

“I should be taking pictures of you, ” Wonbin complains, as they pose for another selfie. 

“And you’ve taken plenty,” Shotato points out. He strides over to the line of arcade machines against the wall, unoccupied save for a few uniformed students who are definitely skipping school to be here. He chooses the one at the very end. Waving Wonbin over with one hand, he props his phone up against the monitor with the other, setting the timer with a string of expert taps on the screen. 

“C’mon, Binnie,” the Japanese pouts, draping himself across Wonbin’s shoulders. “This is a special occasion, 'kay? We need to commemorate it.” 

The photographer draws back slightly in order to eye Shotaro, unimpressed. “What occasion?” 

Unless he means the first (and possibly the only) time they’re shooting together, but Shotaro doesn’t seem to care much for that. If he did, he wouldn’t be towing Wonbin over to every single distraction they encounter on the way, this arcade being one of them. 

They’d taken the train to Shibuya after leaving Tokyo Tower, because for the final stop of their shoot today Wonbin had wanted to capture Shotaro among the streets of this district, famous for its cityscape at night.

According to Wonbin's itinerary, they’re technically supposed to be roaming the streets right now, but the photographer has come to realize (and accept) that getting Shotaro to stick to a plan is a lost cause. In other words, he’s given up. 

They’d heard the arcade before they’d seen it, electronic game music interspersed with character soundtracks and coin collecting sounds, and Shotaro had followed it like a puppy on the trail of its favorite treat. 

“Welcome... to my turf,” Shotaro had declared, arms spread dramatically at the entrance of the multi-storey complex, Taito Station stamped across of it in white blocky font.

Underneath the theatrics, his eyes had been glowing with a challenge, and, not knowing any better, Wonbin had gone along with it. 

He wishes he could take it back. 

That was how Shotaro had come to destroy him at every single game — from Street Fighter to pinball to DDR to air hockey — and Wonbin couldn’t even be mad. Not when he was so goddamned disoriented, arrows and special move combos and item boxes swimming around in his mind’s eye. 

“You’re kinda— really bad at this,” Shotaro said, trying to hold back a laugh. He’d called a truce, probably taking pity on Wonbin. 

“I had better things to do when I was a kid, okay,” the Korean fired back, which seemed to be the last straw for Shotaro, because he doubled over laughing. “It’s not– I didn’t–” Wonbin threw his hands up, then accused, “You were one of those kids who skipped school for arcades and internet cafes, weren’t you?” 

“Maybe,” Shotaro allowed, taking deep breaths to stop himself from spiralling over the edge again. His mouth still twitched at the corners. “Definitely no match for our model student Wonbin-kun,” he added, placatingly, and the photographer deflated. 

Shotaro did end up making it up to him though, by winning him the duck plushie he’d been eying since they’d stepped foot into the store.

He’d watched, wide-eyed, as the claw picked it up on the first try, jolting precariously as it rose to the top. But through some kind of devious trickery, it managed to hang on by a thread— all the way until it was deposited into the prize chute. 

One plushie turned into two, then two into three. The pile in Wonbin’s arms grew so big that he had to tear the barista away from the machines, because “What on Earth am I going to do with all these?”, to which Shotaro turned round, glistening eyes on Wonbin and made him promise to “not abandon them, 'kay? They’d be sad.” 

He caved. 

(That didn’t stop him from regretting it, though, because once again, what the fuck use does he have for all of this?) 

But before he could dwell on it, Shotaro was dragging him all over the arcade for pictures. Selfies. 

“What do you mean what occasion? It’s our first ever hang out, obviously.” Shotaro is looking at him, expression spelling out duh. “Now pose.” 

The numbers on the screen start counting down. He lets Shotaro draw him closer, shifting so that they’re both in frame. The flash goes off. 

Shotaro pulls away, reaching for the phone to inspect their most recent photo. Wonbin is just trying not to miss the weight of the barista’s arm around him (and failing) when Shotaro’s characteristic chuckle sounds from the direction of the machine. 

“What?” Wonbin demands, still a little miffed by his total defeat at Shotaro’s hands and now slightly allergic to the latter’s laugh. The Japanese just angles the phone towards him, and he squints, sees Shotaro beaming into the camera, one arm curled around him, the other thrown up into a peace sign. Then he pinches outwards, and is immediately confronted by his face, petulant, eyes slightly narrowed and bottom lip just barely jutting out into a pout. 

“I distinctly remember someone telling me that sulking is beneath him,” Shotaro says. He coughs a laugh into his fist. 

“Ha, ha,” Wonbin grouses. He examines the photo of the two of them — the way Shotaro is smushing him to his side, the faint amused fondness in his own eyes.

“... Send it to me later,” he says, resolutely ignoring the blooming smirk on the Japanese’s face, then finally ushers the latter out of the arcade so they can get some actual work done. 

There’s no district in Tokyo that thrives quite as much as Shibuya at night. The streets come alive when the sun is down, taken over by a fervor different to its daytime energy. Everywhere he turns he sees buildings decked out in neon, with vivid signs spanning multiple storeys, the sound of bustling traffic a constant hum beneath the chatter of the crowd. 

A few paces ahead of the Korean, Shotaro is talking animatedly.

"This one conveyor belt sushi restaurant at Center Gai has the best prices", "the building over there? With the blue signboard? It's a giant tourist scam — tell you what, the tiny shops across sell the same stuff for much cheaper", "and oh, there was this one time I took my visiting sister to Shibuya Loft and she blew 20,000 yen on home decor and stationery, can you believe that?" He introduces important landmarks and places he frequents as they stroll past, playing the part of a dutiful tour guide. 

Shotaro’s Korean has gotten more fluent in the past month, in no small part due to all the time he spends badgering Wonbin. Still, he speaks in a way that, while not exactly screaming ‘foreigner’, makes his words sound mushy. It’s the way his consonants blur into one another, his intonations taking on a vaguely different hue. (Wonbin may or may not find it cute.) 

The photographer had thought it related to Shotaro’s inherent personality, but that was before they’d had dinner and the barista had ordered for him in low, smooth Japanese, not an echo of the cute stickiness he demonstrates in Korean. Wonbin’s breath had caught in his throat.

Like this, Shotaro’s (deceptively) harmless Korean taking him through the yes’s and no’s of Shibuya, they make their way through the district — languidly, like an actual post-dinner stroll, stopping now and then for a photo when a view catches Wonbin’s eye. 

Shotaro navigates the streets easily, leading Wonbin through hidden shortcuts that the photographer had no idea existed despite having surveyed the area multiple times before. With the confidence of someone who’s walked the same paths hundreds of times, Shotaro looks like he belongs there — among the flashy lights, seamlessly woven into the flicker and pulse of Tokyo — like the salarymen walking briskly with their briefcases tucked under their shoulders, or the highschoolers steering clear of home in the after school hours, or the office ladies staring out of the konbini windows while idly picking at their bentos. 

Wonbin has noticed in himself, throughout his travels, that as much as he’s perfected the art of hopping from city to city, could adapt to the language and figure out neighbourhoods and transport systems in a few days, he’s never truly felt like a part of the city he’s residing in.

He’s always considered himself an outsider, a temporary addition, and that had never really been an issue. In fact, he’d been happy like that — as a traveller, not tied down anywhere and able to up and go as he’d wished in a matter of hours.

Wonbin enjoys the best of every city and leaves behind the worst, and it’s how he came to be — how his career came to be. 

And yet... Just now, in the short moment wherein Shotaro stands with all of Tokyo around him, Wonbin finds himself wishing that he could be a part of this too. Could call someplace home when he’s wearied from his travels, could belong somewhere he connects to as deeply as Shotaro does Tokyo. 

For the first time in four years, Wonbin wants. 

“Hey, Bin, look—” Shotaro’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. From his position up front, the Japanese is pointing at a pedestrian scramble crosswalk a few blocks away, the mass of clothed figures visible even from a distance.

When he doesn’t receive a reply, he glances back at Wonbin, extending an arm backwards, and— 

It’s like an invitation. An invitation to be threaded into the intricacies of Tokyo, to be part of the place that Shotaro considers his home. Like he wants to take Wonbin through the nooks and crannies of the city, introducing it to him and in turn, him to it, until they’re so interlaced that Tokyo is Wonbin’s home too. 

Wonbin couldn’t help it. Before Shotaro is able to grasp his arm, he’s held up his camera and frozen the moment in digital film. 

Shotaro blinks, then redirects the trajectory of his reach to grab him in a light headlock. “You could’ve warned me,” he pouts, “You didn’t even give me time to prepare! I must’ve looked goofy as heck just now.” 

Wonbin looks down at the screen of the camera, thumbing the buttons to get to his most recent photo. But he’s not looking at it, not really.

“It’s perfect,” he says, a little muted. And he knows it is. Knows without reviewing it that it’s probably going to be his favorite shot of the day. Not the most professional one, not by a long shot, but it holds something more cardinal. Something irreplicable. 

Skeptical, Shotaro shuffles closer to look at the screen, close enough that Wonbin feels his breath fanning his ear. He shrinks out of reflex, but Shotaro holds out a hand to keep his camera in place. 

Wonbin tenses slightly, his heart beating louder by the second. He really should be used to this by now. The Japanese has no concept of personal space, and it's just another thing Wonbin has come to discover and has had to learn to deal with. He’s always had an inkling, even back at the cafe, but this is the first time that Shotaro has fully demonstrated his penchant for physical touch with no holds barred.

It’s like he can’t go five minutes without having his hands on some part of Wonbin, grazing his neck, winding around his shoulders, and Wonbin doesn’t know how to deal with it. 

(Not because he hates it. He likes it, which is exactly the problem.)

Resigned, the photographer tilts the camera over to Shotaro. He huddles over it, scrutinizing, and just when Wonbin thinks he’d offer some thoughtful, or at least appreciative input, he nods approvingly, matter-of-fact, “Huh. I do look kinda bomb.” 

And just like that, the feelings that had been building inside Wonbin's chest — the loneliness, the itch for something different, the gratitude, the vague tug he has yet to identify — they immediately whiz away, like a deflating balloon. 

Huffing, Wonbin smacks Shotaro on the shoulder to the other’s bewildered yelp. 

The way Wonbin sees it, today’s excursion has been a success. He’s taken the photos he wanted, nothing bad or embarrassing has happened throughout the day, and as they make their way back to Shibuya station he even starts to entertain the idea that maybe he’s had fun, more fun than he’s had in a while. 

Right now is a rare moment of silence between them, but it isn’t awkward. Shotaro seems to be lost in his thoughts, and Wonbin is content to bask in the lull in conversation, the barista’s warm, solid presence beside him. 

As they near the station, the Hachiko Statue comes into view. Around it a crowd has gathered, and even a good way off they can hear the loud music blasting from huge outdoor speakers, some kind of bass heavy hip-hop that goes well with the hoots and hollers of the audience. 

Curiosity piqued (and maybe because the station seems… final– and he doesn’t quite want the day to end, yet), Wonbin tugs Shotaro over to the throng of people. The crowd parts amiably for them with Shotaro’s murmured ‘excuse me’s, and they make it to the front without much difficulty. 

At the center is a performer, fluid and sharp as he dances. He flips over backwards, one hand braced on the ground as support, body twisting into an elegant arch mid-air. As he transitions into a knee drop, his singular black earring catches the light, a long metal spike embedded in the earlobe.

Next to him, Shotaro lets out an appreciative whistle. The barista seems to be feeling the atmosphere, cheering loudly as his body instinctively moves along to the music — slow and sustained, then fast and heavy when the 808 kicks in, finally switching over to light and relaxed when the instrumentals call for it. Shotaro isn’t even paying his movements any mind, his gaze focused on the dancer in front of them, but it takes all of three seconds for Wonbin’s attention to veer away from the performance and latch onto the barista. 

There’s something there. Under the repressed, subconscious show of musicality, there’s something there, hidden beneath all that Wonbin knows about Shotaro. That something is fighting to break through the surface, and Wonbin wants to know what it is. 

He doesn’t know when this started, his desire to know Shotaro: his life, his character, his person.

Maybe today? With the barista peeling back his layers voluntarily, trusting in Wonbin enough to reveal the depth underneath, he can't exactly be blamed for craving more. (Or maybe, it started way earlier, perhaps even since the moment he'd first laid eyes on the Japanese — long enough that the planted curiosity has rooted itself into his brain.)

The music stops, and the crowd erupts into cheers. The performer smiles, bows, but he doesn’t walk off. Instead, he motions over to another member of his crew to start it back up, and the first few beats of an R&B track, slow and sensual, pervade the square. 

One second Shotaro is clapping enthusiastically along with the audience, and the next he’s pulled over to the centre, facing the tens of people gathered for a show. A show that he’s a part of now, apparently. The cheers grow louder. 

“Wh–” Shotaro whips his head around, searching the eyes of the dancer who’s just thrown him to the wolves. Spike-earring-dancer grins and steps back, gesturing to the open space as if to say, ‘you’re up, bro’.

He could leave. Wonbin’s gaze has been boring into Shotaro since he’d been dragged out front, so he knows from the way he’d winced and eyed the gaps between the people that the other has seriously considered it, has contemplated brushing off the performer’s invite with an apologetic smile.

It’s probably a segment designed in good fun, intended to make the gig more engaging and interactive, for audience members to let loose a bit and enjoy the music. Shotaro could probably get away with swaying a beat or two and then making a break for it, and he knows it. 

But he doesn’t do that. 

Wonbin could identify the exact moment Shotaro goes ‘okay whatever’, because his aura changes, and all of a sudden Wonbin can’t fucking breathe. 

Thing is, Wonbin doesn’t know dance. He doesn’t know the difference between a pop and a lock, could barely distinguish between a cartwheel and a flip.

The closest he’s come to being cultured is when he’d watched Swan Lake at the Paris Opera Ballet, and that was only because Sohee had forced him to come with. Beyond that, he’s clueless, and he’s never felt inclined to change that. 

Until now. 

Shotaro dances, and Wonbin is suddenly wishing that he’d taken the time to learn something– anything – about this art, because Shotaro is flowing with the music and he has no words to describe it. 

The song is slow, mellow, its rhythmic undertones suggestive, and Shotaro rides it, makes the music his. He plays with tension like a leopard about to pounce, smooth and weighted with promise, then releases it in a series of clean, swift moves. It’s like he has full control of every muscle on his body, moulding them in a way that would paint a tangible picture of the song, constructing sharp, angular lines and soft, delicate curves. 

He’s commanding the music, just as he’s commanding the attention of everyone in the circle. Wonbin can’t, for the life of him, take his eyes off Shotaro, and he doesn’t want to. What he wants is to sear this moment into his brain, imprint this Shotaro — unbridled, triumphant, bright with a kind of deep-seated passion that he’s never seen in barista Shotaro — into his memory. 

He does the next best thing.

Taking a knee for a good angle, he snaps a photo of Shotaro mid-body-roll, alignment of his body so natural that it’s as if he purposefully posed for it. He has his gaze lowered, eyelashes fanning his face, but his smile is wild, untamed. 

Just some time ago he’d said that Shotaro had looked like he belonged to Tokyo, blending like a drop of rainwater trickling into a pond. He takes it back.

This is where Shotaro belongs — on stage, all eyes on him, like a fire that has just been allowed to roam free, burning and consuming until it swirls towards the sky in a burst of light. 

Too soon, the music fades out. Shotaro holds his final move, chest heaving slightly, expression hidden in the shadows. 

All that’s left is stunned silence.

With how intensely Wonbin has been staring at Shotaro, he sees that the other’s muscles are pulled taut. 

And then — thunderous applause. As if a spell has been broken, the cheers descend like a storm. The spectators shower Shotaro with praise, gasping, whooping, and immediately, the cool untouchable dancer facade cracks. Ears red, he bows a few times, accepting spike-earring-performer’s fist bump with a smile that’s more like a grimace. Then he swivels and makes a beeline for Wonbin, who’s standing at the forefront of the crowd. 

Within seconds, he has an arm wrapped around the photographer, burying his face into Wonbin’s shoulder. “Ugh,” he groans feebly, sagging against the Korean. “Talk about being put on the spot.” 

Wonbin’s hand had started patting the other’s head tentatively (of its own accord, obviously, because Wonbin isn’t responsible for the actions of his hand), and he pauses its ministrations now, tapping instead at the base of Shotaro’s neck to grab his attention. “That was—” He swallows, words jetting out of his brain when the Japanese’s eyes meet his. He tries again. “That was amazing. I didn’t know you danced.” 

“Yeah, since I was 5.” Straightening up, Shotaro stretches a bit, shrugs. “I guess it just never came up.” 

Wonbin raises an eyebrow.

Someone who jumps from topic to topic with no discernible pattern aside from the basis of his interests at that particular moment, saying that a certain topic never came up in conversation. Yeah, right. Forgive him for not buying it. 

Dance is a sensitive topic for Shotaro — it’s not a difficult conclusion to come to. But it does leave the question of: Why? Why has the barista been so reluctant to showcase or discuss dance, when it’s so obvious to anyone who’s seen him perform that he’s skilled, that he lives it, breathes it, loves it with all his heart?

Wonbin isn’t usually one to press, but Shotaro has already been an exception to many things. One more to the list would hardly hurt. 

“You look like you enjoy it,” Wonbin says, weighing his words. 

The Japanese smiles wistfully. “I do,” he says, and then, catching Wonbin by surprise, “I know what you want to ask.” But he doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t change the subject either.

He only leads Wonbin by the arm, away from the audience members who are eying Shotaro hungrily now, several teenage girls looking like they’re working up the courage to approach him. From the way they’re glancing between their phones and Shotaro, all giggly, they probably want to ask for his contact or something. It doesn’t take any convincing beyond that for Wonbin to hurry along. 

Without saying anything, they unanimously decide to steer away from the station, instead opting to walk around it aimlessly.

After several beats of silence, Shotaro speaks up.

“I’ve always wanted to be a professional dancer. Don’t worry, there’s no tragic backstory or anything,” he adds. “I’m not dealing with some devastating chronic injury, and my family isn't unsupportive, yada yada. I also went to one of the best dance schools in Japan, so it’s not like I didn’t have resources, either.” He smiles wryly. “You could go as far as to say that I have everything an aspiring dancer would want... Which means that the problem lies with me.” 

Shotaro exhales, long and slow, and Wonbin presses closer in silent support. “I used to have a crew when I was 18. I was fresh out of EXPG, and I thought I could take on the world, y'know? So I chose the one crew that would give me the most exposure, because I wanted to prove myself, and I wanted to do it fast. You know how dance crews work?”

When Wonbin shakes his head, Shotaro explains, “Usually, crews prepare for two kinds of performances — showcases and competitions. Our crew scheduled at least one showcase per month, and we were preparing for several regional, national, or even international competitions at the same time. It was hectic, but not unmanageable. For full-time dancers, at least,” he stops, sighs. “They could afford to spend their entire day at the studio, as was expected of crew members. I, on the other hand, was juggling a full-time undergrad degree.” 

He huffs out a small laugh. “Honestly, it was a horrible decision. It didn’t take long for me to hate school, hate dance, hate life, in general, and looking back now I still think I was completely justified,” he shrugs, like it is what it is. “It very quickly became a one or the other situation, and obviously,” he gestures towards himself, “I chose college.” 

He seems to have gotten past the uneasiness of talking about this now, his words flowing easily. Wonbin listens carefully to catch every word.

“To be fair, it’s not like I was that into economics. My college major, I mean,” he supplies. “If I had to choose the one that gave me more joy, I’d choose dance in a heartbeat. Over and over again.” He shakes his head slightly, smile a little resigned. “But I had also been taught since I could remember that everyone needs a college degree. It’s just an idea that everyone enforces, y’know? Teachers, parents, society, whatever. The belief that I needed a degree had been ingrained in my mind, so to the 18-year-old me, I had two options, but no actual choice. You get it?” 

It seems to be a rhetorical question, because he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, that's why I told you you were really cool. Because your job — you say it’s nothing special, that anyone could do it. But that’s the thing.” He halts in his steps, turning towards Wonbin, who unconsciously stops in his tracks. Shotaro's eyes find his. “Not everyone can. Not everyone has the courage to go against what’s expected, even when it’s for something they love with a passion.” His eyes bore into Wonbin’s, and Wonbin feels like he’s burning, burning, burning. “You’re really cool, Wonbin-ah,” he says softly. 

For a short while, Wonbin doesn’t speak. He can’t.

(He wants to sink into the sincere depths of Shotaro’s eyes and never crawl back out.) 

When he finally manages to get his jumbled thoughts in order, he shakes his head. “You say I’m cool because of what I chose, but I think you’re cool despite the fact that you made the opposite choice. One decision doesn’t define a person, Shotaro.” Before the Japanese could say anything, he asks, “Do you still dance?” 

“Oh. I do. I’ve actually been putting out applications for dance crews. Thought I’d go back to it, now that I’ve gotten my degree," the dejection returns, overlaying the little glimmer of light that had returned to Shotaro’s expression. At the sight of that, Wonbin wants to hit himself in the face. 

“Wait, but that's good news, right?” The Korean's eyebrows draw together, confused. Then, carefully, as if having just realized something, “Did something come up?” 

For a brief moment, Shotaro is silent. And then, he asks a seemingly irrelevant question. “A few weeks back I was off sick for almost an entire week. Do you remember that?” 

Wonbin arches an eyebrow.

How could he not? The barista had come back depressed afterwards, and that had almost scared him into shitting kittens. 

“That time, a few of the applications I sent out were turned down,” the Japanese lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s not that big of a deal, in retrospect, but it kinda felt like my dream was crashing down a second time for a while there.” 

They’d ended up wandering over to Yoyogi Park, the garden rich with mottled green. An elderly couple happened to vacate a bench as they passed, and they sat down, relaxing their worn out legs to the chirps of crickets around them. 

Shotaro draws his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. He doesn’t look at Wonbin as he speaks. “It’s just… It’s hard not to doubt myself, y’know? It’s like, I’ve finally realized that this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. But in the time it took for me to realize that, I haven’t been training professionally, and the standards of professional hip-hop have only gotten higher. I know I was good.” He wraps his arms tighter around his knees. “But four years later, am I still good enough? I dunno… The rejections seem to be answer enough.” 

“But you only got turned down by a portion of the crews you tried out for, right? What about the other ones? There’s still some you haven’t heard back from,” Wonbin points out, desperately wanting Shotaro to see that the situation is not as bleak as his self-doubt is making it out to be, that there’s still hope. 

“I guess,” Shotaro says dubiously, “But those are even harder to get into than the ones that've already turned me down.” Then, evidently realizing that the conversation has taken a depressing turn, he adds, tone light, “You’re right, though. I’m speaking too soon. There’s still a chance that the other crews will take me on, yeah?” 

It sounds more like a weak attempt to make Wonbin feel better. 

They fall silent, Shotaro fiddling with the pockets of his trousers, Wonbin dragging the outsoles of his shoes against the dirt. It seems like no matter the time or place, Shotaro possesses this impeccable ability to render Wonbin speechless. 

Most times, it’s the barista’s forwardness that does it, blunt compliments and bold advances tying Wonbin’s brain into knots because for fuck’s sake is he hitting on him or is Shotaro just being Shotaro?

And then there’s this time, the time where Wonbin is so scared of screwing up that he’s scared of saying anything at all — because Shotaro is Shotaro, and Wonbin wants to take away the uncertainty, the sadness, and all that don’t belong here. 

Shotaro’s emotions elicit in Wonbin a mirroring feeling, which is funny, because he isn’t a sentimental person, hasn't been one for all of 22 years, and now out of the blue he’s feeling all these things — in the wake of another person, no less. 

(But then again, like with all things Shotaro, he doesn’t hate it.)

Abruptly, Wonbin’s voice cuts through the silence. “There’s this… running joke- between my friend and I... that what I say always ends up happening. Have I ever told you this?” 

The sudden change in topic seems to baffle the Japanese, who cocks his head, but Wonbin pushes forward anyway. “When Sohee and I were young, we made a habit out of making stupid bets. Guess the gender of the next person who enters the room. Guess the color of the last M&M in the bag. Guess how long the neighbour is going to scold her kid this time— stuff like that. But these games never lasted long, because I always won, and Sohee’s always been a sore loser.” 

“Uh huh,” Shotaro says slowly, blinking a few times. 

“Okay, uhm. That didn’t come out right. Let me—” Wonbin rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I guess it’s like… whatever I say... comes true? Or has a higher chance of coming true, at least. Like, if I say that a girl will walk through the door next, the next person who walks through the door would actually be a girl, eighty percent of the time.” 

Wonbin wets his lips, swallows, because even he himself is aware of how absurd and childish this sounds. If he could go back in time he would sooner suffocate himself than bring this up, but he can’t. He’s already dug his own grave, so he has no choice but to suck it up, plough on, and deal with the utter mortification later. “So we kind of… developed this– tradition. Where Sohee would jokingly ask me to give him my blessing — my affirmation, basically — whenever he has an important occasion coming up, which usually means a date with a dude he has the hots for, or when he has to buy concert tickets for Day6.” 

Wonbin breathes out, drawn-out and heavy, and it works somewhat, alleviates some of the weight on his chest. “I’m not trying to tell you that I have superpowers or whatever. That’s not true, and it's not what I’m saying. What I want to say is this—”

Snapping his eyes up to Shotaro’s, Wonbin enunciates each word solemnly and carefully, “You’ll make it, Shotaro.” 

Wonbin is no good at warmth and reassurance. He knows that. All he has to offer is this clumsy, awkward attempt at comfort, a blessing that’s as empty as it is indefinite.

He’s not expecting it to do much, be it good or bad — it’s more of a last-ditch attempt to cheer the barista up, and a desperate one. But a few seconds after he finishes speaking, Shotaro starts shaking. 

Panicked, he hovers a hand over the Japanese’s shoulder. “Wait, y– Are you… crying? Are you okay? Did I do something? Oh my god,” he fumbles helplessly, wondering if he should pat his back, fish for a tissue, or grovel until Shotaro forgives him (until Wonbin forgives himself).

And then a snort escapes from where Shotaro’s face is buried into his knees, and the photographer realizes that Shotaro is laughing. 

“Oh,” Wonbin says, belatedly registering the fact that the barista, instead of crying, is laughing at the reassurance that Wonbin wracked his brain so hard and sacrificed part of his dignity for. Seeing this, the pitch of his voice rises subconsciously until he’s borderline whining, “Why are y— Don’t laugh. I’m serious! I wasn’t joking about the blessing thing— Stop laughing! Don’t you trust me? Shotaro—!”

But Shotaro’s cackles have always been infectious, and it doesn’t take long for the corners of Wonbin’s mouth to twitch as well. 

Goddamn it. Goddamn him and his soft freaking spot for Shotaro. 

“I do– trust you, Binnie,” Shotaro wheezes, and Wonbin has to physically bite his cheek to not smile. Stop it, he reproaches soft Wonbin. It doesn’t work. “Of course I trust your… your super psychic clairvoyance abilities.” 

At that, even Wonbin has to admit that the situation is a little ridiculous. And with how Shotaro has dissolved into another bout of laughter, a small giggle escapes the photographer, then another, until they’re both completely gasping for air as they hang onto each other for support. 

More like Shotaro hangs onto Wonbin, muffling his hysterics into the other’s shirt, while the photographer bends over on the bench, trying to take the cramps off his stomach. It takes some time for them to fully calm down, because a stray chuckle, or a tremor, even, would set one or the other off all over again. 

When Shotaro is finally coherent again, he’s sprawled onto Wonbin’s half of the bench as well, body limp like a noodle.

“Thank you,” the barista says, voice slightly hoarse from the exertion, and Wonbin looks down to find the other’s gaze on him. His eyes are glossy, shinier than normal, but the photographer doesn’t comment on it. “I needed that.” 

Softly, Shotaro grins up at him, and Wonbin knows then that underneath all the good-natured teasing just now, the Japanese understands. 

The tugging feeling in his heart returns. 

“Don’t thank me,” Wonbin says. He averts his eyes. “But if you really want to, tell me when you have your first showcase. I’ll cheer you on.” 

From the corner of Wonbin's eye, Shotaro’s smile blooms, reminiscent of the first flower in spring, unfurling its petals as it bursts from the thawing ground.

“I’ll hold you onto that.” 

—

sohihi, osakisho and 41,499 others liked your post. 

sohihi: wow

sohihi: and i mean WOW 

sohihi: drop his @ 

wonbuns: 🙄

wonbuns: no