Work Text:
Sungho is a creature of habit.
His alarm goes off every morning at 7 AM, rousing him to the quiet wake of morning, faint glow of the rising sun trickling through his bedroom windows and spilling onto his sheets. The world is foggy to him as he blinks the sleep from his eyes, stretching out his tired limbs and stifling a yawn. On days where rest has evaded him the night prior, he’ll allow himself the liberty of hitting snooze, but even then, he never does it more than once. As he slowly grows more alert, he goes through a mental checklist of tasks he needs to complete for the day—in order of deadlines and priorities, of course—and checks his emails for any important work updates he might have missed. Only then can he proceed with his morning routine, making the bed and drawing the curtains, brushing his teeth for exactly two minutes using the mini hourglass that spills sand in 30-second increments and picking out an outfit in a color that best suits his mood. Lavender if he’s trying to put his mind at ease, forest green if he needs inspiration for a new project.
Today’s inbox is filled with feedback on a first draft of an article, set to be published the following Wednesday, and an announcement about end-of-year performance reviews releasing on Friday. He picks out a navy blue cable knit, for sophistication and stability, reassurance that he’s on the right path.
It’s about a quarter to eight when he makes it to the kitchen, right along schedule. He pours himself a glass of water and hides his medicine in the cup of yogurt he pulls from the fridge, scrolling through the morning news on his phone to pass the time. There’s a road blockage on one of the major highways due to an accident, the value of the Korean won is declining once more, and a foreign country has declared war.
He grimaces, shutting his phone off and finds it in him to stomach the last of his breakfast. The thing with being a writer is that he can’t exactly escape the grotesqueness of humanity; it’s the very thing he gets paid to report on. In an ever-changing society and a political climate as sensitive to that of a petulant child, he finds comfort in the constancy of routine. Everything in its place, as it should be.
He makes haste with the dishes and pours out some kibble for his cat, a ginger tabby he’d adopted when an old coworker moved provinces. She’d been slumbering in her playtree up until then, and she greets him with a soft purr, weaving between his legs and nuzzling her face into the palms of his hands when he crouches down to give her some pets.
“Be good, okay?”
She mewls in response.
His messenger bag, this handcrafted leather piece he'd been gifted on his eighteenth birthday, is already packed, laptop fully charged with his planner and notebook neatly tucked in beside it. He slips the strap onto his shoulder, grabbing his coat and keys before sneaking one final glimpse in the mirror by the door, smoothing out invisible wrinkles on his undershirt and fixing his bangs. He really needs to get a haircut soon.
The December air is crisp and nips at his nose, and for a moment he considers heading back inside and calling it a day, but the more sensible part of himself insists on powering through the cold. It’s a Tuesday, which means he gets to work remotely at his favorite cafe, this cozy shop tucked between the local grocer and the dry cleaner’s. It’s the kind of place that people really only know about through word of mouth, located just on the outskirts of the nearest college town, far enough to make it inconvenient for the busiest of students and ensures that he never has to fight for a table with an outlet. He likes to do his work there, enjoys the quiet ambiance and the soft jazz they play on the overhead speakers.
The walk there is a relatively quick one, only a few blocks away from his apartment. The windows are decorated with tinsel for the holidays, a small fir tree sitting by the chalkboard menu near the entrance. He walks in and is immediately embraced by the scent of freshly ground coffee beans and the warmth of baked goods hot out the oven.
At the register, a familiar face, but that’s about it.
If Sungho is a creature of habit, the boy who works behind the counter is a complete anomaly. He goes by a new name every week. Leo, Connie, Corydora, whatever. They don’t make sense half the time, and it miffs Sungho a bit, the inconsistency of it all, but he never asks why. It’s none of his business anyway.
He sneaks a peek at this week’s name tag: Leehan.
“The usual?” Leehan asks, referring to the same hot, black coffee he’s been ordering since October, the warmer alternative to summertime’s iced americanos. He has a paper cup in hand and sharpie in the other, lips curved into a knowing smirk.
“Yeah,” he replies, sliding over a crisp 5,000 won bill. Exact change, for an order that never changes. “Thanks.”
Sungho takes a tentative sip of his drink when it’s ready, and he tries his hardest to keep a straight face. He never did acquire the taste for black coffee, bitter and unsweetened, sour on his tongue. Yet, he still orders it each time to seem more mature, like an adult who has his life together. If he sneaks in a sugar packet or two, nobody needs to know.
Like clockwork, he settles down into his usual booth, in the corner by the window, two seats down from the air vents and the perfect vantage point for people watching. Office workers making their daily commute, mothers running errands with their babies in strollers. The maple tree outside has since lost its leaves, a light layer of snow resting on empty branches, an abandoned nest left vacant for the winter.
He slips out his laptop and opens the document he’s been working on, analyzing the critique from his editor. Sungho thinks there’s more things highlighted than not.
‘Shorten this. It’s a newspaper, not a thesis.’
‘You used this same phrase in the last issue.’
‘Redundant, redundant, redundant.’
And the like.
He furrows his brow and worries his bottom lip, chewing at the skin. It’s nothing new, but it still hurts to see. When he’d first landed the promotion, he’d been elated, eager to showcase his love for journalism and bring a sense of pride to the agency. Unfortunately, he’d been paired with the most difficult editor known to man, his abrasive and blunt personality doing more harm than good, tanking his confidence and inducing a concerning amount of grey hairs on his head. It doesn’t help that his advice is absolutely useless, and all Sungho can do is open a thesaurus and find newer, more creative metaphors in hopes that it’ll pass as good enough.
For a writer, he sure has the tendency to be at a loss for words, it seems.
He’s in the middle of revamping a paragraph when, out of the corner of his eye, someone approaches and places a tray on the table. On it, a steaming togo cup—more coffee, he presumes— and a glazed croffle from the pastry display. He glances up, puzzled, and is met with the barista who had rung him up, looking at him in earnest.
Leehan.
“Hi,” he says. He’s still staring.
“Hi?” Sungho responds, hesitant. He finds himself picking at the loose thread on his jeans, a nervous habit he could never shake. He awkwardly shifts in his seat and clears his throat. “Um, is there something wrong?”
“Oh!” Leehan’s eyes widen, as if barely registering the obscurity of the situation. He shakes his head, waving his hands in front of him. “No, no.” He slides the tray closer to him. “I, uh, I actually made this for you.”
Upon closer inspection, he can see a little lion drawing on the cup, clumsy strokes of marker that make up its fluffy mane and cartoonishly large eyes adorned with a pair of specs that look suspiciously like the ones perched on his nose. He huffs a laugh, amused.
“For me?” Leehan gives a shy nod, cheeks tinted a dusty rose. He tries to pay it no mind.
“You don’t have to accept it, obviously” he rushes out. “I just, I see you every week and you always seem so stressed. Thought you could use a pick me up. But I’m now realizing you already have a drink and probably don’t want another one, so maybe this wasn’t the brightest plan—”
“I’ll drink it,” Sungho cuts him off. Leehan clams up, watching as he takes a hesitant sip, gauging a reaction.
Where he expects the acidic tang of a dark roast is the bittersweetness of a mocha, the perfect blend of rich chocolate and espresso beans flooding his senses, liquid velvet soothing over the acrid aftertaste from the drink that sits untouched next to him.
“Is it okay?” Leehan asks carefully.
“It’s good,” Sungho indulges in another sip. He already likes it better than his stupid, shitty adult coffee. “Thank you.”
He sighs in relief. “I’m glad.”
“I don’t usually order this, though,” he points out.
“I know,” he replies, a soft grin gracing his features and revealing a dimple in his left cheek. Has that always been there? “You come in every Tuesday and order a hot black coffee, no sweeteners. But,” he gestures to the near-full cup on his table, all knowing, “you never seem to enjoy them.”
Sungho raises a brow. “And what makes you say that?”
Leehan flushes, playing with the hem of his apron. “You always make this face after you take a sip,” he admits. “Your nose scrunches up and you purse your lips, and you won’t touch it for a while.” He averts his gaze, embarrassed, as if the admission that he’s been observing him and his habits was the most absurd thing in the world. Sungho thinks it might be, but he’s more endeared than perturbed.
“How thoughtful of you, Leehan,” he teases.
“Donghyun,” he corrects.
Sungho’s features soften. “What?”
“My name is Donghyun.”
He finally meets his eyes once more, full of sincerity. Sungho feels the cogs turning in his head, processing his words before his breath hitches at the realization. He thinks back to all the name tags, the sheer ridiculousness of it all. How much easier it could’ve been if he’d just asked.
Then, laughter. Real, genuine, raw laughter, the kind that starts in his belly and spreads to his chest before escaping his body, uncontained and unapologetic. The few other patrons look at them quizzically, but he pays them no mind. He usually would, absolutely. But not now. Not today.
“For real?” He’s calmed down a bit, but he still spares a few giggles.
Donghyun joins in, shakes his head bashfully, eyes crinkling into crescent moons.
“For real.”
Sungho is a creature of habit, but sometimes he’s open to trying new things—including his coffee and the cute boy who makes them.
☕︎༯
“Hey, Donghyun?”
“Yeah?”
“You know you didn’t have to fake so many aliases to talk to me, right?”
“...Yeah.”