Chapter Text
-
Lights flash, bright and terrifying, in the rear-view window. It does nothing to quell the high in the car, the adrenaline of a chase and of a job well done too addicting to ignore. The tires squeal loudly as the car jerks to the right, cutting through three lanes, and above it all is the cacophonous noise of laughter.
When Yeonjun glances to his right, Beomgyu meets his gaze head-on.
And for one brilliant moment, time solidifies blindingly.
-
Choi Beomgyu is sick of his job at Workman and Co.
A suburban mall is boring enough in the light of day, but on a weekday evening, it’s dead. Every once in a while, a straggler walks by the glass windows towards the food court. Not a single one spares a second look at the ski gear display they have out for the season. Honestly, Beomgyu isn’t the biggest fan of dealing with customers, but the threat of sleep looms over him as he mans the cash register alone. Having even one person to interact with would be a delightful distraction from his exhaustion. He’s not even allowed his phone on the job, for Christ’s sake. He has tried to pull it out sneakily under the countertops before, but his insane manager spends her free time checking the store cameras even when she’s not on shift and he’s not really up for getting scolded today.
He has 45 minutes left before he has to clock out when the first customer of his shift enters.
The boy in question does not look at all like he plays any sport. For one, he has violently pink hair decorated with a million little clips and trinkets. Secondly, he’s dressed to the nines in a glittery skirt and dangly earrings. When he stands appraisingly in front of the carabiners and rock climbing equipment, he looks woefully out of place, and Beomgyu has to hold back an inappropriate laugh when he pulls a roll of climbing tape off of its hook to examine it closer.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t do a good enough job, because the boy looks up at the muted sound of Beomgyu’s giggle. The store is too empty. Obligation fills the air when they catch sight of each other, and Beomgyu suddenly wishes desperately for a bit more built-in humiliation so that he can stop himself from openly staring. If the boy was pretty from behind, he’s even prettier head-on— all feline eyes and sparkling makeup and pouty lips. Maybe he isn’t a boy. Beomgyu isn’t all that sure, but when they turn to approach the cash register, Beomgyu scrambles to straighten his back and look less like a bum.
“Just this, please.” The climbing tape is placed down on the counter. “How much?”
“Eight dollars.”
They pulls out their wallet— a pink plastic spectacle covered in rhinestones. Beomgyu tries not to stare. Who the fuck is this person? There’s only one high school in the area, and Beomgyu definitely would have noticed them if they were classmates. They taps their card on the machine and refuse a bag, and Beomgyu stutters through his standard customer service dialogue.
When they leave, he puts his head down on the cash counter. Another thirty minutes to go, and he has made an absolute fool of himself in front of someone who’s actually cool for once. Great.
-
Barely a week passes before more interesting people walk through the doors of Workman and Co. Beomgyu briefly wonders whether he has to start working more shifts to see interesting people; he’s always assigned closing, which means he barely gets the chance to see people, much less interesting people. It seems like his luck is on its way to turning though.
The customers in question are a duo that walk in tandem, both tall. One is blonde and the other has black hair and neither of them seem to belong in a ratty suburban mall, but not in the way the person from last week was. No, these two boys just are lost; even they don’t seem to fully get why they are in the store as they glance around uninterestedly at the supplies surrounding them. Unlike the other person, they don’t bother picking anything up to even examine it. Instead, they flit restlessly shelf to shelf as if the item they require is going to magically appear for them to grab out of thin air.
Beomgyu watches them flounder around from his perch for a full ten minutes, then takes pity and approaches.
“Looking for something specific?”
The black-haired one startles then turns. Up close, his face is rounder, wholesome. The sort of look that belongs in an early 2000s coming-of-age movie and not in public. His hair swoops up and out of his face, and Beomgyu is so transfixed by how his cupid’s bow shifts as he speaks that he completely misses what he says.
He refuses to let it fluster him though.
“Come again?”
“Climbing tape. Do you have any here?”
It’s the same shit that the guy from yesterday got. Jeez. Beomgyu’s manager is going to have a field day when she realizes that it actually sells well, especially during the off-season.
“Yeah. Follow me.”
The two trail after him as he weaves between the hiking packs to the back of the store where the tape rests on its hook. When Beomgyu passes it to blondie, he gives him a cheerful crooked grin.
“Thanks.” Blondie waves it around the air. “This stuff is really useful, y’know.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Beomgyu shrugs, then laughs. “Seems like everyone is into climbing lately. Maybe I’m just out of the loop or something.”
Blondie exchanges a look with 2000s Heartthrob, smile dimming down for a second.
“Something like that,” he says vaguely. Then, as if nothing happened, his cheery demeanor returns. “How much for the tape?”
“Eight dollars.” Beomgyu leads them back to the register and takes a crumpled ten dollar note off of their hands. The register is loud when it opens, and he flips up the ones to count out two of them. No one really pays with cash anymore, and all of the money in the register is crisp from disuse. They give him a synchronised wave as they walk out.
Beomgyu watches them as they disappear down the hallway. There is no one else in the store, and so he resigns himself to an evening of staring blankly at the register once again. It’s grey, as always. Nothing new.
-
A year or so ago, Beomgyu tried to kickstart his music career. It wasn’t entirely unsuccessful; he built something in the shape of a following in a few months of posting cute short covers on Youtube. It was just him in his bedroom though, no fancy setup. His guitar was a hand-me-down. All of it was very hush-hush, of course, because he knew that he was meant to be applying to colleges and making the most of his final year of high school. He didn’t do any of that because he was fully confident in his budding music career.
Clearly, it didn’t work out. Because here he is now, drenched through from the rain after his usual Tuesday evening shift, staring forlornly at the parking spot where his car is supposed to be.
“Shit.” There’s no one to even hear him as he pushes his bangs out of his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
There is no kidding, however, because his car is very much towed on a Tuesday night and he has no way of getting home. And fuck calling his dad, the man is mean enough on a regular day and he doesn’t want to push his luck at 10 PM. Besides, he’s going to be out a couple hundred dollars getting the car out of the towing company for sure, and he does not need a parental audience for his humiliation, thank you very much.
The parking lot is dead empty though, and so he sets out back to the awning in front of the mall to figure out what to do. Maybe he can get an Uber out to the towing place so that he can get his car before heading home. Ugh, but that would take several more hours and he’s so tired, he just doesn’t want to think about this right now. He could get an Uber home instead, but that would mean spending twice the amount of money on a ride since he needs to get a ride out to the towing company in the morning then…
He’s debating the merits of walking four miles in the rain when a random car swings into the lot. It suspiciously rolls up through the parking lot, straight for the curb that he’s standing at, and his heart leaps into his throat as he takes a step back. No way in hell is he getting kidnapped tonight, nuh uh, he knows he has a pocket knife in his messenger bag somewhere and so he stuffs a hand in it and rummages hurriedly for its handle all while staring at the car as it stops right in front of him and the window rolls down–
Only to reveal the pink-haired person from a few weeks ago. Their hair is firetruck red now. It stands out even in the dull downpour, and Beomgyu gapes like a fish.
“Need a ride?” Their voice is raised to carry over the downpour.
“Um,” Beomgyu responds intelligently. He takes his hand out of his bag, closes it, and tries to look nonchalant. “No?”
“You sure?” Beomgyu tries his hardest not to react when he gets glanced over head to toe. “I don’t mind. Really.”
“I actually quite enjoy not being the subject of a Tiktok true crime story,” Beomgyu tells him wisely. “I don’t take rides from strangers.”
“I’m Yeonjun,” the stranger offers.
“Okay, Yeonjun, I don’t take rides from strangers,” Beomgyu repeats. He wags his fingers at him. “Toodles.”
He starts walking up the curb, out of the awning and back into the pouring rain, only for the car to slowly roll up beside him as he walks.
“I’m 22. I live fifteen minutes up the highway with my friend, Soobin. I have two cats and I’m an only child,” Yeonjun lists. Honestly, it’s impressive how precisely the car keeps up with Beomgyu’s walking speed. “I’ve had my license for five years. I have a Soundcloud.”
Beomgyu snorts.
“What?”
“I can’t believe you would admit that to a guy you just met.”
“I can rap! You wanna hear one of my songs?” Yeonjun asks, and the car swerves as he reaches for his phone in the other seat. “I can show you, hold on, one second—”
Jesus Christ, and Beomgyu thought that this person was intimidating the other day in the store. When their head pops back up, the car straightens with a jerk, and they glance down at their phone to tap into the Soundcloud app.
“I actually am so good,” Beomgyu says hurriedly. He has to blink the rainwater out of his eyes as he speaks. “Like, I’ve never been better. I cannot tell you enough how great I am, walking home. By myself.”
“Aw. Okay, fine.” The phone gets tossed away. Yeonjun’s face reappears out the window, expression a bit more somber. “But seriously, let me give you a ride. It’s late. You never know what could happen at this hour.”
And getting in your car is the safe option? Beomgyu thinks.
He keeps that to himself though and instead appraises the situation. If he walks home, 4 miles in the pouring rain, he probably is going to get back at an ungodly hour. And he’ll definitely wind up with a cold, which means he might have to call out of work tomorrow, and he hates having to do that. His bank account is meager as it is.
On the other hand, if he decides to take a ride from some rando that he barely knows, he’s not sure he’ll ever live it down. Not that he has friends to tell, but moreso to himself. Even if he survives the encounter and doesn’t get kidnapped, it would be a wack precedent to set for himself. Besides, Yeonjun can’t even actually drive him up to his house. He’s going to be in enough trouble coming home late without a car, he doesn’t need to add a stranger into the mess.
But it would be nice to not get soaked through. Even if it means he’s going to be subjected to shitty Soundcloud rap. He hasn’t really talked to anyone in a while anyways, he’s getting rusty on social interactions, so maybe this can be a refresher course of sorts.
The stranger is still rambling about the dangers of walking about at night when Beomgyu makes up his mind.
“I live ten minutes away,” he interrupts. He puffs out his chest, glares as hard as he can. “No funny business. You make one wrong move and I’m calling the cops. Got it?”
“Loud and clear,” Yeonjun says somberly. “I know all about the kidnapping statistics. A lady got nabbed right around this mall last year, actually, there was a podcast about it and everything.”
Great. That makes Beomgyu feel much better. He still comes around the side to open the door and plop down into the passenger seat. The drivers side window rolls up, and Yeonjun reaches out to fiddle with the heating until hot air blasts out the vents. Beomgyu can’t help relaxing into his seat, eyes flickering closed for a minute. He didn’t realize how cold it is outside.
“So… Which way to your place?”
Beomgyu doesn’t bother opening his eyes as he recites: “Take a right out the lot, then a left onto the highway. It’s the third exit.”
“Cool, cool.”
The car rolls into action. Rain thunders down on the windshield, loud and comforting, and Beomgyu has to fight the urge to let it lull him into sleep. No way. For all he knows, he could fall asleep and find himself several state lines over.
The natural course of action is to become annoyingly nosy about his new driver.
“So, Yeonjun.” Beomgyu leans up against the door and settles his cheek in his hand. “What brings you out here on this fine evening?”
“Oh, uh,” Yeonjun taps a ditty on the steering wheel. “I was driving around. Do it a lot around this time of the night, good for getting my mind off things.”
"You drive out to the empty mall parking lots regularly?”
“Yeah. Fits the aesthetic, you know?”
Beomgyu isn’t all that sure what aesthetic Yeonjun is referring to, but he replies nevertheless with a “Sure. Yeah, I get it.”
“And then I saw you out there getting soaked and I couldn’t just drive off, that would have been super fucked up, right?”
Yeonjun turns to him, wide-eyed and earnest.
“Uh, yeah,” Beomgyu stammers. “Please pay attention while you drive.”
Yeonjun waves off his concern. “I know these roads like the back of my hand. Don’t you worry.”
They switch on the radio and fiddle with it for a second until it’s on a Top 40 station. A pop girlie who sounds like every other top hit from the last two years croons breathily through the speakers, and Yeonjun hums along. It’s a shit song, but Beomgyu is polite enough not to mention it as he glances out the window. An assortment of pink and purple stickers line the plastic of the car door. It’s obnoxious in the way that a child could be. Maybe Yeonjun has a kid. Sure, they’re young, but like, high school pregnancies are a thing, and Beomgyu isn’t judgmental like that.
The exit comes too soon.
“Is it a right up here?”
“Yeah. Just pull up to the end of this block,” Beomgyu says, already moving to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Beomgyu politely smiles and reaches for the car handle when Yeonjun continues. “Hey, want to exchange numbers? I could pick you up again. I’m driving around here all the time anyways, so, it wouldn’t really be out of my way, you know?”
“Thanks, but I have my own car.” Yeonjun’s face falls, and Beomgyu caveats impulsively. “I’ll still give you my number if you want it though. We can, like, hang out.”
“Oh my god, yeah. I’d love that.” They dig around; their phone, luckily, landed neatly into the cupholder when they tossed it to the side earlier. “I’ll text you so you have my number too.”
Beomgyu hums agreeably as he punches in his number and saves himself with a little thundercloud emoji, tapping back afterwards. He accidentally lands himself in Yeonjun’s recent calls, all of which are from one ‘SOOBS.’ Looks like he’s not the only one with barely any friends.
The time at the top of the screen reads midnight though, and Beomgyu curses when he sees it. Fuck, how long did Beomgyu even spend out in the rain hoping his car will materialise out of nowhere?
“I gotta go.” He locks Yeonjun’s phone and hands it back. “Thanks again.”
"Really, it’s no problem. Call me whenever. I can be, like, your personal chauffeur.”
They give him a two-finger salute. Beomgyu, unsure of how to respond, curtsies like an idiot before turning tail to walk home.
The headlights stay trained on him all the way to his house.
-
He really doesn’t expect to run into any of these people ever again. Sure, this town is not all that big, but it’s big enough, and frankly Beomgyu is self-aware enough to know that he is sort of forgettable. He means that in an entirely confident, non-self-deprecating way, thank you very much. It’s a fact of life. It’s why he, unlike one Yeonjun, does not have endless phone call entries from anyone.
And so, he is entirely caught off guard when Yeonjun calls him one afternoon.
It’s great timing, really. Right after his shift. He doesn’t have anywhere to be yet, and his dad doesn’t know that he got off work this early, and so he’s sat at the mall’s food court with his personal sweet treat of the day (a cinnamon bun) when his phone buzzes bright on the table.
“You free?” are the words that greet him when he picks up the phone.
“Geez. Not even a hello?”
“Fuck. You’re right.” There’s a shuffle over the line, then, “Okay. Hello Beomgyu. How’s your day going?”
“Great, thank you.” Beomgyu pops another fry in his mouth. “I just got off work.”
“So you’re free.”
“You have a one-track mind.”
“Some people call it concentration, you know,” Yeonjun says wisely. He doesn’t react when Beomgyu snorts loudly. “I’ll come pick you up. Still at the mall?”
“Uh huh. Entrance 3, around the bend.”
“Be there in ten.”
The line drops. Beomgyu pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a second. Then he sets it on the table face-down and focuses on trying to finish his fries before Yeonjun gets here. He skipped breakfast in the hopes that it would get his appetite going by the time he got off work, and it kind of worked— he actually wants to eat right now. But even then, he can’t finish his food. He picks at the last bit half-heartedly, fried potatoes turning into an oily mush underneath his hard palate. Yeonjun’s text letting him know that he’s here is a blessing in disguise; he chucks the rest of his food in the trash can and jogs over to the entrance by the food court.
Yeonjun’s car is garish in the daylight. It has a horrendous metallic orange paint job, and under the gray stormy skies, it glints dully. The back lights are surrounded with black paint. The ground underneath him rumbles to the bassline of whatever song Yeonjun has blasting. Beomgyu can feel himself making an unsavory face as he approaches, but he can’t help it; this guy really is a walking stereotype. He has no idea why the hell he wants to even talk to him.
The window rolls down and the music lowers in volume. Deja-vu ripples through Beomgyu as Yeonjun leans over the console to stare up at him, sunglasses perched low on his nose.
“I’m looking for a Choi.” He sniffs. “A Beomgyu Choi.”
Beomgyu rolls his eyes hard enough to hurt. “Open the door, man.”
There’s a click, and Beomgyu swings open the passenger door to climb in. He sets his drawstring bag down in front of him and reaches for the seatbelt, shivering. “Why the hell do you have the AC on?”
“Because I’m cool like that. Get it? Cool?” Yeonjun turns up the heating as he speaks, ignoring Beomgyu’s groan. “I’m so funny. Maybe I should go into comedy.”
“Your crowds are going to boo at you.”
“Oh, you think there’ll be a crowd though.” Yeonjun winks at him and puts the car into drive.
There is some inane music playing. Beomgyu personally doesn’t know much about rap, but even he can tell that this isn’t any of the good stuff. It’s too bass heavy, the lyrics nonsensical, and he puts up with it bravely for a solid two minutes before clearing his throat. “Guest gets aux rights. Where’s your cord?”
“You mean Bluetooth, right?” Yeonjun laughs and clicks around on the console. It blinks, ready to pair. “Here. It’ll just pop up as ‘My Car’ for you.”
Beomgyu grumbles to himself as he opens his phone and navigates over to connect. “Some of us don’t have cars with all this newfangled technology.”
“You don’t have Bluetooth in your car? What the hell do you drive?”
“A Honda from 1998.”
Yeonjun gasps dramatically. “How is it even running?”
“With a lot of prayers,” Beomgyu tells him. Fleet Foxes will fix the vibe. He doesn’t bother throwing it on the queue, instead just plays the self-titled album on shuffle and shoves his phone in the cupholder.
“You’re brave.”
“I’m poor,” Beomgyu rebuts with a laugh. “But thanks.”
Yeonjun blindly reaches out with a hand and pats at Beomgyu’s thigh. “Y’know, I can help you fix up your car. Like, with a Bluetooth radio system. I know a guy.”
Beomgyu awkwardly pokes at his hand to get him to move. “Some of us actually like listening to the radio.”
“They play this on the radio?” Yeonjun sounds too fascinated for Beomgyu to actually bully him. “Isn’t it like, too indie for that?”
“Dude, it’s Fleet Foxes. Do you live under a rock?”
“I was just playing Kendrick Lamar and you were acting like you’d never heard the song before.”
“Yeah, well…” Beomgyu is suddenly acutely glad he hadn’t voiced any of his disparaging thoughts aloud. Clearly, he isn’t in the know either. He hums along to the song— overlapping voices start the intro of White Winter Hymnal as rain starts to tap onto the windshield. Every afternoon is dreary these days, it seems. “I’m not judging.”
Yeonjun snorts. “You were, but it’s fine. I like Fleet Foxes too.”
“I thought you didn’t know them.”
“When did I say that?”
Beomgyu thinks back and realizes that Yeonjun never did say anything of the sort. Oops. He sure isn’t going to admit to any fault of his own, so he shuts up and stares out the window more resolutely than earlier. He should have just said no when Yeonjun asked to pick him up. Now look. This is why he doesn’t bother with friends. He decides he’s going to stay silent the rest of the ride.
The place Yeonjun pulls into isn’t all that far though, and so Beomgyu has barely made his mind up before the car is jerking to a stop. They’re in front of an apartment building. There are a set of steps leading up to a door with an awning over it. They hide from the rain as Yeonjun fumbles for his house keys.
It’s warm inside. Everything is lit warmly by a lamp off to one side. Out the sliding balcony doors, rain steadily falls. It’s not clean by any means— an electric guitar lies, abandoned atop a brown carpet, and the wires from it run messily across the floor in a tangle to where it connects to the amp, and there’s a pile of abandoned vinyl strewn by a record player in one corner which has polaroids taped onto the underside of its lid. The walls explode with posters. Beomgyu is overwhelmed in the best way, pushed out of one storm into another.
“Home sweet home,” Yeonjun announces. His keys click against glass as he drops them in a little dish off to the side. He fiddles with a radio on top of a shelf and it fuzzes to life, playing AC/DC on the classic rock station. Yeonjun hums in approval and turns the volume down. “Make yourself comfy. Do you like coffee?”
“Uh, yeah man.” Beomgyu gingerly steps over the wires to sit at the very edge of a beaten-up leather sofa. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it!” Yeonjun calls as he disappears around a corner. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Both, please.”
The heady scent of coffee fills the air. Beomgyu inhales it greedily. He has been cold for too long, even in Yeonjun’s car, and the heating is good enough in here for him to shed his jacket and tuck his hands underneath his thighs. He tries his best not to be nosy, but he can’t help himself as he leans forever over the coffee table to glance at the selection of glossy magazines stacked off to one side. It’s the only neat thing here. The very top one is a Vogue cover. A woman bows unnaturally on it, eyes staring daggers into the camera.
“Here you go.” The coffee cup clinks onto the table. It’s a creamy ceramic. A pouty duck is painted on the side of it. “And a black coffee for me.”
Beomgyu stares at Yeonjun’s mug in distaste. “You’re a strong man.”
“You think so?” Yeonjun pulls back his sleeve, flexes. His biceps wrap around his arms like rope. “I work out.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Beomgyu stares for a beat too long, then coughs superficially and looks away. The coffee is suddenly very interesting. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I did any sort of workout.”
“Not your thing, huh?” Yeonjun sips loudly. “I can tell.”
Beomgyu scoffs, then straightens up. He can feel his neck crack as he poses. His loose sleeves roll down to expose pale skin. “Some of us don’t have to work out to be hot.”
He leans down to kiss his skinny bicep dramatically. There’s a choked, aborted noise that Yeonjun lets out, and Beomgyu politely ignores it. He lets his sleeve fall back into place and picks up his coffee mug. The lady from the magazine is still staring at him through the plastic cover. “So… do you have roommates?”
“Just one. He’s probably still asleep.”
“It’s 3.”
“He’s definitely still asleep.”
Beomgyu raises an eyebrow. “Does your roomie not have a job or something?”
“Something like that.” Yeonjun says vaguely. At Beomgyu’s curious look, he continues, “I don’t really know. Didn’t bother asking too many questions. He pays his side of the rent, and that’s all I care about.”
“You don’t even wonder where he’s getting the money from?”
Yeonjun shrugs sheepishly. “I know he works from home. Isn’t that enough?”
“What if he’s, like, some kind of criminal and you don’t even know? Mafia money paying the rent?” At Yeonjun’s second shrug, Beomgyu laughs in disbelief. “Man. You’re either really stupid or really trusting.”
“It isn’t really trust, is it? I mean,” Yeonjun grins, a bit sheepish. “I found him on Craigslist.”
“Craigslist?” Beomgyu sets down his cup and blinks. “Craigslist.”
“Listen, I didn’t have a lot of options,” Yeonjun says. “I was just trying to make the place not feel super lonely. And I can’t just pay rent by myself.”
“You sure about that?” Beomgyu glances conspicuously down at the magazine on the coffee table, where Yeonjun number two is staring up at him.
“Oh, that, uh, shockingly doesn’t pay much.”
Beomgyu somehow doesn’t believe it. He knows what it’s like to be paid next to nothing— he works at the mall, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get much worse in terms of a salary. But then again, Yeonjun is just some guy he met twice, and so he sips at his coffee obnoxiously loudly instead of pestering him with questions.
(There’s just no way he needs a roommate, though. Beomgyu knows that.)
The coffee isn’t half-bad. It’s almost like Yeonjun already knows him, what with how perfectly sweet it is. It warms up Beomgyu’s chapped fingers. The cold isn’t that bad yet, but Beomgyu has never really had good circulation, and his red fingers are getting ugly from how dry the skin is. The heat feels good.
For a moment, Yeonjun continues yapping. The unfortunate habit of tuning people out rears its head again, and Beomgyu can’t help but stare at the magazine cover. The Yeonjun on the magazine cover is a different character from the one seated in front of him; the glossy version is sly, eyes closed halfway to slits and fingers splayed out in front of him. A gauzy black blouse hangs off of his frame, collarbones on display. He pouts his full lips.
But then, Beomgyu glances up and away from the magazine at the tail-end of a laugh, and Yeonjun’s entire frame is curled up in one corner of the armchair as he giggles at his own joke. His hoodie is massive and hides him entirely.
“I should have gotten a career in comedy,” he chortles. “You didn’t even smile. Come on, don’t I deserve at least a smile?”
Beomgyu gives him a hint of a smile. It makes Yeonjun start laughing all over again, shoulders shaking with the force of it. It's a breath of fresh air to see someone so unfettered with the vestiges of pride and propriety.
Settled in with his coffee and with his new companion, Beomgyu's spine relaxes for once.