Chapter Text
Seokjin’s cafe is empty, which isn’t unusual for a Monday afternoon. Mondays are the days that yank everyone out of their relaxing weekends back into the horribleness that is work, and Seokjin doesn’t expect people to be dropping by to sip their coffee peacefully on a Monday. A few hurried orders had been in, but the customers had left almost as soon as they’d received their drinks.
Seokjin’s cleaning up in the back room when he hears the telltale tinkling of the bell on the café door. A customer. He wipes his hands on his apron and makes his way to the register to take the customer’s order.
The man Seokjin is faced with is much, much younger than he had expected—honestly, he’d expected a sweet elderly woman wanting conversation (he’d had the type before. A lot) or an old man with too much time on his hands (again, a lot). Basically someone old.
His customer is the opposite of old, however. He’s probably even a few years younger than Seokjin himself, despite being a few centimeters taller. He’s fumbling about in his bag, green head lowered when Seokjin asks, “May I take your order?”
His head shoots up, and Seokjin can see the man taking him in. He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing and his hands drop out of his bag. He fiddles with his fingers at his sides as he speaks. “Ah—Um…I’d like…”
“A coffee?” prompts Seokjin helpfully. He smiles, and guy visibly loosens. He’s kinda cute, thinks Seokjin.
“Yeah,” he says. “And a muffin, please?" He reaches into his bag. "Black,” he adds as an afterthought.
Seokjin laughs. “You want the muffin black or the coffee?”
The man reddens, and Seokjin finds him endearing. “No—What I meant was—“ He fumbles around his words, and Seokjin cuts him off, putting him out of his misery.
“Coffee, black, and a muffin, right?” he asks. The man nods, apparently having decided that words weren’t on his side that day. Seokjin smiles again, and says, “Take a seat, I’ll bring your order over.”
Seokjin’s pouring the man’s coffee when loud music starts playing, making him jump and almost drop the cup.
He turns around to see the man seated at a table with his laptop open in front of him and headphones plugged in, typing something rapidly on his keyboard. His headphones must not have been plugged in properly because Seokjin could hear whatever music the other was listening to all the way over here.
Seokjin’s about to call out to the man and tell him, when he hears a distinct beat added to the (lyrics-free) music and realizes that it’s the man who’s making the music. Intrigued, he leaves the man alone and turns back to pouring his coffee.
Seokjin prepares his order and takes it over to him. The man is lost in his laptop, fingers flying as he adds and removes components from his music. Seokjin taps him on the shoulder and his head flies up the same way as before. Same as before, Seokjin can see the moment of recognition in the other’s eyes and he presses his space bar, effectively cutting off the music.
“Your order,” says Seokjin. The man pulls off his headphones and smiles a little embarrassedly at Seokjin, and holy mother of God who decided to give this man dimples? Seokjin was sure he could take over the world with those dimples. Stop an alien invasion.
“Thank you,” he says. He grabs his muffin, apparently not knowing what to do next, and takes a large bite.
“Can I get your name?” asks Seokjin. The man says something, but his reply is muffled by the food. He repeats, “Namjoon,” the tips of his ears reddening.
Namjoon. It suits him. “I’m Seokjin,” says Seokjin. “Is that your own music?”
Namjoon nods, then stops suddenly. “How do you know?”
It’s Seokjin’s turn to blush. “Your headphones were unplugged.”
Namjoon starts, his hand reaching to check the headphones port but accidentally knocking over his coffee. Seokjin moves at lightning speed, pushing Namjoon and his laptop out of the way. “Are you okay?” he asks hurriedly, checking the man all over for any signs of injury.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Most of it landed on my jacket.” His body says otherwise, however. A lot of it was on the floor and on his jacket, but a bit had gotten on his shirt that he was now holding as far away from his chest as possible. His face is twisted in an expression of pain.
“Oh my god,” says Seokjin. “It got on your shirt, are you burnt?” He reaches for Namjoon’s shirt to see if he was okay, but Namjoon grabs it back before Seokjin can act.
“I’m fine,” he squeaks. Seokjin looks up to see Namjoon’s very embarrassed face. He laughs.
“It’s not like I have a six pack hidden under here either,” says Seokjin, gesturing to his own torso. Namjoon cracks a small smile, but remains adamant in holding his shirt to his chest.
“I have a spare shirt in the back,” says Seokjin, “At least change into that.”
Namjoon agrees, and Seokjin moves to the back room. The room is small, just enough for Seokjin to keep his things and to relax in when he was on break. He moves across the room to the closet he keeps there (yes, closet, what was he supposed to do when his friends came in all freaked out about some party?) and retrieves a plain white shirt.
Seokjin looks around, kicking a stray wrapper under the couch and after deeming the room acceptable he opens the door and calls out to Namjoon. “You can change in here,” he says, holding up the shirt and gesturing behind him.
Namjoon makes his way towards him, and suddenly Seokjin feels self conscious because the shirt would be way too big on Namjoon, but he ignores the feeling and places the shirt in Namjoon’s hands.
“Thank you,” says Namjoon, sending another flash of heavenly dimples Seokjin’s way and Seokjin waves it off, trying to hide his flustered self.
Namjoon emerges with discarded shirt in hand, and Seokjin gulps at the show of tanned skin and collarbones practically thrusted in his face. Seokjin suddenly feels much warmer. That was completely uncalled for, and Seokjin feels attacked.
“Thank you so much, Seokjin-ssi,” says Namjoon. He looks across the room to his stuff at the table, either blatantly unknowing of Seokjin’s stare or kindly ignoring it. Seokjin hopes it isn’t the latter, but there doesn’t seem to be anything he can do about it (he can’t look away, of course).
Namjoon moves back to his table, packing up his things. Seokjin finally seems to find his voice. “What are you doing?” he asks.
Namjoon’s head jerks up and Seokjin wonders whether he does this every time someone calls him. “Oh, I—Uh, I’m packing up?” He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, drawing Seokjin’s attention to how attractive Namjoon looks with his disheveled hair.
“Oh,” says Seokjin. What a wordsmith I am. “Well, thank you for stopping by,” he says at last.
“Would tomorrow be okay?” asks Namjoon. Seokjin stares at him.
“Huh?”
“Would tomorrow be okay to return your shirt?” Seokjin stares again, before finally regaining his senses and forming some sort of reply.
“Yeah, sure.”
Namjoon is standing at the door, his jacket and shirt hanging on his arm and backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Bye,” he says, leaving Seokjin with a final sighting of his dimples. As if to proclaim his knowledge of how lost Seokjin is for him, but that's just silly. Seokjin hid it pretty well, after all.
Seokjin finds himself sighing as he leans across the counter, counting down the hours until he can see Namjoon again.