Chapter Text
Being a barista is tough, Jungsu decides.
You’d think that after the lunch time rush you’d have a break from making coffee and warming almond croissants, but you really don’t. People just… always want coffee…. he guesses.
He flicks the machine frother on, the milk in the jug he’s holding begins to bubble and get hot - the metal jug is worn, old and bruised, and the heat creeps on to the handle and nips at his fingertips. A customer stands across from him in front of the counter, staring him down, as if telepathically shouting at him to go faster. A line of impatient people, a mother and her whining child, the people leaving their table, the dirty plates in the sink, the sickly buttery scent of pastries -
Being a barista is tough, Jungsu decides. It’s all too much. It’s overwhelming.
He can feel the heat radiating from the stove behind the thin kitchen wall; the heat ripples on his back, and he feels a familiar trickle of sweat begin to pool in between his shoulder blades. He shivers a bit at the gross sensation, deciding that he’s going to stand under the shower and scrub his back indefinitely when he gets home.
So why does he keep this job, where he feels overstimulated, exhausted and agitated all at once? The answer is simple: money.
It’s not easy living by yourself, not in a slowly but surely plummeting economy accompanied by a housing crisis - he’s grateful for his one bedroom studio - it’s cozy, and it’s enough to get by. The pay he gets at this café is great - but it’s not without effort.
“Regular almond cap, extra hot for Lea,” his voice is loud, attempting to cut through the busy chatter of the space. The lady staring him down from before steps forward, grabbing her cup and walking out of the shop. He feels a bit more at ease without her gaze on him.
He looks at the line of people, satisfied by how it’s shrunk a bit, but then a sharp pain hits him and he can already feel one of his biweekly migraines about to hit. He furrows his eyebrows, the dermal under his left eye throbbing at the sensation of his eyes squeezed shut.
And then there comes his saviour, Kwak Jiseok, in all of his glory, with a look that says ‘dude, are you okay?’
“Dude, are you okay?” Jungsu laughs a bit at how he predicted it, before nodding his head,
“I’m fine, come on, let’s keep going-“
“I don’t think so,” Jiseok grabs his arm, yanking him back, “sit down, I’m making you a coffee, and you’re taking a break.”
“But it’s not my break yet, I’ve got 30 minutes until -,”
“Yeah, yeah, I got you this job, I can run this shop better than you can,” he teases, “but seriously,” his tone becomes stern, “stop working so much, this is the 6th full day shift you’ve worked in a row, that’s borderline illegal.” He grabs a carton of Milk Lab oat milk - Jungsu’s favourite - and gets to work.
“And that’s exactly why I don’t work 7 days in a row - because then it’s not illegal.” He sits down anyways, letting himself freeload off of Jiseok’s kindness.
“You’re infuriating, you know that?” Jiseok huffs, “it’s not like working one less day will kill you.”
“Yeah, yeah. You know I like to save money.”
“But for what? $100 extra dollars a week isn’t worth your health. You’re tired.” The coffee machine whirs agonisingly, and Jungsu lets out a long, frustrated sigh.
“Can we just drop it?” He finally throws out, meaner than he meant to. He sees Jiseok hesitate a bit, as if deciding what he should say next.
“Fine,” he places the takeaway cup on the table firmly, “let’s drop it.” He gives Jungsu one final worried look, before finally letting go of the cup and walking to the counter.
Jungsu lets out a breath, grateful that his friend didn’t forcefully take him off Monday’s roster in the good name of ‘health’ and ‘relaxation’, whatever that was.
He untied his apron, tossing it on a chair before taking his coffee and walking to the front of the store. He decides the throbbing in his head is far too severe for him to take his usual walk around the block.
And bless this busy cafe; all of the tables are taken. And he doesn’t really want to spend money somewhere else to get seating. Great. But his head is pounding, back is aching, and he really can’t be bothered, so he slumps down on the floor at the corner of the shop, not really giving a damn about the weird looks people give him, or about how some guy on his phone almost tripped over his legs.
Watch where you’re going, maybe. He’s in quite the cynical mood at the moment. Every once in a while Jiseok will get like that; overly concerned, caring, all great qualities in a friend. But he just didn’t get it.
If there’s one thing Jungsu knew, it was that he had to save money.
Jiseok was an amazing, amazing friend, but his parents never faced financial struggle in the same way Jungsu’s parents did. Jiseok’s parents never went hungry so that he could eat - they never took turns sneaking out to collect 10 cent recycling bottles from the garbage at night, they never had hushed, secret conversations in the living room, planning how they were going to save up enough money to buy him new clothes, because he grew too fast and he was too tall and outgrew everything too quickly.
Jungsu knew struggle from the way his parents’ wrists were thinner than they should’ve been, all because they chose to immigrate, under the pretense that life in America would be better than whatever they had going on in South Korea. It didn’t matter - money was necessary. He needed money to send to his parents, to apologise for the struggles they faced in the name of raising him.
To him, there’s nothing worse than being a burden - if $100 a week could help his parents even just a bit, he would be grateful. Moving out also helped lessen their financial burden, so he still doesn’t understand why they were so sad to see him go.
The warm, bitter taste of the flat white hits his tongue, clearing his head as he sighs - his senses are less muddled now, and he’s more aware of the fact that he smells like coffee and the butter they use to glaze the pastries - it turns him off life. No matter how much he showered, the smell never went away. He’s begun to theorise that someone has swapped out his rose scented shampoo for buttercream.
He looks around, observing the same, boring, busy street as he usually does on his break, until he spots something different.
Purple lettering. Cursive. He spots: the building across the road finally has tenants, it would seem. He squints, reading the title
“Ode to Life? What kind of store name is that?” He mumbles, taking another swig of his coffee. An ‘opening soon’ sign dangles off the front window - and the shop door is open, meaning someone’s doing, well, something.
And then he sees it: a disaster waiting to happen. A guy with unruly blond and permed hair, walks around the side of the store, carrying three large ceramic pots, balanced on top of each other as if he was playing Jenga.
He almost predicts it; the way the pot on top slides off, crashing down with a sharp thud and breaking into small, sharp pieces. People turn and stare at him, the boy panics, placing the last two pots down slowly before looking at his mess and sighing. When he notices people staring, he looks up and gives a thumbs up, the arm of his oversized sweater riding up ever-so-slightly to reveal some kind of black ink marking. A tattoo?
To be honest, Jungsu really wanted to leave it, he really did, but unfortunately deep down: he’s a good person - and no one else was helping the boy clean up, so he decided he might as well be the one to do so. He pushes himself up off the ground, ignoring the sharp sting behind his eyes, and makes his way across the road.
As he comes closer, he notices how quickly the blond boy is picking up small shards. He’s going to hurt himself. He quickened his pace, squatting in front of the boy and beginning to pick shards up too. This action makes the blond stop - he finally looks up, and they lock eyes.
He’s pretty, Jungsu thinks, noticing the small beauty mark above his left eye. But the boy doesn’t speak, just stares, curious.
“I’m helping you clean, isn’t it obvious?” He asks, which seems to snap the boy out of his staring match.
“Oh! Right, sorry, thank you.” He says quickly, looking back down and resuming his fast pick-up speed, a pile of shards in a plastic bag to his left.
Jungsu can’t tell if the smell of roses and soil is coming from the pot, or from the boy in front of him. He guesses the smell must stick to him too - but he would take roses over cream buns any day.
“You’re gonna cut yourself.” Jungsu says after a while, causing the boy in front of him to stop momentarily, before he smiles softly, placing the debris in the rubbish bag.
“I appreciate the concern, but don’t worry about it! I’m a florist, so I’ve got plenty of cuts on my hands from thorns already, see?” He holds out his hands, showing off the mosaic of fresh and old scars on his fingers as if they were trophies.
His hands are pretty, Jungsu decides, even if they’re littered with thin red and brown markings.
“You don’t… wear gloves?” He asks instead.
“Nah, don’t like the feeling of ‘em. Feels like there’s a barrier between my hands and my craft, y’know?”
“Hmm, I get it.” Jungsu nods, and the boy in front of him nods and smiles, that sweet smile, yet again, before holding the bag out towards him.
“I think you’ve picked up the last of the big shards, chuck ‘em in. I’ll sweep up the rest!” and then his eyes widen, as if he’d forgotten something important, “oh! And thank you so much again! You can head off now, I think your coffee’s getting cold!” He gestures with a nod of his head towards the half full coffee cup on Jungsu’s right.
“It was nothing,” he stands up, “anyone would help you in that situation.” He lies, yes, lies because no one else helped except for him.
“Alright, well, if you ever need flowers for something you can come to me - I’ll give you a free bouquet on the house to say thanks !” He beams, and Jungsu thinks that if you told him that the sun shines out of this guy he would probably believe you.
Jungsu snorts a bit at the idea. Him? Buying flowers? Dating anyone? He couldn’t imagine someone liking him in that way - he’s married to his work and savings account at this point.
“Alright, well, I’ll head off then. And thanks.” He gives a small nod, turning back to begin his march back to work.
The rest of the shift runs pretty smoothly, besides the gross smell of buttercream that somehow made its way through his nostrils and into the back of his throat, and the occasional stern, worried looks from his best friend. Nothing out of the ordinary.
6:40pm. Legally, he has to accept customers until 6:45pm, but he doesn’t really feel like it.
Please no one walk in. Please. Please no one. Please no one walk in-
But the bell above the door rings like doomsday and Jungsu is about to say fuck it and just tell them they’re closing, until he sees who walked in.
It’s Blondie. He realises, and thinks this guy is probably not an insufferable customer, so making him a coffee won’t hurt.
“Hello,” he greets as Blondie approaches the counter, “what can I get for you?” He can’t help the flatness of his tone, not at this time of day, and hopes he’s not coming off as too unbothered.
Their eyes meet again for the second time that day, Blondie gives him a pensive look, undecided, as if he wants to say something, but then he settles on, “a hazelnut latte please, small.”
Jungsu feels like he’s disappointed Blondie somehow and he really doesn’t get why. Blondie stares at him hesitantly, like a lost puppy, and Jungsu raises an eyebrow at him, which makes him avert his gaze.
“Right,” he scribbles the order onto a cup lid, “that’ll be $4 please, tap when you’re ready.” He prompts, seeing as the boy already has Apple Pay ready to go on his phone.
When the payment is processed he gets to work, and from his peripheral vision he can see Jiseok flipping the sign from ‘we are open!’ in that ugly cursive font, to ‘closed’ in those beautiful bold red letters. He cheers internally, lightening up as he starts making his last order of the day.
However, this last coffee isn’t as joyous as he thought it’d be to make, because he can feel two eyes burning right into his forehead. He clicks ‘brew’ and sighs, looking up to meet eyes with the perpetrator.
“Do you have something to say?” It comes off harsher than he meant it to be, he notices how Blondie’s cheeks flush a bit at his tone.
“Sorry,” he clears his throat, “I wanted to ask… are you Korean?“ Jungsu stares for a moment, the puzzle pieces beginning to come together.
“Yeah I am, why?” He responds, noticing how Blondie smiles, eyes lit up. He approaches the counter, leaning over. Jungsu smells roses again, and notes that the smell from earlier was, in fact, the florist in front of him, and not the broken pot with soil stuck in it’s cracks.
“Oh, well, me too! I was just asking, since I’ve moved here from Boston, you’re the first Korean I’ve met.” Jungsu guesses that he’s excited about that, but it surprises him that he’s the first - he’s got a few regular customers who are Korean, too.
“Oh wow, all the way from Boston to Washington, huh? That’s rough.” He makes small talk instead of giving his 10 cents.
“Did you grow up in Washington, then?”
“Nah,” he snorts, “I’m from Iowa.”
“Oh - hey! You’re much further away than I am, man, how’d you do it?”
“I’ve got a friend here who helped me out.” Bless his online friend Jiseok, who has now become his closest friend. Jiseok flew him out, found him a place to stay, got him a job, he can’t begin to express how grateful he is.
“That’s awesome, I’m kind of just freeballing this as I go.” Something about his carefree nature both fascinates and ticks off Jungsu. It ticks him off that he’s really, really pretty too.
“So why a flower shop?” He asks - the question teetering between the edges of curiousity and bitterness.
“Hmmm…” Blondie taps his fingers on the table, as if actually considering the question, before smiling, “because why not?” His tone is firm, his gaze meeting Jungsu’s with an intense sense of surety and pride.
It makes him crack a smile; he admires people like Blondie; fearless, driven, passionate.
The only thing that’s ever driven him in life is money, so that’s that.
He finishes off the coffee, pouring the milk in, before popping the cap on.
“Well, good luck with everything.” He slides the coffee forwards, “I’ll see you more often, then?”
He doesn’t really get why Blondie blushes a bit at that, before fumbling to say, “Oh! I have something for you, by the way,” he opens the worn, soft leather satchel crossed over his body, reaching to pull out a neatly wrapped White Lily. It looks fresh; its petals are soft, and you can tell it’s about to bloom.
“It’s not much, but it’s what I can give you.” He places it gently on the counter, hand picking up his latte. “I’m Oh Seungmin, by the way!” He gleams.
Jungsu is dumbfounded by Blondie - no, by Seungmin’s thoughtful gesture. Not many people would care enough - he guesses that Seungmin’s heart is just special. He’s got enough sparkles in his eyes to light up any room he walks into.
“Thanks, the name’s Kim Jungsu.”
“Nice to meet you, Jungsu! I hope we can be friends! I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Monday,” Jungsu corrects, “that’s my next shift.”
“Monday it is then! Have a good night!” And then he’s gone, leaving with charisma and a wave, and all of a sudden the lights in the cafe seem a little more dull, and the sound of the coffee machine cleaning itself is a little too present.
Damn. He should probably close up now.
“Leave,” Jiseok’s voice comes from behind him.
He jerks his head towards the voice in protest, “but-“
“Leave or else I’m cancelling your shift on Monday, I’ve got this.” His tone is final, and Jungsu knows there’s no fighting Jiseok when he gets like this.
For once, Jungsu is thankful for Jiseok’s insistance, he sighs, leaning forwards to give him a hug.
“Thanks, man.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jiseok pats his back quickly, before giving him a small shove to get off, “now go home, sleep. And don’t forget your flower from if Sunshine was personified.”
Jungsu wants to say something, but he kind of agrees, so he just lets out a laugh and grabs the gift off the counter. And then he finally, finally signs off work.
When he gets home, despite his fatigue, Jungsu can’t help but search for the meaning of the flower before he sleeps.
White Lilies: sincerity, heartfelt gestures, thank you.