Minho never wore his proper uniform.
The young worker awoke every morning, disgruntled and mumbling nonsense about the early hour, to drag himself to his day job as a barista and waiter at Ketty’s Coffee House. According to protocol, his customary uniform was a pair of black slacks, matching t-shirt, assigned apron and nametag. Minho always forgot the last one, his nametag. It was always abandoned on his counter; lonely until he came home and realised he had left without it. He never wore it.
That was until he started to notice him.
He sat in the very far corner, underneath the framed picture of a vintage bicycle by the Han River. His legs crossed and his elbows propped up. He was there around 10:30am, as he had been for a week now, his laptop sitting on the table in front of him, his eyes looking nowhere but the screen.
Minho even knew what he ordered every morning; a half strength mocha with one sugar, and a chocolate chip muffin.
He wore clothes of a super model, adorned in dark colours to suit the winter style. His hair seemed like it had once been feathers, the brass tones catching morning sunlight as it bounced through the window. He was something different, the way he sat in his own world, not letting anything disturb him. There was something that drew Minho to the unnamed boy, something mysterious, something he had to find out.
Ever since he started to realise him in the corner, Minho wore his nametag proudly, hoping that the mysterious boy could catch a glimpse of the shiny nameplate. No such luck so far, though. They hadn’t spoken yet, Minho just delivered his half strength mocha with one sugar in silence, sneaking a glance whenever possible. He just wanted to talk, with everything he had, but when he had opened his mouth, nothing but air exited.
That all changed on an early-January morning. It was a cold morning, and when Minho arrived at work the first thing he looked over at was his corner. He was dressed in a matching beanie and scarf to block out the cold weather. His laptop had taken its usual place, and according to the co-workers behind the desk, he had already ordered. Minho was setting his bag down as he heard a voice call for him.
“Minho-ah. I need you to run this out to table 8 quickly.” The short haired, short heighted girl informed him. Before he knew it, he was holding the muffin and coffee in his hands, taking a deep breath before starting towards his table, snapping his eyes down to his nametag and back up again.
Because this was it. He was going to do it. He was going to talk to him.
Will he say something this time?
What if I accidently look at him?
Key’s mind flickered over the thoughts frantically, while his eyes stayed glued to the paragraph directly in front of him. Out the corner, he saw him. Him. The waiter that delivered his order every morning, the waiter that made his heart hammer at the very sound of his footsteps. Never before had Key been so attracted to a man, let alone one he had never spoken to. There was just something about him that even with a glance Key adored. Was it that lenient saddle brown hair? Or those matching eyes, that toned, perfectly tanned complexion? Those cheekbones? His shallow breathing and swift hands as he placed the food on the table?
Whatever it was, it was driving Key crazy. As much as he wanted to act on It, he would never be the one to say something first, That just wasn’t in his nature. So he waited, day in and day out, to hear his voice spike up a conversation. He pictured in his mind how it would be played out, but still nothing. Key was starting to believe that the looks that the waiter gave him every time he was there was for something different. Was he not interested in Key like he was in him? Or was there something that he couldn’t see? Like a pimple that caused him to stare every time he came?
Shaking his head clear of the thoughts, Key tapped on the mouse and continued scrolling, the words he was reading not even processing in his mind, He was waiting for his order, and his waiter.
Soon after, he was coming towards him.
Key clenched up his hand under the table as he heard a clatter of feet. That has to be him, he thought, biting down on his lip discretely. Although his head was to the laptop screen, he could just feel a pair of eyes on him as the two items were settled down on the table top.
Say something, he pleaded silently, his expression emotionless.
But nothing followed, and the pit in Key’s stomach grew. He waited for the squeal of the floorboards as he whirled to go. His hand twitched, his heart thumped. And then . . .
“That’s really unhealthy, you know.”
He stiffened slightly and raised his head from his screen to find himself swimming in those pair of warm eyes. His breath caught in his throat, his fist clenched up on his thigh.
The waiter was there, standing tall and muscular, only a few feet away. His lips, so plump and soft, were pursed. His chest rose up and down slowly underneath the black shirt he wore. His expression was one of curiosity, as if the sight of Key fascinated him. Key held back a desperate noise that tried to escape his mouth at the sight of him.
Do something, idiot. He told himself.
A million things were running through his mind at once. Key snapped his eyes from the waiter’s and to his drink. It was the same as it was every morning, decorated with chocolate flakes and smoke wisps floating upwards from the heat. The smell was intoxicating, but not almost as intoxicating as the presence of the boy in front of him. He reached forward and picked up the mug, holding it close to his lips in two hands and blowing along to top to cool it. His eyes went back to the waiter, looking up at him with one of his eyebrows raised.
The waiter balked slightly, his eyes blinking in surprise. Obviously, it wasn’t the answer that he had expected, Key scoffed to himself; what else would he had expected? After criticizing his food preferences and everything. Perhaps he wasn’t as angelic as he looked.
When he didn’t reply, Key raised his eyebrow further and spoke again. “Are you calling me fat?”
He stared in awe as the slightest hint of blush rose to the waiter’s cheeks.
“I would never. I didn’t . . . I’m sorry. I’m just not good at . . .” He trailed off, leaving Key to cock his head to the side, finishing the sentence in his head.
“You’re not good at talking to people?” Key said, a frown playing on his lips.
His answer from the waiter was a pause, then a silent nod.
Key wondered if this was why it was the first time they were speaking. His shy nature. All the while, his heart pumped away, his pulse echoing in his ear.
“Well, you’re doing a very good job.” He said with a small nod, taking a slow sip from his cup and letting the delight slip down his throat.
The waiter shuffled his feet, clearly taken back by the comment made. It was then that something caught Key’s eye. Something gold, with thick black writing. It was a nametag pinned to his shirt. A five letter word.
Key pursed his lips to keep emotion from showing,
Minho was biting down on his own lip, and the motion sent a wave of something washing through Key. The pink faded from his cheeks, and his eyes went to Key’s laptop.
“What are you doing, on there? Every morning.” Minho said in a low tone, slightly hesitant, as if he didn’t want to pry. It didn’t bother Key; it actually made him feel special that he had noticed. The screen was alight with the current story he was engrossed in, a heroin tale of adventure and danger. Everything Key liked.
“Reading,” he answered simply.
Now it was Minho’s turn to raise his eyebrow. “On your laptop?”
“You don’t do that?” Key said, his voice ascended the tiniest bit in surprise.
Minho shook his head, his hair shaking with him, drawing Key’s attention further. “I prefer hardcovers.” He smiled wryly. “Stephen King.”
“Ah,” Key smiled back slightly. “What a legend. I hope I’m that talented when I’m his age.”
“I can’t even do that now, let alone at his age. When I’m his age I think I’ll be too grumpy to move from my chair.”
“I think I’ll be crying too much about all my wrinkles.”
“Oh, so not even the fact that your hair will be grey?” Minho smirked lightly.
“Hair dye, duh.” He answered.
Key couldn’t help but laugh.
Minho’s heart swelled at the sound of the boy’s laugh. It bounced off the walls of the coffee house, bringing it to life. The smile grew wider on Minho’s face, warmer, perkier. The very fact that he had made him laugh sent shivers down his spine. Every word that left the boy’s lips was like music to Minho’s ears. The look of glee on his face sent a spasm to his toes.
What’s your name? Minho wanted to ask. But it stayed stuck in his throat.
And at that moment, someone called over from the counter.
“Minho-ah! Order for table 15!”
Something dropped within Minho. Something slapped him back into reality.
The boy’s smile faltered and fell, leaving him with a frown. His fingers tightened around his mug, as if he didn’t want Minho to leave either. Their gazes locked together, chemistry passing through them like electricity. He felt his cheeks starting to get hot again, and he ordered for his thoughts to stay calm. The boy suddenly ducked his head turning his torso slightly to fumble through his bag. He snagged a napkin off the table and hid it underneath, causing Minho to blink quickly, puzzled.
“Will you be working tomorrow, Minho?” The boy said, still looking down.
He noticed, he actually read it. He read the nametag. Minho’s thoughts were overridden with delight.
“Y-yes, I’ll be here.” Minho said, a little dazed. The boy answered with a winning smile, making Minho’s fingers move nervously at his sides and his heart to flutter wildly. The boy held out a hand, a handshake, and Minho took it eagerly, stiffening a gasp as their skin touched.
The boy held onto the hand while he uttered. “I’ll see you then.”
It was only when Minho pulled away that he had realised he had slipped the napkin into his palm during the handshake. He gave him a nod and a smile and turned to go, unfolding the napkin while walking back to the counter to continue with what he was paid for.
Scribbled messily on the napkin was a phone number, and a sentence.
‘It’s Kibum. But call me Key.’
