wyhoseok:
Hoseok blushes harder at the question, still looking anywhere but at the other male’s face. He hates that he gets like this – that he just shuts down at the slightest social pressure. He partly knows why; years of rejection and isolation have made him so frightened to interact with people. Being misunderstood for being different. For being more sensitive, for taking things too literally, for being obsessed with fantasy worlds in books and movies.
He wants to respond that he does need the sugar, but the other has already grabbed it and he awkwardly accepts the bag, carefully placing it into his basket. His cheeks burn a deeper shade of red at the comment and the brunet nervously clears his throat. “I’m s-sorry…” He manages. Though he wants to explain he definitely wasn’t trying to hit on the other, he struggles to put that into words without worrying he’ll offend him.
He knows his question was forward and maybe even a little rude. It’s none of his business why someone is buying so much food. He’s ashamed of his manners and behavior. Speaking of which – he really should be thanking the stranger for getting the sugar for him. But somehow he struggles to do so, instead awkwardly shifting on his feet.
A deep breath. “… Thank you, for– for this…” His voice is barely audible as he gives a vague nod in the direction of his basket, fingers tightly wrapped around the handles. “I, ah… I didn’t mean to be a bother…”
The stranger shifts, gaze darting down the aisle and fixing his attention on anything but Yohan. Despite the refusal to meet his eye it’s hard to miss the flush of red down the line of the man’s neck, the catch of color on his cheeks. Now, this? He’s used to. It’s either the obtrusive fan nipping at his heels with questions and a cellphone in his face, or the whole shrinking violet act and Yohan’s not quite sure how much of it is pretense or genuine with this guy. “Sorry for what? Being short?“
He eyes the merchandise. Does he need sugar? Coffee?
“You know my name, right? What’s yours?” Plucking a jar of instant coffee over the stranger’s shoulder, he holds it out. “And how does this work?”
He realizes that he’s coming off inept. Maybe a little bit pretentious because he’s been spoiled by brewed beans and coffee shops that he doesn’t know left from right when it comes to making it with the cheap, scatter of ingredients (creamer, sugar, milk) so he explains, “I don’t really buy my own groceries so I’m just winging it here. But room service gets old, you know? Guess it’s time to find an apartment.”
