Archive of Our Own

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As per the inaugural teachings of the free-for-students six-week creative writing course he took over a year ago - an ill-advised attempt at expanding his horizons, really - any story requires a problem to be solved. Should he be entangled in a cosmic narrative driven by the hand of God, well. First of all, San thinks he’d be vying for a universally despised subplot. Secondly, here’s his conflict:This oncidium orchid is a project spanning months. He’s seen it from a sickly sprout to a broad, sweeping thing, the first buds finally rearing their heads with the inception of autumn. Meaning that the difficulty of careful cultivation has nearly paid off - it’s almost certainly going to be bought. An inevitability in the face of which San, of course, bears no irrational lumps in his throat. Yet it’s lagging behind the others of its kind, a few hints of brown creeping into its sparse leaves; a sight which doses San with, he’ll admit, a measure of panic.Plantlife, in a distinct departure from its bipedal cousins, is supposed to be rational. A haven of organic matter that simply thrives or dies in response to measurable stimuli, and one distinctly less horrifying than bacteria and its associates. It can be fiddly, it can be difficult, but ultimately plants do not curl up and decide to give in when they feel existence has become too burdensome.Curious - because that’s exactly what’s happening.But San - San meticulously measured pH levels every week - all throughout the oppressive heat of summer, when he began to question his supposed cold-bloodedness. He moved the pot from a south-facing window to an east-facing one when the sprouting flower began to struggle, and back again when it stabilised. Temperature is controlled by his boss, so he didn’t have to worry about that. (Although, he did express worry to her once or twice when he felt it had dropped too much as he locked up at night, which led to the discovery of a break in the greenhouse insulation.)Humidity was another ballgame - one which he agonised over beyond even the timeslots dedicated on his mental calendar to work; staring at his bedroom ceiling at night calculating how they could increase it to a more favourable level for this one little orchid, without compromising the growth of any of the other plants.The first step was to place water-filled trays around the greenhouse, ducking his head against Aly’s curious stares. There were no funds for a humidifier, so he borrowed a book on home repair from the library in the hopes of learning to fix the stuttering fans for improved air circulation. It was hardly a surprise that he opted not to go for it in the end, after the disaster that was his attempt at fixing his own bathroom fan. Abandoning his - admittedly sparse - pride, however, he did implore his employer to have the fans fixed. He was on edge until the day the workman strolled into the shop, at which point he smiled wider than he had in weeks.Barely figuratively speaking, since the moment he arrived San has been intent on cultivating this one flower; one thing to show for his time here, one new experience under his belt. Yet, despite the care he’s shown, it’s unreceptive. Wilting, crumbling before his eyes, and there’s nothing he can do about it.San studies its tiny furled petals, encased still by broken green flaps but an unmissable bright yellow almost like a poison dart frog. Warning him away, a natural decree, but he can’t accept that.A presence at his side has him jolting. Aly smiles apologetically as he straightens up; her hand hovers awkwardly for a moment like she was going to place it on his shoulder, but she drops it - as he asked her to the last time she initiated contact. Right.They languish in silence for a moment as Aly seems to consider something, because San certainly isn’t going to speak first. He scuffs his feet as he waits; she knows by now that he tends to fidget, and not to take offence.“Sometimes plants just don’t respond to the care you give them,” she begins softly, in that low but light-tipped voice of hers. Always speaking as though afraid of stirring the air too much. Santiago wishes he had some of that restraint. “Especially orchids. My ma always said their petals resembled hearts because they craved love.”San snorts, furrowing his brow at the floor. He freezes instantly, his eyes creeping back to find Aly’s expression clouded somewhat with hurt.“S-Sorry,” he stammers. “Uh- I-”Like a bud blooming in real time, she smiles. Simply, she soothes, “Don’t worry,” and San relaxes, because he knows she means it. After four months, he knows how she is, too.“But I am sorry,” he interjects quickly, before she can move so graciously on. He squirms a little under her warm gaze, silent as she allows him to gather his thoughts though he half wishes she wouldn’t. “I- uh… I’m a bit cynical, I guess…”He tapers off. Counting on Aly to finish for him, respond wisely and break the silence, but the quaint bell above the door steps in for her. When Aly speaks, her voice is coloured by surprise.“Jae!”San frowns, his eyes flicking instinctively to the clock hanging on the side wall. He knows the time frames within which every regular makes their visit on his two days a week. There is no recurring customer who arrives at this time on a Thursday, and definitely not one called Jae, or anything similar.Judging from Aly’s apparent surprise, and her familiarity, San concludes with confidence that this Jae must be a regular breaking routine. He doesn’t remember hearing the name, but he can’t claim that the things most people remember don’t have a tendency of filtering from his brain like sand.All of this is contained within the split-second fire of a neuron. Meaning his eyes land on the hulking mass of black clothing and bulge out of their sockets before he has time to prepare himself for the possibility of Jae looking like… that.Contrast is another concept he studied, in both his literary course and the art class he quit after two weeks, breaking his own rule of finishing whatever he starts. Still, here he finds that the artistic definition fits better.First, it must be understood that the shop is a quaint, cosy place. Not that it’s tiny; there’s space enough for table after table inundated with all kinds of plants, albeit with the compromise of little room to navigate, flanked by doorless archways leading to rooms on either side. An impression of expanse is certainly aided by the patch cut out of the second floor to form a comically high roof above the back section of the main room, opening it to sunlight from above, where the cash machine sits primly atop its counter and another doorless doorway leads to the back. But this extra space isn’t enough to override that it’s stuffed to the brim with flowers and house plants and succulents, no surface unsmothered and no ceiling space unladen with hanging baskets nor wall unclaimed by brackets. It's as though nature has taken over, a green apocalypse quarantined within cheery pastel yellow walls. Above San now are a multitude of suspended baskets, greedily soaking up the golden sunlight filtering through the skylight. Beneath the shorter canopy of the first floor ceiling, the thinned lighting is hazy in comparison; it glances off anything shiny or glassy, painting rainbows in the colours of the blooming buds which each demand attention yet blend into a rich iridescent tapestry altogether.Now, it glimmers in the many silver piercings marking a path up the man’s ears, and the ring through his left eyebrow. It’s swallowed up by the black engulfing his entire frame - the singular colour in short supply in the shop, and popping so absolutely it’s almost comical. It doesn’t help that there’s a lot of him for the ebony cloth to cover. San is tall himself, but this guy is big: looming menacingly between short tables populated with lanky stems, bending under the weight of their own blooms as though to cower.Admittedly, San feels like following suit.He’s not a tough guy. He’s a twenty-seven-year-old nerd whose dream is to become a researcher and professor. He wears fluffy jumpers and knitwear to keep the chill out because he runs cold, wide-leg jeans and slacks because the cling of cloth makes him uncomfortable, and generally tries to make his silhouette as nondescript and divorced from soft-stomached, skinny-armed reality as possible. Not like this towering monstrosity, weighed down by heavy and unwieldy fabrics and far too many buckles and straps, hanging loosely and betraying their own superfluousness, and… a keychain? - but hardly encumbered by any of it; like a massive creature dragging its ball and chain behind it. The man - Jae - spares him a glance as he approaches, appearing as wary as San feels. That, at least, injects some hope that he’s averse to the prospect of confrontation.Not that there's any need to fight it out. San feels repressed under the weight of his mere presence, his fight or flight instinct exploding to maximum as it did when he felt the oppressiveness of the jocks’ eyes on him in the high school locker rooms - and just like then, he slips into a third state: freeze.“What brings you here?”Aly is his saviour, of course. Within an instant, Jae is focused back on her, sparing not so much as a glance for San. Perhaps he should be hurt by the relief obvious in the sag of Jae’s posture, but he can empathise. Her soft smile is as pacifying as an expression possibly could be, and Jae seems to respond to it.Just maybe, San theorises, he has a crush on her. And as long as he demonstrates quite clearly that he won’t be an obstacle, San won’t come under any kind of fire. With that in mind, he begins inching subtly away as Jae finally reaches Aly at the back.“I got a sudden request from a client,” he murmurs softly, his eyes shifting as though he’s trying to catch a glimpse of San in the corner without inciting anything, awkward staring or otherwise. “He offered to pay double the rate, so.”At once, San is stricken. Jae’s voice is low, solid, but somehow boyish rather than manly, and imbued with some glistening sheen that rounds and softens and drips lazily. Not candied like something artificial, but rather syrupy or honeyed. For a split second, he seems almost to belong among the season-dampened scent of heady pollen, and the liquid sunlight now pouring directly onto his seemingly black hair; highlighting the golden-brown tones nestled in the short, mussed strands. The feeling passes with a cloud obscuring the sun overhead, returning San to clarity as Jae’s appearance settles into hard congruence once more.“Oh, that’s good!” Aly exclaims. “Well, feel free to use whatever.” She pauses, twitching ever so slightly, as though experiencing some internal struggle. “With that extra paycheck, I expect you to buy something, though.”While San gapes, Jae snorts softly. He smiles, and San stares harder. It’s a sweet thing, stretching wide enough to show a meagre stretch of teeth past his pale pink lips, and at once discordant with his appearance and not.“I’ll buy you some of your own flowers,” he jokes awkwardly, scuffing his foot a little. That makes another point for the crush theory. It hurts watching them, almost, but San is certainly no better.Aly’s reciprocal smile draws San’s attention surely enough that he jumps slightly - only a tiny, little bit, not enough to trigger any predatory instincts - when Jae turns in his direction. The movement draws Jae’s eye to him, and San ducks away, pretending to be intently absorbed in a row of autumnally blooming flowers behind him.His hands grasp at a pot - almost cool enough to trigger another slip-up - and gently rotate it, to pass as occupied. Dreadful acting, really, but hopefully enough to convince a stranger. He remains hunched, studying a leaf with too great an intensity, until the sense of a presence at his back fades; at which point he waits some more.At last, once he's counted the veins three times, he straightens up, rotating marginally to find the coast clear. He glances at Aly, who catches his eye with perplexity but who thankfully knows by now not to question strange behaviour, before allowing himself to relax.He’d rather not explain to her his dreadful high school experience, and detail just how difficult he’s found it to shake his Pavlovian fear response to bulky guys. Nine years wasn't long enough, which is admittedly a little embarrassing.Silently, he sighs, before peering around for any sign of the bulky guy who triggered such a response. Coming up empty, he gulps and peeks surreptitiously around the corner of the nook he pressed himself into.Sure enough, there’s Jae. His broad back is facing his way, obscuring whatever it is he’s holding. San knows that the breadth of his shoulders is obscuring a potted dahlia, and can’t help but frown as he wonders what he might do with it. Nor, unfortunately, can he help taking the opportunity to study the intriguing phenomenon before him, as any self-respecting aspirant professor surely would.In those clothes, he stands out like a black hole against the backdrop of lush green; but San already knew this. This time, he’s drawn to the slip of pale skin above his collar. Surely rendered whiter than it really is by his dark clothing, another example of contrast at work, and disappearing into his dark hair; not cropped short, but even at its longest point upon forming his fringe it’s shorter than San’s unruly mop. Messy but artfully so, classic bad boy. His hands make up the only other exposed patches of skin, but they’re curled around his front, arms twitching a little, and San aches to know what he’s doing. San expects that the bulky canvas of his jacket conceals a plethora of tattoos, and he’s admittedly curious.He’s long been fascinated by the desire to permanently ink an idea into your own skin, to brand yourself with a snapshot of how you felt and who you were. Whenever he sees body art, San can't quite stop his mind from wandering, from building up a catalogue of potential meanings and trying to parse a person’s inner workings from it. So, seeing them feels a little invasive, actually. It feels strangely chaste, appropriate that - should Jae have tattoos as he suspects - he’s concealing them.God, he feels like a judgemental puritan.Quickly, he withdraws, ostensibly abandoning his yearning for answers though he can still feel it gnawing the base of his stomach like some carnivorous beaver. Shaking his head, he returns to the far more pressing investigation of his prized orchid’s deterioration: a routine which isn’t difficult to fall into.For the most part, San forgets all about onyx-clad strangers as he becomes absorbed back into the workday: moving boxes at Aly’s request and ensuring the shop is suitably stocked to fulfil online and telephone orders in the coming week. Time becomes fluid, sweeping him up on its currents until he seldom notices it, save for the couple of noncommittal glances he spares for the plain wall clocks hung in each room, forgetting to actually read their faces at least half of the time.He’s silently crossing off checklists side-by-side with Aly, too-often drifting into a realm occupied by a poignant question posed in the latest episode of his favourite mathematics podcast, when he feels a presence. Steadfastly prompting him back to reality.Ah, yes. He remembers now. An intimidating stranger, now quite literally looming over San where he hunches over the counter. San would be picked off fast in the wild. Glancing upwards, San meets his eyes, finding them dark and blank - empty of any ill-intent - but cowering a little nonetheless.“Oh, Jae. Do you need anything?”“No, I’m heading out now.”Aly straightens up, her delicate smile potent enough to pacify a raging bull. Not that, admittedly, Jae seems like he needs mollifying. Guilt weighs on San’s shoulders, but he can’t shake his unease.“Um, can I see, or is it a secret?” Aly’s voice loses potency with every word.In an instant, San feels himself pinned under the oppressive weight of Jae’s attention. He stares, still hunched and vulnerable, back. Until Jae hums and looks away, raising his hand to reveal a slip of thick paper clearly torn from an A5 sketchbook. San only catches a glimpse of rough lines and the noncommittal shapes they form before Jae flips it over to reveal a far more detailed piece. Angling it slightly towards Aly, which San thinks is fair.Blooming from the other side are wickedly detailed depictions of bulbous, densely-petalled dahlias, flanked on either side by looming snapdragons, almost forming an archway overhead. Around them curl ferns, which must have been drawn from memory or a picture reference, because San knows for a fact that they don’t have any here. It strikes San just how detailed they are, instantly identifiable not only in subspecies but also the precise flower he chose to depict. It’s almost like magic, as if he beamed the still lifes straight onto the page.San regards them with awe, failing to realise he’s straightened up to see better until he notices Jae shifting uncomfortably.Jae’s eyes are darting around, missing his face every time, and San is flooded with contrition. Awkwardly, he turns, attempting to extricate himself from the situation without straight-up walking away. Hopefully striking a balance to produce his intended aura of respectfulness rather than snobbishness or standoffishness, but history informs that San has never been good at that.Behind him, Aly gasps. “That’s… That’s stunning, Jae. They’ll - your client - will love it, I’m sure.”Simply, Jae hums: packed with many potential meanings. Bashful appreciation, stifled discomfort, barely contained rage; without facial expressions or body language to apprise him, San is clueless. Not that, in all honesty, he could likely read him even with such aid. No number of online articles or library books or even one-off lectures can ensure successful application.“Have a nice afternoon. I’ll see you… will I see you Wednesday?”Again, Jae hums. “Probably not.”“I’ll see you next Wednesday, then.”Ah, that makes sense. San doesn’t work Wednesdays, hasn’t since two months prior when he dropped to just two shifts a week. Implying that Jae didn’t visit the shop before this switch up or, in some strange cosmic coincidence, changed his schedule at the same time. Hell, this might not even be the first time Jae has deviated from habit, just the first time in the past four months that he’s decided to do it on a day where San was present.The ring of the bell pulls San from his unnecessary contemplation of chance. He rotates in place perhaps a little too quickly, drawing Aly’s attention and a small look of solidarity. Silently, she returns to her overstuffed clipboard, while San regains his bearing. The image of the stunning vignette flashes through his mind again, and he proves his inability to kick his fatal habit anew when he blurts,“He’s an artist?”Glancing at him, Aly seems neutral enough. She decides graciously to satisfy his curiosity. “A tattoo artist, yeah.”San nods in approval. That checks out, alright. It also lends itself to the chance that there’s an inked tapestry hidden beneath that voluminous clothing. No one trusts a tattooist without any ink, as they say.San is perhaps cursed to covet answers no matter the circumstance, but he’s admittedly less curious of Jae for his somewhat stereotypical profession. At any rate, the new face fades to the back of San’s mind as he absorbs himself in his work, soaking in the warmth that mercifully slows his ever-inquisitive mind to a relaxed crawl.♡To be frank, San hates the smell of coffee. No amount of pop culture brainwashing will ever be sufficient in convincing him that the oppressive, bitter fumes are appealing to the senses.But the indignity doesn't end there: he detests the beverage itself. Usually, he will strive to avoid controversy, but despite the open judgement he may receive, he will admit: he hates coffee.Much of his life has been spent in environments inundated with the stuff, and still it has failed to beguile him in the way it has enraptured family, peers, and colleagues. (He wonders absently whether this oversaturation could perhaps be the root of his disdain.) Office workers for parents ensured that the distinct twang of brewing coffee was a staple of his childhood. Students of all ages and professors of all faculties alike seem to rely on it for survival, so it has featured prominently in his education and, he suspects, will continue to be a feature of his professional life.It’s certainly a feature of his professional life now, considering he’s taken a job in a coffee shop.Three weeks so far, and three days from each of those weeks, and San worries, however unfoundedly, that his sinuses will become permanently clogged with the unbearable stench of the pumpkin spice latte which seems to be the signature of this particular establishment.Which is why he’s at least partially relieved to receive instead an order for,“Iced caramel and clotted cream latte with two pumps of vanilla.”Ordinarily, San would be stricken with confusion as he attempted to parse what exactly the nonsense string of words entailed. This time, however, it’s overtaken by a creeping familiarity that has him raising his head the instant his hand finishes recreating the supposed sentence on the top leaf of an environmentally conscious notepad.He’s met with an awkward smile, serving to inform him immediately that Jae recognises him and doesn’t know how to act. A swift glance along the counter confirms that every other barista is occupied by a constant stream of customers funnelling in from the bulging queue, so Jae didn’t choose to approach him.Straightening up, San plasters on his best customer service smile - which, really, is very poor. But perhaps if he repeats to himself adamantly enough that this is Not Awkward, reality will find the clemency within itself to adjust accordingly.“Coming right up!” he exclaims brightly, his face falling the instant he turns around. That was bad. That was terrible, actually. San slips into an increasingly efficient autopilot to make the coffee while he mopes, head tucked as far below his shoulder line as it will go, as if that might just make him inconspicuous enough for Jae to forget his existence altogether.“Hey...” San freezes. “Excuse me.”With creeping horror, he turns. Jae is worrying his bottom lip between his teeth; the plush skin is painted a deeper red, this time, the effect almost vampiric. If only he weren’t ordering coffee. And if only San weren’t clearly messing up that order.Confirming his fears, Jae stammers, “I- I also wanted a cappuccino with whipped cream and a sour cherry iced tea. All to go. Sorry.”If San weren’t on a time constraint, he might begin to spiral at the connotation of wanted. Yes, it is common to use past tense when amending a previous statement, but given the circumstances - that is, his messing up so absolutely, though he acknowledges that may be an exaggeration - San could almost infer that he doesn’t want them anymore. That he’s now going to turn on his heel and storm out of the garish glass-and-metal double doors and leave a negative review on Facebook - does he seem like the type to have Facebook? - and when they inevitably meet for a third time, he’s going to paint his pale fists with San’s blood, not because of the coffee but because he’s just standing there staring and he really needs to kick into gear and stop doing that right now.“Ah,” San replies eloquently. Professor Jones’ creative writing course didn’t cover basic conversation skills. “Well. You’ll have to wait.” Yikes, that sounded confrontational. Perhaps he should work to rectify that instead of merely acknowledging it. “Uh- Not that- I- Um- Name? Nevermind. It’ll be called when your order is ready.”Jae stares. San wishes he wouldn’t feed him a taste of his own medicine like that, but he does, and it’s so unbearably awkward. San wants to shrivel under the weight of his gaze.Ever so slowly, Jae backs away from the counter, just narrowly avoiding bowling over the short college-aged girl behind him - because there’s a queue of impatient people. Waiting. Of course - before he turns and picks his way to a little pocket of space left in the waiting area.Well. At least he wasn’t glaring at him like the next customer is.Flashing a wan smile which only serves to sour the girl’s mood further, San grabs his pen without looking and scribbles with a furiously quick hand the order as it steps breezily into the forefront of his mind, as though it’s been waiting patiently in the wings. Discovering pleasantly that his transcribing the first coffee wasn’t redundant, after all. He doesn’t have time to wonder whether his handwriting is legible or whether Jae is glaring at him from across the room, or whether everyone is glaring at him for being a screw-up, because he’s handing the slip of paper off to his frazzled coworker the next moment and then swiftly swept up in the pandemonium of rush hour. Which, his colleagues inform him, isn’t much, as far as coffee shops go.Still, an advantage of a single-track mind is that he can’t catastrophize while he’s speaking to customers or transcribing their orders. This is rendered useless in time, however, by the fact that San’s mind never stops; so when he’s cursed with the mundane lull of preparing single-drink orders, the unwanted thoughts flood in to fill the empty space - also hovering menacingly in the wings.Will Jae think he’s stupid? Honestly, that is the preferable outcome. He’d rather that than stuck-up, or snooty, or any other adjective implying that San looks down on people for being somehow lesser - less intelligent, or less upright - or starts fights he can’t win to soothe a bruised ego, relying on social propriety to save him from a well-deserved beatdown. Or, maybe, will Jae be offended? Did San accidentally imply that he can’t imagine Jae having friends to buy coffee for? It’s not outside the realm of possibility. He can practically taste the vitriolic statement primed to be spat at him.Just because you don’t have any friends, it doesn’t mean nobody else does. Shaking his head rapidly, San tries to bat the thought away. Who the hell is he to make those kinds of assumptions about a guy he doesn’t know? Jae isn’t any of his old bullies, and he deserves… No, not the benefit of the doubt, because he’s done nothing to make him worthy of doubt in the first place - he deserves not to be judged by a stranger.Handing the current customer their single coffee without even a smile, not that they notice, San feels like hanging his head. He’s such an asshole. Only, when his head bows under the weight of his anguish, his attention is drawn immediately through the gap between the counter and the whimsical terrazzo tiling. Whereupon rests a tiny black object whose chain tugs at San’s memory. The next customer steps up, a brief contact sending it skittering through the gap to rest at San’s feet.Instinctively, he ducks to grab it, to preserve it, and mildly bemoans that he’ll have to make a display of washing his hands before he can touch anything, all the while realisation pops like a jack-in-the-box, only infinitely more terrifying.This, resting benignly across San’s fingers, is Jae’s keychain. The unidentifiable blob hanging from his bulky jacket. Up close, identifiably scratched and worn, and a cat. A panther. A melanistic jaguar or leopard.The semantics don’t matter, because, in another ploy by his pesky instincts, he’s made to look towards the door. Where Jae is just pushing out into the open air, coffee tray in hand. Like a truly nightmarish rendition of some trolley question offshoot; an impatient queue and reliant coworkers on one side, a thirty-seconds-and-done problem which could prevent future suffering or cause it at the other.“Wait,” San says hoarsely, failing to yell - more so signalling to the people around him that something is happening, stand by than really trying to attract Jae’s attention - because he’s already off.Slipping through the counter latch, shoving himself into the door as Jae disappears from view of the windows, and shivering immediately as he’s assaulted by chilled air. Still, he speeds along the thankfully underpopulated sidewalk, producing the meekest shout of Jae’s name he thinks is possible, but still prompting him to turn.He catches the tailend of mildly furrowed brows, just long enough to sink a stone in his stomach, but it smoothes away when Jae’s eyes land on his face. He falters in place even though he already stopped moving, but otherwise merely blinks.San foolishly allows a moment to pass like this, as though providing Jae the opportunity to react adversely, but when he catches himself he steps marginally forward and presents his cupped hands.“You dropped this.”Jae regards the proffered keychain. San mindlessly watches him just long enough for the cold to colour his ears and cheekbones with pale blush. Until the insistent steaming of Jae’s triad of coffees and their unbearable smell stimulates him like ammonia salts.Hurriedly, San blunders forward to shove it mindlessly into Jae’s spare hand, which he’s only just unsheathed from his pocket. He only ensures his fingers are closed securely around it before he’s backing away. Waving before he can rotate fully and yelling over his shoulder - really yelling, this time - as he runs for the door.“Sorry!”There's an uncomfortable, quiet pause before he reaches the door, but then he bursts back into the fray. He catches some curious looks from the people packed into the tiny waiting area. The sentiment from the queuers paying attention and from his colleagues is more hostile, but the customer he abandoned just seems bemused, and brushes off his numerous apologies.His hairs stick on end until the crowd who bore witness to his spectacle has filtered through, and the volume begins to thin. His hairs lie flat as his panic is reduced to a cool, miserable thrum occasionally spiked with embarrassment, until that too is doused.This sense of defeat lingers all throughout his shift. It’s not even the kind of self-pitying depressive state San can gain sick pleasure from wallowing in. He just feels like trash.Dragging himself home on legs wrecked from standing for hours on end - and how pathetic is that, really? Wrecked from standing - would be like taking out the trash, then.Professor Jones would surely be proud of his poeticism.This is a bustling city, albeit a quieter area because he can’t afford to live in a hotspot, so there are plenty of sights to see on the way to his apartment. Especially when he takes the shortest route, past thriving businesses. It’s egocentric to think in the way that he does, but San can’t help but remark that it seems like an act of God that the one ice cream shop open for most of the year is located along this route. Almost as though He is punishing him for his laziness in minimising his walk time by tempting him with more calories. Proving to him that, for all his complaining about his appearance, he’s unwilling to take steps to tackle it.It’s with this in mind that San trudges alongside the main road, mixed vanilla and caramel ice cream in hand. There’s not much of a breeze, thankfully, but still San has tugged his sleeve up to cover his fingers where he clutches the increasingly chilly cone. Were he a cautionary figure in a Greek tragedy, his fatal flaw would be his propensity for cold foods in cold weather, despite running too cold to withstand it. Or whatever that would translate to. The course he took on entertainment in ancient civilisations didn’t go in-depth enough on the topic.The lazy satiation of his sweet tooth is comfort enough to survive the journey. It should feel heavier in his hand than it does, considering it packs many times more calories than the short, flat trek will burn. Fittingly, it weighs tenfold in the pit of his stomach as he dusts his hands of excess crumbs.His apartment building is a Massachusetts stereotype; a photo of it, albeit fresh and shiny when it was first built and airbrushed in post, would likely be among the first to appear in a Google search. Reddish-brown, straight-edged in places and rounded in others, like a noncommittal attempt at postmodern architecture. The few trees dotted around bear leaves approaching the colour of the brick, only they’re more adventurous, with gradients of green to yellow to russet. San pauses midstep to admire them, before he has to extricate himself from the path of a determined passerby. Hunched, he pushes into the lobby.It’s hardly the pristine picture of city life painted by an Internet search. In the corners the paint is peeling, cowering in the shadows like the landlords hoped that no one would look there. To the right, the metal mailboxes too closely resembling school lockers are rusting, and a couple are even dented as though victim to frustrated tenants - which frankly is hardly farfetched. Awkwardly deposited in an empty space is a little waiting area where one of the chairs quite blatantly sports a broken leg, and the scratchy material of its body is far from inviting. There’s a front desk but no one has been behind it in the time San has lived here. Which is, admittedly, not long - only since he was ousted from student accommodation - but he also doubts that there will be anyone for the continued duration of his stay.Still, he reminds himself, it could be a lot worse.His apartment is only on the second floor, but still he lurches in the direction of the elevator. Feeling pathetic, yes, but not enough to take the stairs on sore legs. The lift works, thankfully, but the unnerving noises accompanying its usage are hardly conducive to its continued operation. Though San has only a brief stint at an engineering workshop and common sense to inform his diagnosis, so what does he know?Not much about functioning normally, apparently. San can’t prevent the embarrassed groan that rips from him as he reaches his door, which in turn brings heat to his face. Praying he flies under the radar - which he seems to have a natural talent for, yet fails to employ when the need arises - San ducks as quickly as he can into his apartment. The click of the door behind him gives his gradually rising shoulders permission to drop. So too does his head, bent against the cheap wood as he stews in shame.There’s no point in thinking about it, he knows. Knows that he may well just be making it all up, anyway. Finally, he knows that, if Jae thinks he’s weird, or arrogant, or a million other things, it will be horrible, yes, but he just has to move on. He left his fatal predilection for overthinking social interactions in his teen years. He’s never going to quite fit in no matter how hard he tries or how much he overthinks. It’s with this in mind that he unfurls, exhaling softly as though his turmoil can be expelled on a sigh. His stomach aches. He should eat something.Cooking is an emollient for San. It's strangely mathematical and he takes comfort in that; measure ingredients and time and temperature correctly, make adjustments accordingly, and he’ll succeed. He usually struggles with curveballs, unforeseen disasters, but he need only be prepared, and methodical, and he'll come out the other side intact. Even in a worst-case scenario where he doesn’t, he need only sit down and assess the cause. Adjust his formula, as it were. But sometimes he wonders how another person would rate it. When the crouching loneliness at the back of his mind springs to the forefront, he can't save himself from fantasising about having someone to share with. Someone to pamper and cook for.He cobbles together a lousy sandwich and places himself in front of his laptop. Loading a documentary he saved for later, which he's pretty sure was illegally uploaded to YouTube, he settles in for an afternoon of clutching at serotonin and trying to ignore his burgeoning headache.The first video is entertaining. Chasing that feeling, he clicks on another. But that same peak evades him. The novelty drains until he’s left flailing like a fish at the base of a dried lake, desperately scouring every website he regulars and the cob-webbed recesses of his mind for something he can do. Too tired for work, jaded by the endless influx of frivolous online content, and without a book to read or problem to tackle.An unfortunate side-effect of considering all the things he could be doing is that San begins to recount everything he - in life at large - could be experiencing, but has opted to miss out on. These can be divided into tiers, as he's sucked further into the vortex of existential discontent.The first tier are his downtrodden dreams and persistent indecisions: he could have opted to become an environmental activist or a voice actor or a potter, instead of spending year upon year hunched over a desk, supplementing a high school diploma with more study, and then an undergraduate degree with a more advanced degree, and now remaining at school even to work; inversely, he could have studied theoretical physics instead of mathematics, and perhaps have found himself closer to a professorship for it. The level below that involves attempting to form an exhaustive list of all the things he, as a youth, has either missed out on or will, if he continues as he is. Meaningful friendships, passionate romance, sex, parties, drink and drugs and every degenerative substance he has no desire to ever try. The third circle of Hell is far worse than Dante ever imagined it: that is, ruminating on specific opportunities he's been presented with, certain catastrophes he's had to deal with, and particular choices he's made, and wondering whether he did the right thing.That ‘right’ can range from moral correctness to the repercussions on nothing but his own happiness. Should he have gone about his past relationships differently? Should he have entered them at all? Relationships, he thought, were supposed to enhance a person’s life, so why does he feel as though he only encumbered his girlfriends? Should he have allowed this fragile sense of self-worth to drive him to turn down the party invitations he received in his first year of college? Is he right in thinking he wouldn't have enjoyed himself? Does he know himself well enough to predict his feelings or could he not possibly know without experimenting? Would experimentation simply lead to more hurt and regret like he thinks it would?Are all of his attempts to branch out, to sink his roots and brave the soil, feeling desperately for anyone who'll accept him, completely futile? Perhaps even pathetic? Taking jobs, joining clubs, signing up for courses, frequenting the same places. They certainly haven't yielded much. He's still alone and lonely and ruminating fruitlessly before his open laptop, paused on an image of a bee perched on a flower, with no one but his parents to call and too heavy a conscience to do it.On his desk, in its designated place, his phone buzzes. San regards it wearily. For all his talk of loneliness, he feels little urge to check its contents. In fact, he’s nearer to being repulsed by the thought. It’s mostly because he has nothing with which to preoccupy himself that he drags it towards himself.His lockscreen is set to show him only that he has a text, rather than its source or its contents. San’s heart tightens with weary dread as he opens his messages.Oh. Professor Patel. His old teacher. San’s eyes try to scan the portion that’s visible from the menu, but he forces himself to click before he can back out. There, in its entirety, he allows it to percolate through the cracks in his determination not to hope. 
Professor Patel

Hi Santiago! Hope all is well w/ you. I checked with the faculty and sadly there’s no jobs for you right now. 😞 But there are open campus days coming up so maybe then? Soz. -Professor Patel.
 Does this really warrant analysis? Well, it’s not like he has anything else to be doing. He might as well make note of the fact that the open campus days are in six weeks’ time, and if they really wanted him there, they’d be getting him on board right now. Not to mention the conciliatory tone of the message, and its predecessors: strongly implying the Professor wants to get him off the university’s back - specifically his own - but doesn’t want to be cruel about it. Finally, the fact that the reply is coming six days after San initially messaged him for help. He knows that Professor Patel is busy, but it reads as both reluctance and attempted discouragement. He feels like a teenager being messed around by their date, hanging desperately on to a sinking ship even as it drowns them.Really - this is exactly what happened with his first ever girlfriend in his sophomore year.And it’s that thought, really, which has him pushing his phone away, resolving to give no further mind to the matter. He could anguish about his prospects at the university at national level, but thinking of his exes is creeping anxiety, smarting regret, dulled reproach. He would generally consider them the strongest cases in his life against giving things a shot, because they left him only hollow, uncertain of even the most fundamental questions of who he is and what he wants. Even in the cases - well, case, singular - where they didn’t callously hurt him, he was pushed into a spiral that has persisted throughout years to this very day. A cycle which involves pondering at great depth - so great a depth it could almost prove an unsung propensity for philosophy - whether he is simply the problem. (And, usually, concluding that, yes, that is the case.) Whether it’s his awkwardness and lack of initiative and poor social skills and total absence of the intense infatuation sold to him as the norm that killed his relationships before they even really started. Whether it’s those traits which hold him back now, professionally. He’s plenty of passion, but it’s dampened by unease and indecision, and perhaps the professors and the faculty and the research centres can smell it on him. Maybe he’s just no good.Sluggishly, San lifts a hand to his keyboard and presses play. The bee which was so patiently waiting resumes digging around in the open face of the - What is that? A daylily? - before flitting away.Even if he is useless, and rejected at all turns, and never becomes a professor, he can grow a damn orchid.♡Santiago has been known to miscalculate things, mathematical and otherwise. In the former case simply because anyone has, who dedicates so much time to the subject, and the latter because he isn’t good for much besides maths. This time, his miscalculation falls within the second category.Logically speaking, the pitiful state of his prized flower in full bloom suggests that he cannot, in fact, grow a damn orchid.The fact it’s still here is also not indicative of success. He would propose that the customers may simply have picked up on his reluctance to let the orchid go, but he’s only here to guard it for two days out of the week. In fairness, it is disadvantaged by its yellow petals, as their clientele seem to prefer the rich reds or pristine whites on either side of the palette - though that’s without accounting for the matter of its petals being, at this stage, at least as brown as they are yellow.At the very least, San is hardly close to shedding tears over the matter. The dry sting of his eyes and the sunken state of all that cowers within his ribcage are infinitely more mature and masculine than dropping to the floor and bawling over a flower and his inadequacies would be. And maybe there’s hope for him yet, considering he doesn’t want to. How could he want - a feeling so ardent and consuming - when he’s just… numb.San hears a bell and some footsteps and his throat tightens because he’d rather not hear from Aly about his lack of love right now, but when he braves an upward glance, he finds himself double-taking with surprise.The universe seems to have settled into a rhythm of destining the meetings between San and Jae, with a week between each. It’s been a week since the coffee incident and still San finds himself wincing internally.If there’s one thing San needs to conduct a research paper on, it’s how exactly, as a matter of scientific principle, a person could block off the direct line between their emotions and their expressions, primarily for his personal use. Because Jae has clearly picked up on his discontent and is regarding him warily in return. Perhaps San should scrap his former idea, actually, and investigate instead how exactly one can transform into a speck of dust and float away unseen at will. Or perhaps a more realistic goal of learning how to harness the theorised nonlocality of the universe to teleport himself into deep space, where he can at least die peacefully, would be a more attractive option.“Aly’s not here,” San splutters. “She just stepped out to speak with a guy who sells pots cheap while he’s in the area.” He considers. “Pots plural, not pot singular. To be clear.”Across the canyon he’s left gaping between them, Jae is staring as though he’s grown a second head and, honestly, it isn't a concession to acknowledge that he deserves it. He could do with a second brain, certainly.Slowly, he raises a hand, kicking San’s heart into a higher gear as he runs through a checklist of all the unfavourable things he could be about to do with it. But Jae just throws a thumb over his shoulder at a cluster of potted anemones.“I’ll be over there.”With that, he turns, sweeping through the narrow gaps between the maze of tables in his path. He’s dressed more colourfully today, if grey counts. His bulky jacket is open over the ashen, strangely soft-looking hoodie he wears underneath, and the hood is tugged over the top to inform of its existence even with his back turned. Today, the cargo pants are swapped for black jeans, which border on skinny only because his legs are so ridiculously muscular, stretching the fabric to its limit at the thighs in particular. Draped across said thighs are the extraneous buckles and chains which seem to be his signature. Unless it’s just a staple of the style - San couldn’t claim to know.Cutting his investigation short is Jae’s arrival before the anemones, his back partially obscured by towering flowers smothering the tables and forming a thick border between the two of them. Still, San peers with fascination as Jae procures paper and pen from one of his giant coat pockets.Until Jae’s head twitches to the side like he senses eyes on him, and San fumbles and jerks in place before diving towards the nearest task he could be doing to appear as though he was never staring. His heart rate is too high for the situation, and he knows it’s senseless, but after that he doesn’t dare look up again.San knows that Aly probably won’t be back within the hour, that she left during the usual Thursday lull for a reason. But he can’t help listening eagerly for the sound of the bell, because the tension is palpable even with the major depth of the shop between them and a lot of therapeutic fidgeting on his part. San has no way of knowing whether it’s reciprocal or a figment of his imagination. Jae remains quiet, the scratch of his pencil ever so faintly audible if San holds his breath, and San refuses to look.He doesn’t know what it means when, after just twenty minutes or so of sketching and the occasional shuffling, Jae goes completely silent. And San, of course, can’t prevent the impulse to consolidate his widely theorised stupidity by finally raising his head.Instantly meeting Jae’s eyes, of course. Locking them in a stalemate where San can’t be sure whose eyes are wider. He can hardly feel his face under the scrutiny but he’s convinced on principle that his eyes can’t possibly widen any further without popping right out, which he certainly hopes against. In the full scope of his vision, which is becoming increasingly monopolised by the pull of those sweeping dark eyes, he can make out the way Jae’s hands are clutching the paper at his front, every limb stiff, and it’s just so awful.“Are you leaving?”San’s mouth says. When his brain catches up, it’s quick to point out the standoffishness of the statement, driving his panicked tongue to rectify,“Not that I want you to leave.”This seems to strike a chord with Jae, kicking him back into his own body so that he can loosen it, finally unfurling and shifting like a living human again. San can’t prevent wondering with a lump in his larynx whether his drive to do so was to kick San’s teeth in for acting overfamiliar.“It’s fine,” Jae rasps. He clears his throat, looking down at a patch of floor which San sincerely hopes is free of any sprinklings of soil. “I just…”San finally straightens up, realising the ache in his shoulders when they crackle as he pushes them back. “Do you need help with something?”This catches Jae’s attention. He’s the one curled over this time, his head still hanging, but his eyes bore into San’s face, preventing any sense of control from forming prematurely. For a few long moments - moments which stretch too long, almost prompting San to fall into a meditation on the physical implications of stretched time, and the role of perception, and the theories for and against realism, and Wigner’s friend for some reason, if not for feeling thoroughly incapacitated like a bug under Jae’s thumb - Jae regards him. Then his mouth opens and,“I was wondering whether you had anything new in the back. I’ve already referenced most of what’s out here.”As his brain hurries to fulfil the request, running through a catalogue of every variety of plant they have at present and whether each is represented by their current display, detouring briefly to wonder whether Jae means individual plants, considering the care with which he detailed the dahlias and snapdragons, a cobweb-encrusted corner throws up the idea that Jae has most likely seen his pitiful orchid already. Probably turned his nose up at it, perhaps even pitied it for the subpar care it must have been shown, considering the state it’s in. This corner must have encapsulated his pons, because his eyes flit to the orchid in the next moment.In the next, he drags them back. But it’s too late.Jae has followed his line of sight and is now frowning at the flower. Or, what’s visible of it from where he stands. Aly deemed the orchids popular and eye-catching enough to take one of the worst spots - tucked into a relatively dingy little corner - and still sell. In the name of holding onto his prized orchid (not that he needs much help with that anymore), San placed it in the worst of the bad spots, so obscured by vibrant petals and elongated stems that Jae can probably only see a flash of yellow from his place, if that.Speaking of which, he’s approaching now. Tentative steps forward, like one or both of them will spook otherwise; San isn’t sure that he won’t.San holds his hands up, silent not because he has nothing to say but rather too many things, overlapping so greatly they don’t manifest even as sputters, like he’s somehow achieved destructive superposition. Then a short burst of laughter blazes past the rest, quite obviously nervous, but Jae would be forgiven for thinking that San is just a nervous person.Clearly he does think this, because he eyes San’s face but continues in his approach. San’s face is burning; he doesn’t want to contemplate how bad it might be if he had time to consider Jae’s impression of him.“There’s nothing over there!” he exclaims awkwardly, finally. All that effort just for Jae to slow only as he approaches San - where he now realises he’s moved to stand to the side of the orchid table, a poor attempt at putting himself between them and Jae like a self-sacrificing parent - and stop where he can see the flower easily enough with all that height. Game over. San can only mumble half-heartedly, “Really, there’s nothing…” before he trails off in defeat.San stands like a high school student subject to scrutiny: head bowed, back rigid, hands clutched at his front. Even though Jae is very much looking at the flower instead of him. At least when Jae does look at him, he’s fully primed to embarrass himself by staring as if Jae were a demon principal.Shifting uneasily under the scrutiny, their roles at last reversed, Jae admits, “I’ve never looked at that yellow one before,” and it’s all over.San will have to personally bear witness to the humiliation of Jae taking a closer look at his orchid before deciding he’d rather not look at the tragic example for any longer than he absolutely has to; probably trying to back out with a placating comment if he feels charitable.Jae is still hovering; waiting for an answer. Before San can attempt to give one, Jae steps forward, tentatively, and freezes when San makes like he’s going to step back. He regards San carefully, spreading his hands out low down.“Can I?”Can San think of a reason to say no? He can’t. So he gulps and inches aside.Jae eyes the tiny increase in the gap between San and the table, before opting to squeeze past, never touching but bringing them entirely too close for a moment, before he’s gone. San blinks rapidly like he flitted past at speed, not wanting to focus on the sight of Jae looming over his poor orchid, unaware of its impending verbal extirpation.The words don’t come immediately. They seem to elude Jae for a moment, his brow furrowed and his fingers furling and unfurling at his sides. The left one seems to twitch towards his pocket before he snaps back into himself, sparing San some mind.“It’s, uh…”“Pathetic?” San supplies.Jae’s brow furrows, which means hardly anything of itself, but he objects, “No, it’s cool,” which definitely does.San stares.It’s to be expected when Jae falters and amends, “It’s unique.” But that doesn’t mean it isn’t slightly crushing. Bruising. He turns back to the flower as if to scour it for points he could possibly compliment. (San observes in the meantime that his complexion is curiously rosier up close.) What he comes out with is,“I’ve never really seen a flower do this. The way the stem branches out like a tree. It reminds me of this… uh, Lovecraftian horror artstyle.” He looks to San, but pauses, transforming what was clearly supposed to be a glance into a lingering stare. Something in San’s expression must convince him to continue. He subtly rolls his shoulders back and regards the orchid once more. “The petals are wilting but the stems are dark and strong. It’s like a tree in fall - like the ones outside right now.” He flicks his eyes to the window like the statement requires clarification. “Dying, but not completely… y’know?”San doesn’t know. But he would love to know exactly why his failure at caring for an orchid isn’t a total defeat. Jae is still fixated on the flower, though; he’s bent his knees to peer at it from another angle. His finger reaches out to gently trace a petal, and he whispers,“So cool…”Clandestine, like he doesn’t want San to hear it. Unfortunately for him, San is attuned to any and all commendations towards his hard work. He’s hanging onto Jae’s every move now, and openly watching him marvel.Picking up on this, Jae snaps upright like a rubber band. He takes a wooden step back, attempting a smile to cover his grimace.At this stage, San doesn’t even care if he made it all up. All of Aly’s reassurance, while well-meaning, has been despite the state of the flower. Hearing someone praise his attempt because of the mess he’s made of it warms his chest, even if he’s inclined to disagree.“Can I take a picture of it?”Jae is watching him hopefully. San nods without thinking. But then, as Jae fishes his phone out of his pocket, he blurts,“You aren’t going to draw it?”Faltering, Jae regards him warily again.“I am, I just want a picture of it, too… It’s not the same, exactly. I wanna keep a picture…”With every sentence he grows more uncertain. San nods in reassurance, waving his hands. At this point he’s convinced he just shouldn’t open his mouth at all, but it feels necessary to clarify,“Right. Of course! Go for it.”A nagging voice tells him that it’s far from the same if he pressured Jae into sketching it. He does his best to ignore this conjured naysayer and simply take the approval he’s been given. He’s definitely not going to risk messing things up further by speaking again, so he focuses on keeping his lips sealed.Jae replaces his phone with pen and paper, seemingly eager to start, though that might be San’s hopeful imagination. Before he can be asked, San slinks away to give him privacy, though his mind remains fixated on the unforeseen events. It’s difficult to focus on his work.Now, without the pressing matter of social interaction keeping him present, San can acknowledge how utterly bizarre it is that he’s attaching so much of his identity to a flower. He almost cares more what Jae thinks of it than what he thinks of San himself. Almost. It’s with this in mind that he prays he hasn’t given himself away as a socially incompetent buffoon, somehow, but it seems extremely improbable.While Jae’s presence weighs heavily on San, the scratch of his pencil on paper forms a pleasant backdrop. It serves to remind him how heady the shop interior is, in comparison to the increasingly crisp autumn days. It makes work more difficult, but he can understand why someone would frequent the shop for leisure. The intertwined scents of the many flora can be overwhelming and even unpleasant at times, but San suspects it may also contain soporific properties. Perhaps he should try to sell it as a natural sleeping draught; he needs to make a fortune somehow to pay off his ungodly college debts.It’s this thought which spurs him into action: Aly’s paying him and he can’t slack off.He only trundles through a single sheet, decrypting the demands of a rare wedding request before the bell chimes.A teenager. Eyes roving across the layout - only to be snared unceremoniously by San's attention. He swears, they gulp at the same time.The teen breaks out, making a break for the unoccupied half of the store, where the most impressive blooms reside. Her striped grey sweater becomes patterned from his standpoint by flaming oranges and pinks, which San accepts as his cue to return to his task before he loses his hard-won train of thought.Only, it’s already gone. Replaced by the flash of childish terror displaced from a deeply buried time capsule onto a pale face. Before he even looks up, at first winning the twitching war with the urge, he knows to feel defeat. Because he can feel them bubbling, jabbing from behind the safety of his sternum, demanding and demanding until he’s moved, rounded the counter, woven close enough to act as their vessel.“Do you need some help?”There’s every chance that she jumps, her feet actually leaving the floor, but San is stunned into blinking so rapidly that he misses it. He does notice, however, that she whirls on him, defensive, only to curl inwards and cower away.“M’alright.”San spends so little time around teenagers that he began to forget their proficiency in the art of mumbling the most pitiful, blatantly false denials that could ever be believed. Head lowered, a curtain of dyed black hair swooping to obscure her expression, the lighter stripes of her sweater dappled with a drizzle he’d failed to notice, she’s like a wet cat sulking in an alleyway, and San is stumped.Even his mindless tongue is at a loss, abandoning him to scrabble uselessly.“Are you sure?”It’s the best he has. Predictably, she shrugs it off - quite literally. She shrugs, a move he doesn’t know how to navigate. Perhaps he’s suspended there only by the thought that it’d be more awkward to abandon his mission now, but nonetheless he steps up to the table she’s examining in great detail and probes gently,“First date?”The girl straightens up, but curls her shoulders even further inwards. She shrugs again.“Second.”Still, it’s enough. San inches towards the table to support himself, making a show of fiddling with a hanging tag instead of observing her.“Do they have a favourite colour?”Another shrug. “Grey, I guess.”San blanches, but unsticks his feet to wander over to a cluster of lilies. “How about white?”The teen observes him from beneath the tangled safety of her lashes. Still, it’s easy to catch the hope shining through, like dappled sunlight squeezing into gaps in a canopy. So San presents the final blooms of a ranunculus for her consideration, biting back a pleased smile when she rounds the spread she was observing previously to approach him.It’s calming, helping her put together a bouquet for her boyfriend because, quote, “Fu- Screw heteronormativity,” whatever that means. She’s completely clueless, just points to whichever flower she likes best from among his suggestions, but San guides her to the prettiest and most meaningful options from the least expensive rung. He manages to scrounge together a thin, perhaps measly example in crystal whites and cold blues, but the girl seems pleased enough with it, and only digs her teeth into her lower lip for a moment when he reads off the price. Misreads, but she doesn’t need to know that.When the trill of the bell fades to a phantom impression, and the sight of the teen inspecting the bouquet with a tiny smile at last is wiped from view, San rests his weight atop his hands, splayed across the countertop, and exhales.He made it through.To finish, he digs through his pocket for his wallet, to make up the difference. Surreptitiously, his hands low behind the counter, though there’s no one here to see-The corner of his eye is at once monopolised by a mass of black and grey. San is frozen, his neck aching with strain as he fights both to look and to not. But a gracious thought chooses to strike him, that the dismal sliver of grey - the hood - means that Jae’s back is to him, and he quivers with relief like a bell.Still, a cold sweat persists on his forehead all the while as he pushes his wallet back from the lip of his pocket. Technically, he’s done nothing to suggest he was instead going to steal from the register, San reminds himself; he didn’t even remove his wallet, and even if Jae were looking, he’s on the blind side.Practically slumping with relief, his heart still racing, San drags the papers towards him in the next moment to make a show of occupying himself.he has no way of knowing how long Jae lingers, but at last he’s alerted by the frankly ridiculous rustling of his gigantic jacket - the first thing he sees as he turns his head, now slung over Jae’s arm.Forcing his back straight, San smiles cordially, hopefully. His heart hammers, but when their eyes meet, Jae reciprocates. It’s a little stunted, but he has a lovely smile. San’s shoulders melt into something close to relaxed, like his intuition has at last given his body the go-ahead to loosen up in Jae’s presence.Jae directs his gaze at the floor, and San follows instinctively. It’s there that he sees, for the first time, the giant boots he’s wearing. The soles are almost comically chunky; San estimates that they add about three inches to his stature. A glance at Jae’s head, and he determines that, without that extra boost, they’d be about the same height.Although only marginally, the realisation does serve to make Jae less intimidating.“Thanks, for showing me that...”The silence was comfortable enough that San forgot one of both of them was supposed to break it. He jolts a little, drawing Jae’s averted eyes to his own. Instinctively, a pleasant smile splits San’s warming face like a crack in ceramic. True to his promise not to speak, he opts to dip his head amicably, allowing himself a touch of silent self-commendation.Jae is staring at him. With widened eyes and an expectant air.Oh, no. What has he done?“Thanks for showing me that…” Jae repeats, trailing off as he did before.San stares back. Has Jae forgotten the end of his sentence? Is he asking for some sort of help? San can’t prevent himself from destroying the serene, put-together character he embodied for all of thirty seconds by sputtering,“I’m sorry, what?”Jae’s cheeks are rosy. It’s definitely an embarrassed flush this time. Oh, boy.“Your name. What’s your name?”San malfunctions. Like a cog in his brain has caught on a piece of thread, grinding the whole process to a halt. Ah. He never told Jae his name. He’s quite possibly been addressing Jae by name this whole time, like they were acquainted, and almost certainly coming off like a creep.“San,” blurts San. Before he can give a fake one to save the embarrassment to his name, and subsequently disappear off the face of the Earth. Then, in a stroke of genius, he decides to double down. “Short for Santiago.”The strawberry pink of Jae’s face certainly introduces more colour into his palette. San winces in sympathy for his vicarious embarrassment. (What would that make? Third-hand embarrassment?)“Jae.” The way he says it is interesting: some give on the ‘j’, so it almost sounds like a ‘ch’. With a circumspect raise of a single corner of his mouth, he adds, “Short for Jaeyeol.”That kicks San out of his head and into his body. Curiosity spikes, a drug that has San forgetting the pressing matter of his tragic circus act to comment, without consulting the self-preserving checklist he has on hand, “Honestly, I thought you were named after the bird.”At this, Jae relaxes a little. He smiles, and it’s a small thing and a little shy, a little uncertain, but boyish and dazzling. “Yeah, I got that.”“Huh?”It’s Jae’s turn to falter. “Uh. In the coffee shop. You spelled it J-A-Y on the paper.”A stalemate. Even from San’s biased perspective, it’s impossible to tell who’s stiffer or wider-eyed. If nothing else, he can appreciate the comic value of it. Really, they’d make a great sitcom scenario. Maybe not a whole show, because San’s life is hardly interesting enough for that - but perhaps Jae could be the main character, and this the plot of a singular episode? Perhaps this could be how San makes his fortune. He’ll need it more than ever, now that he’ll have to quit both his jobs in the wake of their being compromised.Oh, God.So, the events at Green Bean are a confirmed piece of their shared history. Something that will hang over not only San’s head forever, but also Jae’s. Even teleporting himself into space won’t erase that.Ah.“Ah.”At least Jae seems at least nearly as ashamed as San feels. Not that it’s anything to be glad of, seeing as shame makes memories stick.“Well,” Jae says. “I need to go.”“Right.”“Yeah.”Mutually, they stare.“Bye.”“Bye,” Jae agrees. Then he turns and leaves. Hanging from the base of his jacket, the keychain glints mockingly and punches the breath from San’s lungs.The bell rings. The wind is permitted to rustle a few leaves. The door seals with certainty, and it’s over.Well. There’s another addition to the catalogue of Things that have happened between them.The counter is approaching at alarming speed, but San is able to stop himself before his forehead makes contact with it. God forbid Jae return for some reason, or linger long enough to catch his display through the windows. There’s no way San is looking up to confirm; he settles into a hunch over the surface with his head hanging between his arms. Jesus Christ. Maybe he should consider increased flexibility regarding his stance on the ethics of mind-wiping. And dig up the nerdy eleven-year-old scrawls sitting in the family attic to identify anything useful his Sci-Fi-addled brain might have thrown up.Tauntingly, the bell rings. San leaps to attention so suddenly his feet leave the floor and something in his back spasms.Gently closing the door behind her, Aly smiles warily at him.“Hi, San.”His breath escapes in a sigh before he can stop it. “Hi, Aly.”Thankfully, as she approaches, Aly doesn’t seem offended. She rounds the counter to stand beside him - almost reading in a desperate, shame-addled part of San’s brain as solidarity - and he relaxes a little.“How’d it go?”Aly hums. That’s not good. San’s attention is fully on her now, and he notices the plastic bag she places at her feet. “He’s hitched his prices up a lot. I understand inflation and all, but it was just too much.” She pauses, and San lets her decide whether to continue. “He tried to, uh, haggle with me, I guess. I bought a few in the end,” she stoops to reclaim the handle, setting it on the counter this time, “but I had to say no.” Her form shakes minutely as she exhales, an aborted sigh.San nods in understanding. “Good on you for holding your ground.” However genuine, it sounds too much like a platitude to San’s own ears, but Aly responds with a soft smile.“How about you? Did much happen while I was gone?”Already San’s ears are growing hotter. But he can’t deny her the change of topic to take her mind off her plight.
“Uh,” he begins. He’s not sure whether Aly realises she’s leaning in ever so slightly - he suspects not - but he feels compelled to satisfy her curiosity. “Yeah, I sorted a customer. Kinda had an awkward run-in.” As though to consolidate this, he laughs awkwardly. Aly’s brow furrows with sympathy, but he can tell she takes comfort in his confiding. “Jae dropped in…”The recognition is instant, her pleased expression following suit. Until she laments, “Oh, no, I missed him…”Desperate to assuage her guilt, San assures her, with too wildly waving hands, “I’m sure he’s not upset with you!” As he forces his hands away, one rises up of its own accord to scratch at the back of his head instead. “I don't really think he was as happy to see me instead, but he got what he wanted.”He’d rather not go into detail lest he relive the horrifying experience (he’s exaggerating in hindsight, he knows), but he will if Aly presses the issue.But rather, a little surprisingly, Aly frowns. “What was that? To sketch?”San lapses. “Huh? Does he- Does he not always come in to sketch?”Barely pausing to deliberate, Aly shrugs one shoulder. “Sometimes. Sometimes he just comes to talk.”Oh. Interesting. Bubbles of curiosity rise in San’s bloodstream, agitating him. He faces forwards, allowing his brain to chew on the possibilities before, fatally, his mouth is opening to ask,“Do you two know each other quite well, then?”“Hm? Oh, yeah, we’re friends.”San can feel Aly’s eyes on the side of his face, but he won’t be able to muse properly if he meets her eye. The logistics of how exactly a florist came to befriend a tattoo artist are admittedly fascinating. Enough so that he considers asking.But then the bell is ringing, and they’re snapping as one entity into customer service mode. Perhaps unnerving the guy a little, if his tense smile is anything to go by.Well. San has always found the process of calculation more fulfilling than arrival at a result, anyway.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hanging back, hunched to make himself smaller, as though any amount of height could ever serve to make him imposing or affect his chances, San wonders whether he qualifies as a corporate bootlicker.While etymologically most wouldn’t consider a university a corporation, is it not a business, exchanging capital from consumers (students) for a service (education)? Most would agree that a professorship is a profession, but are they not employees? Is this particular institute not recognised as a single entity by law and perceived as such culturally? Therefore, would San, in his deliberate obsequiousness towards a superior who could kick-start his career, not be a sycophant?Professor Patel is on the verge of facing him now, twirling to wave to the student with whom he was conversing as they go. This student spares San a lingering glance; startled, he flinches and twists subtly away before he can think to preserve his dignity.Thankfully, however, their attention fades as they filter from the room at the tailend of the trickle of students. Less fortunately, this attention is replaced by Professor Patel’s.San is so firmly hunched that he doesn’t straighten even as he cringes and whips around to face the professor. The mind reflects in the body, as they say. Confirming that San really is a bootlicker.“Hi, Santiago,” Patel begins with a tight smile. He rounds his desk, busying his hands with tidying some loose files, if they can be called that; the desk is immaculate. Mathematicians are hardly known for their acting skills. “I asked you to come to see how you’ve been doing. Any response from other universities? Or maybe a research programme?”Other, right. Because he’s not wanted here.“No, I…” I haven’t been asking elsewhere. I want to work here. “No luck.” San tries for a regretful grimace. “About the open campus…”Patel twitches. San gulps. Time to lick some boots.“I was wondering whether there’s anything I could help with? Like you mentioned…”Professor Patel straightens up, and San backs away. He’s at least half a foot taller than the man, but his gracious yet firm regard has San cowering.“The open campus. Right.” With a silent sigh, he slips his glasses from his face, rubbing his eyes, and it strikes San just how tired he looks. Guilt follows a beat later. “Listen. You’re a good kid. Shit, no, I don’t mean that. Look at you.” Following his own instruction, he replaces his glasses, grinning wide and genuine. San’s heart weighs heavy. “You’re a grown man now. Pretty far from the kid who took my intro course nine years ago.”San balks. He remembers that? That was the only time San had him as a lecturer until his master’s degree.“I thought you were brilliant, then. We all did,” Patel throws him a crooked smile, and San can feel his face heating up. “And nothing’s changed there. But…” Sighing audibly this time, he props himself against his desk; would probably take the opportunity to sit were he a little taller. “Nothing’s changed in other areas, either. You’re smart and more than capable, but you’re almost as shy as when you were a teenager.” He looks up, as though imploring San to understand, and pinning him in place like a Weeping Angel. “I remember how you nearly messed up your grade because you couldn’t deliver a speech without stuttering every other sentence. Whenever I announced a group project, you looked like… like someone had placed your head on a chopping block. And it was the same when you were my TA. You were nice and helpful and plenty smart enough to help; I remember how you’d keep going until the kid got it, finding ways to explain things that I’d never heard before. But two pairs of eyes on you, more, and you were like a deer in headlights. Your hands were shaking so hard, you could barely operate PowerPoint for me, and everyone was focused on the board, or me - not even you, directly. I’m sorry - really. I’m so sorry. But there are certain qualities that someone needs to be a teacher, and you… You don’t even have enough to handle a campus tour group.”“So…”San knows that, with one word more, his voice will crack.Patel looks almost as gutted as San feels. Really: it feels as though his organs are on the verge of spilling out, exploding over the floor in what will almost certainly be deemed at least a mild inconvenience. That way, San will at least leave some sort of mark on the world before he goes, however temporary. Maybe he should hope that his abdominal tissue will give.The professor’s next words are to be expected, but they’re still akin to a knife carving an exitway for San’s viscera:“Yeah, I’ve been ignoring you. The- The whole faculty has.”Ah. Well, it’s nothing San hadn’t already suspected. He has only the pain of confirmation left to weather, which isn’t so bad.Professor Patel is supplementing his confession with platitudes, which crash together like white noise, leaving only something akin to the distant sound of the ocean, like when San would press his ear to a shell as a child, believing that he was really hearing the sea and not the rush of blood in his own ears.“Okay,” San says when the noise cuts. “That’s fair,” he voices in the name of reason, and believes it. Still, for a split second, he considers staging a dramatic exit - but ends up gesturing lamely in the direction of the door. “I have work now, so…”“Right. I’ll see you, Santiago.”So that he doesn’t express his thoughts, San bites his tongue.
If I’m not working here, you probably won’t be seeing me, Professor.
Without fuss, he turns and leaves.The scent of the river is hardly the same as the ocean, but it’s close enough. It brings with it a few gulls, squawking with no heed for propriety. San watches them swoop overhead, specks of white against a grey, cloudless sky, almost able to pretend it’s distant snow in October.As with any conversation to which San is party, there are many things which remain unexpressed. This may come as a surprise, considering his loud-mouthed tendency to blurt out his immediate thoughts, but there’s a more powerful force at play in his mind, one which locks behind steel bars any vulnerabilities and insecurities. These select topics are exempt from unthinking disclosure because he can’t make himself divulge them, either. It’s not a choice that they catch in his throat, balling up like a tangle of trash until he’s choking.So San couldn’t have told Professor Patel that his efforts to find work at other institutes were half-hearted at best. That he wants to work here, at this university specifically, like a spoiled brat stomping his foot. The reason being not only because the research opportunities it offers are difficult to rival, but also because he’s already established himself here. Already been through the soul-crushing process of letting everyone know that he’s an awkward, bumbling, stammering mess who’s best left to his own devices. Informing them that they shouldn’t expect him to function like a normal person, because he fails no matter how hard he tries. Staying here means confining the embarrassing information of his existence to a single place, and blaming his inability to change his circumstances on the preconceived notions everyone has about him. The microcosms of society he’s attempted to establish himself in - classes, clubs, workplaces - have all yielded the same disappointing result, which reasonably suggests he’ll have no luck on a larger scale.He’s alone now, on the cusp of a Thursday afternoon, with nothing but exertion to make his heart beat.God, he’s dramatic. A dry laugh pulls from him before he can contain it, drawing the eye of a student leaning against a low wall. Ducking his head and hurrying along, San discovers that he’s not despondent enough not to flush with humiliation.A small act of mercy is the placement of a bus stop just a few hundred feet away. Unfortunately, he finds it difficult to practise optimism as he approaches and remembers that, of course, this is a university bus stop, so the people waiting there would all be students.People his age - laughing together, clinging off one another’s frames, angling their phones to share whatever might be on there. There are a few by themselves, of course: airpods in, eyes glued to a screen, or even sitting with their head tilted back and eyes closed. Far more composed and self-assured and whole than San, even though they might purport to be in a similar situation.The glint of metal draws San’s eye to the swift arrival of his bus. Another small mercy, leaving him confused as to whether the universe wishes to apologise to him or not.He hangs back and enters last, finding a lone seat by some miracle. Out the window he watches as they pull away, and slowly loses himself in the rock of the chassis and the groan of the engine. He thinks some things which he then forgets a moment later. Transient thoughts carving a path through his skull before sweeping away, until he’s cursed with the rising contemplation of his circumstances.So, there goes his dream. Sort of. He could try elsewhere. Try something else, even. But it feels like his aspiration has been extinguished, so he mourns it. He mourns himself, death by the humiliation of rejection, death by being deemed unworthy by his teacher, who knows him so intimately, and the other professors, the other staff members agreeing. He imagines all the times someone has, unbeknownst to him, rated him as wanting. Conjuring from a smoky haze the faces of students during his stint as a teaching assistant, and the derisive thoughts hidden behind their eyes. The windows to their souls tinted black, because he was none the wiser.Life chews him up for the duration of a journey and spits him out on the figurative steps of the shop. He feels dizzy, almost; all the blood drained from his head to keep him standing, his feet heavy with the added weight. The sleepy warmth will hardly help, but still. He’s not dead, he’s not without responsibility.Inside, Aly greets him with a smile. She’s still wearing her apron, but her soft handbag is collapsing in on itself where it sits atop the counter, companion to an arrangement of orange and pink flowers, like a splash of sunset. The realisation is delayed, but it comes.Right. All the background work is done for today, so she’s leaving him to his own devices. She’s clearly painstakingly dressed, her crimped, moderately puffy floral print sleeves poking out on either side of the pale yellow apron. Primed to relinquish him to enact his early onset midlife crisis.“Hi, San,” she greets cheerily.San can’t be a downer on her. He forces a smile. “Hi.” As he approaches, to avoid scrutiny, he directs her attention away. “That arrangement is pretty. On the counter.”Aly’s gaze doesn’t linger on him for longer than a beat before she’s taking the bait. A pleased but bashful smile breaks out on her face, like she can’t stop it. “Ah, thank you. They’re for my girlfriend.”Of course. Makes sense. Glimpsing her long, elegant skirt, San wonders whether they’re just meeting or having a courtship date. He’s not sure what phase they’ve gotten to.“Well, I’ll hold down the fort. You shouldn’t keep her waiting.”Pausing in her swift scrawling, Aly fixes him with a grateful look. “Thank you, San.” Her eyes linger a little too long as he tries to keep up his air of nonchalance, almost like she can sense something’s up with him.Quickly, he adds, “Really. I’ll finish that. You should get going.”Biting her lip, she flits her eyes back and forth between San and the clipboard. For a sickening moment, he thinks it won’t work. But then she dips her head sheepishly. “Thank you… I’ll make it up to you.”Genuinely, San laughs. “No need. You’re a fair boss.”Aly ducks her head as she tugs her apron over it, almost disguising her embarrassment. Thankfully, it drives her to keep her eyes away from him while she pulls her long-sleeved bolero on and hooks an arm through her bag, the other hand clutching the bouquet delicately. San only has to put on a brave face as she bids him goodbye.Clearly, he doesn’t do a brilliant job. Whether or not she consciously picks up on his mood, she falters. San sighs a little exaggeratedly, pretending to blurt, “Go on! She’s waiting,” and regret it with a startled hang of his head.It’s enough to convince Aly, at least in her eager state. Giggling, she sweeps out the door, the pleats of her skirt swishing mesmerizingly.“Bye, San! Thank you!”The bell tingles cheerily, bidding her farewell in return. The instant she’s out of sight, San collapses face-first onto the counter. He has too much self-awareness to groan into the wood, but perhaps he should. Expressing emotion is therapeutic, apparently, and yet when the time comes to let it all out, he can’t. Even his tongue holds itself.“Fuck,” he whispers. Ordinarily, he doesn’t like to swear, but it feels necessary this time.His hands slide over the surface, fingers stretching for handholds that don’t exist, and he pushes himself up. Sluggishly, he turns to grab his apron.Strings tied into a sloppy bow, it takes more glances around than it should to remember the clipboard and the… whatever it is he said he’d finish up for Aly. His split second of panic is foolish, because she wouldn’t have left it to him if he weren’t capable. He almost wishes for it back, though; a brief spike in the flatline of his emotional state.Propping himself on both arms, he peers down at the sheet of paper. Ah. An order form. Usually, Aly handles the purchases of whatever they’ll need, but he supposes she was excited enough to entrust it to him, this time.At a snail’s pace, he trudges through the process of filling it out, checking and triple-checking everything he writes. Surprisingly, he’s quite easily capable of it, but that makes him sceptical. He must be forgetting something. He refuses to push the clipboard aside even when he’s finished, because there’s nothing to do other than scan its lines noncommittally. His eyes catch on a few brightly coloured petals here and there, but mostly they remain unfocused, his mind drifting to mundane and trivial things.Each time a customer walks in, either to browse or to pick up a commission, the thread is broken and he has to find it again. Or, more likely, start a new one, latching onto some random thing like drifting specks of dust illuminated by abundant sunlight and fascinating himself with the way his thoughts snowball, carrying him to a deep consideration of the genius of the Clark Kent disguise.Fate decides to throw him a curveball when the bell chimes the next time and Jae is standing there when he looks up. Breaking the pattern of their weekly meetings and shocking San almost back into his body. Still a little distant, he offers a befuddled but (hopefully) friendly smile.“Hey. You’re here on a Thursday.”Perhaps it should be a good sign that he’s back to blurting his passing thoughts, but it hardly feels like an improvement. Still, Jae smiles, so boyish it’s nearly dazzling, and wider than San has come to think of as usual.“Hi, Santiago.”San recoils ever so slightly, straightening up in surprise. Jae must notice, because he falters. “Ah - don’t call me that. That’s what my parents and teachers call me.” He giggles awkwardly, rubbing his arms like the hairs there are raised. “You can just call me San.”A little sceptically, Jae resumes his approach. He offers a diffident lift of his lips this time. “Thanks.”San’s a little confused, but Jae’s smile is nice. Sweet in the way a flower smells sweet. He doesn’t want to make any sudden movements and find it gone again. His silence must be disconcerting in itself, however, because Jae begins to shift subtly from foot to foot, watching San attentively.“So, what brings you here?”
San tries for playful, amiable, but Jae continues to oscillate awkwardly. This time tugging his jacket off his shoulders and slipping it down to tie the arms around his waist. In sympathy, San registers that it is bordering on too warm, especially in the shock of contrast to the chill outside; though he has no desire to remove his own knitted jumper.“Y’know. Just. Came to see Aly.”Wincing internally, San shakes his head. “You missed her, actually. She left a little while back…”Jae’s eyes widen minutely, but it feels large on him. “Really? Where’d she go?” In answer to his own question, his eyes find the cute calendar Aly has hanging on the wall behind San and he murmurs, “Oh. Right. The- She- The date is today. I thought it was the twelfth.” To finish, he huffs, perhaps with frustration or nerves.Frankly, San finds his words nonsensical. But that has him glowing with sympathy, a sentiment he’s far more accustomed to receiving. Jae’s edges seem to erode with every meeting, his face seeming softer and more youthful than he remembers it. There’s also, he realises, the matter of his exposed shoulders, with only a tank top to cover his torso now that he’s shed his jacket - a fleece hoodie, this time.His puffy coat must have given the illusion of a larger frame than he really possesses. This isn’t to say he’s frail. In fact, had he seen Jae like this to begin with, he would probably have been more intimidated. Despite the scientific improbability, San has a sneaking, unpleasant suspicion that Jae could pop his head clean off like a champagne cork with a well-timed curl of one of his ridiculous biceps. But the contrast with the expansive figure he witnessed - quite possibly inaccurately - that first day dulls his nerves. Almost like the difference between a cat with and without its hackles raised. Or, well. More like a jaguar.Also distracting him from any potential fear response is the ink San can finally confirm the existence of. One full, densely packed sleeve on the left, and a sparser collection of patterns on the right arm. They’re too elaborate and distracting to examine in any great detail now, so San’s eyes are drawn instead to the one close to his eyeline. He’s not sure how he didn’t see it before: perched to the right of his throat, just above his clavicle. It must have been hidden by his collar, or written off as a weird trick of the light. At that time, San was more focused on trying not to get his teeth kicked in and maybe, if he was lucky, successfully navigate a social interaction.He’s mesmerised now, though. At first by the design: a bird with its wings outstretched, sketchy and shadowed, almost smudged. Quite possibly a jay, but that would be too ironic, surely? Then by the realisation that he had it tattooed on his neck, and the immediate wince which escapes him at the thought of it. Pain binds people together, he supposes.The reminder of Jae’s humanity has San meeting his eyes. He’s shifting uncomfortably again, and San realises he’s been staring for an indeterminate period of time.“Your, uh, your tattoos are cool.” Honesty wins out over unintelligible stuttering. San isn’t sure whether this is for the best.Jae ducks his head away, delaying San’s realisation that he’s actually blushing for a moment longer, but failing to prevent it. San freezes like a machine unprogrammed to respond to this particular set of events. If not for the hot rush of blood to his face in turn reminding him how awkwardly, devastatingly human he is.“Thanks,” Jae replies in a low voice, breaking San from his stupor. When he lifts his head, his complexion is pleasantly pink, a poster of rosy-cheeked health as it would be sold in wholesome family cereal adverts. He aborts the lift of one hand almost as soon as he begins, just barely gesturing to San’s face. “I like your glasses.”Usually, San might seize up. Consider his options in real time and stagnate the whole conversation beyond what’s bearable. But his day thus far has been horrible and he just doesn’t think he has the capacity to spiral any further. So his shoulders go lax as he huffs an amused breath, one hand lifting to tug his glasses off so he can inspect them from above. Affirming that they’re the same plain umber things he got for five dollars at some overtly plastic accessories store a few years ago.“Right,” he puffs. Mistakenly. He knows Jae is just paying a compliment in turn - social obligation and all - and he doesn’t mean to sound bitter or - God forbid - accusatory about it. His eyes flit up to find his fears confirmed, but not nearly in the manner he expected.Rather than indignant, Jae looks mortified. He’s inert, lifeless, regarding San as he imagines a deer would a car about to mow it down on the highway. At once, San’s heart is practically wrenched from his chest, but there’s also a troubling sense of gratification. For once, he isn’t the one at the mercy of the social guillotine. He’s almost glad to discover that Jae is comparably vulnerable to San himself, always bending backwards for approval. Still, the last thing he wants is to torture the poor guy by leaving him to wallow in that state.The events of the day have peeled back his defences, leaving him raw and bare. Curiously, instead of scrambling to plug himself up again, San is the type to expose his open wound to the elements and let them build him up again or break him down further. To revel in his fate either way. It’s this tendency which causes him to smile lopsidedly.“I’m not laughing at you, don’t worry.” San’s voice is steadier than it’s ever been around Jae, and he seems to latch onto that. It’s strange to have someone clinging to his every word with such rapt, terrified attention. Too much responsibility, San finds. “It’s just that, uh, they're fake.” As though it will prove his claim, San holds his glasses up and taps the decided not-lens of one socket with a trimmed nail.Now San is the one up for evaluation. Is it stupid to wear fake glasses every day? Worthy of ridicule? He’s about to find out. Jae’s posture has relaxed a little, and he shifts his weight minutely back and forth as he appears to consider his response.“Well, they suit you, so…” is what he settles on, and it’s San’s turn to malfunction.It’s like he can’t accept a positive outcome. He has to toss the coin a second time by adding, “I actually wear them to cover my face. Gives me something to hide behind, y’know?”He winces more from his delivery than the confession. He could at least be dignified when presenting himself for vivisection. In the face of his impending fate itself, he’s calm.At first, it seems Jae isn’t certain how to respond to this.Good, San thinks. He’s been successful in self-sabotage, even if his stomach is now roiling and his face burning. His thin sense of self-worth begging for an answer as to why he had to present himself in such a humiliating light to a near-stranger, who will now carry this negative impression of him out into the world. Already primed to regret it later and hate himself more. A vicious cycle.But Jae lowers his head, his bangs just barely long enough to curtain his face, and admits, “I stopped wearing my glasses ‘cause people made fun of me.” Slowly, he raises his head, offering San a staggeringly honest, brittle smile. “Funny how that works, huh?”For a moment, San forgets his own body. He forgets the shop, the world around. For a moment, he shares a wavelength with another human being, feeling seen but seeing, too. A mutual exchange, nullifying shame and transcending social performance. He’ll doubt it later, but right now, he knows for certain that Jae feels the same.It can’t last; the bubble pops and they both shift self-consciously, Jae staring down at the counter and San going as far as to cough into his elbow.If it were down to San, they’d stay like that, decay right where they stand; but Jae straightens up, pink high on his cheeks, and mutters, “Since Aly isn’t here, I…”“Yeah,” San agrees, before he even registers what Jae’s hinting at. Then his heart lurches a little. “Bye.”Jae nods, subdued, and turns to take his leave. Only a few of his long strides to reach the door, but delayed by the closely packed tables trapping him, tendrils clutching at his tattooed arms - which San remembers to marvel at now, to attempt to drink in as much of the design as possible. If only it weren’t like looking into a kaleidoscope, the lines changing with a twist of his body to avoid a thorny stem, rippling with every shift of abundant muscle beneath them.As he reaches the door, San’s mouth does as it does best. “See you around.”Regarding Jae’s back where he stands, frozen, just before the door, San’s heart hammers obnoxiously in his ears. There’s nothing for him to hear past it, though; there’s only Jae’s honeyed little smile, offered up with a twist of his torso for a meagre couple of seconds before the bell is ushering him out.This time, San watches him go through the windows. Head down, lip bitten, before he catches San’s eye through the glass and turns his face away. San’s face flares, automatically ripping away, and Jae’s gone by the time he coaxes himself to look back.For a few minutes, San exists in a stupor. His skin never cools, prickling all over. Left giddy more so than crushed as he set himself up for, it’s all he can do to stand in silence, processing.When the stupefaction gives, he ducks into his hands, lip bitten, and makes some guttural noise he’s unsure has yet to be documented and hopes will die a secret among the flowers.♡Was it flirting? Is that what San accidentally engaged in? Else, what ritual did he unknowingly perform that locked them both into that eldritch trance? Do the plants have some sort of psychedelic effect rather than soporific, after all?A week later, he’s still thinking about it.It’s so potent even now that it seeps into the single track of thought he’s supposed to be using for work. Written orders for, “Two cappuccinos and a white chocolate latte,” become 2 caps + white did I do that? Google narcotic flowers. Singular requests for espresso macchiatos are inundated with caramel and pumped with vanilla. Customers are offered the barest imitation of a smile, bordering so closely on a grimace but with such determination not to become one that it must be grotesque. San suspects that, of all the contributing factors, this is what gets him relegated eventually to drying cups and wiping tables.His more outlandish theories are wishful thinking, really. His ruling thesis is that the feeling was entirely one-sided, some misinterpretation of epic proportions, and San has either humiliated himself through a display of inexplicable behaviour, or by some miracle that Jae didn’t pick up on his weirdness, will humiliate himself when he pretends that there’s something between them.San feels like smashing his head into the table he’s supposed to be wiping. It feels so bloated, it might just pop, a quick and easy escape for him and a curious phenomenon for his would-be-colleagues at the university to study. He wonders how a spontaneous explosion would work, logistically. Excessive thought driving such a volume of blood to the head that the brain fulminates under the pressure? How hard would his heart have to beat to get the blood there? Standing up, he’d probably die of a heart attack first, but perhaps if he laid down…Contemplating his demise turns closer to plotting it, but it’s all erased when he turns around.Clad in all black, thick and puffy all over like an armoured layer, is Jae.For one strange, confusing moment, San catches his eye. All microscopically widened and long-lashed and glittering, and - jeez, he’s pretty, San realises. As though this is occurring to him for the first time. (Well, actually, it is.) But then Jae is looking away, jerking his head with such force that the rest of his body nearly follows. San waits a few seconds, but he doesn’t turn back.Though shame creeps up his neck, leaving a flush in its wake, San tries not to let it show. Even if a delusional part of him insists that demonstrating his pathetic dejection will have Jae scrambling to comfort him, to fix whatever problem may or may not exist between them, as though that’s ever actually worked. Jae quite literally won’t even look his way, however, so there’d be no way for him to enact this genius plan, anyway.In his comically inert loitering, Jae draws San’s attention to the person next to him, whom he realises now isn’t another unrelated customer, but rather speaking directly to him. Smirking at him. Ah.She’s stunning. Long black hair, silver jewellery, chunky knee-high boots and fishnets and miniskirt, v-neck beneath a long coat - all black. San swears he spies some ink trailing up the side of her neck, stopping below her ear. She’s practically Jae’s mirror image. They could almost be siblings, if not for the difference in race. (Though San shouldn’t rule out adoptive siblings.) Leaving, as the most likely option, girlfriend.Oh. San’s not disappointed. He doesn’t have a crush on Jae. It never even crossed his mind. He doesn’t crush on people anymore. Being blatantly unwanted every time is too painful. Hoping, fantasising, just for it to go nowhere, doing all that emotional labour just for the words to never reach beyond his lips. It’s merely practical, knowing he’s too cowardly to pursue his own desires, to shut off that part of himself entirely.But, really, principle aside - San doesn’t know whether he’s crushing on Jae. It feels like five minutes ago he was terrified he’d knock his teeth out for the slightest transgression. It’s just that… maybe he allowed himself to become attached to the idea of being wanted. The idea that Jae might have a crush on him. Or at least find him appealing enough to flirt with. But here he is, where he knows San works - and, San realises, on the same day they met last time - with his gorgeous girlfriend at his side. It’s difficult not to imagine he’s making some kind of statement.Something prods his ribs.Though perhaps it means his reflexes are keyed towards inaction, that he’s the type to stand and stare as he’s bulldozed by a movie serial killer, San is often glad when he remains rooted in place, eyes wide and lips parted gormlessly but otherwise drawing no attention. Only his coworker is privy to his embarrassing display, frowning and hissing confidentially,“I know the rush is over but you can’t slack off. At least look like you’re doing something before they ream you.”Following Rayaan’s subtle glance, San spots the manager with their back turned. Lucky, but it won’t last.His instincts may be favourably wired, but unfortunately, San consciously is not. Meaning, he practically jumps as he spins toward the nearest table to wipe uncoordinatedly at it. His skin heats, worsening when he remembers to thank Rayaan, who’s already stalking away. San hangs his head. Hopefully no one saw that.Unthinking, he glances blatantly over his shoulder to find both Jae and the woman watching him.Snapping forward again, San regrets every decision which led to this moment, tracing the timeline all the way back to the moment of his conception. He has to keep it brief, though, because he can feel the manager’s eyes on him at last.Sighing shakily, he sets about his fate of disinfecting tables and being alone forever.Whatever, he thinks. It’s not like there was hope to begin with, of friendship or otherwise. It’d be nice not to humiliate himself by attempting to flirt when there was nothing there or acting like a cartoon character in the almost overbearingly calm atmosphere of the coffee shop, but it’s nothing new. He’ll move on.He ends up rethinking this hopeful prognosis as he scans for tables left to cleanse in the wake of rush hour, and realises that the only one is to the immediate right of where Jae has taken a seat, slouched, opposite his girlfriend.Peering in the direction of his manager, San contemplates the relative merit of incurring their wrath by messing up once again. It’s bordering on a landslide victory. San’s conscience, however, won’t have it. It decides that now is the optimal time to break him from his idling and walk him unsteadily in the direction of potential doom.(Maybe there’s also a part of him that hopes, secretly, for some kind of dramatic soap opera run-in. For a chance to demonstrate his gut-wrenching dolour to Jae and run crying into the streets to be battered by cold passersby as he makes his getaway, and have everyone worry and beg his forgiveness. But mostly it’s his innate sense of duty. Even he isn’t that delusional.)Tiptoeing like a gazelle - or something equally benign and defenceless - approaching lounging lions, San rounds the perimeter of the room to reach the table without having to pass them. He keeps his head down, hoping it’s not pointed in case that causes conflict but also somewhat hoping it is so Jae will notice his anguish and do something about it. God, he’s pathetic. He all but deflates at last as he gets into the menial task.Sure enough, they don’t say anything. They definitely just came here for the coffee; maybe one of the extras Jae bought last time was for his girlfriend, and she insisted on returning despite his personal grievances. He’s only making a fool of himself, sweating buckets as he wipes a damn table and creeping around the edges of his own workplace.Suspiring silently, San straightens up and resolves to pass by them without tripping and worsening his humiliation.“Hey!”It’s a female voice, right by him as he crosses the gulf he imagines across the width of their table. He ducks his head; she isn’t speaking to him.Except - “Santiago!” - yes, she is.He seizes up more than actively decides to stop, sealing his fate. No more pretending not to hear and escaping into the back to wait them out like some Medieval lord in a castle. Gradually, he turns, the sticky peel of a plaster left on for too long.One pair of eyes on him, not two. Jae’s head is down, eyes transfixed upon the ecological wooden tabletop. Heart aching, San plasters on a customer service smile.“How can I help you?” he asks, grinning a little too widely. His cheeks hurt and this woman is regarding him with distinct amusement.Up close, she’s even more striking. A beauty that stirs something in his chest, something to be admired, like his ex-girlfriends’. San tries not to be prejudiced against her smoky makeup or dark attire, but he’s deeply unsettled by her deep blue eyes, pinning him surely in place with a single look.“Only with a minute of your time, sweetheart,” she drawls. San feels his face heating under the attention.“Mel, stop,” Jae complains lowly, drawing San’s eyes to him in an instant. Their gazes lock, affirming Jae’s awareness of his existence, before Jae is breaking away. San’s heart sinks.‘Mel’ smirks. It turns sweet by the time her eyes are on San, and he blinks in shock, wondering whether he imagined it.“I'm sorry to call you aside like this. I'm Melika.” She rests her chin in her palm, regarding him.San buffers. “Uh. Santiago.”Melika's smile widens. San sways from foot to foot, fiddling with the straps of his work apron. “Lovely to meet you at last. I hear only good things about you.”Idly, San wonders whether he should be running. But it's his brain that needs to move a little faster, clicking into gear a moment later. He's heard her name before.“You're Aly's girlfriend?”Melika pulls her gaze back to San from where it'd drifted, without his notice, to Jae, and confirms, “Sure am.”San bites his lip. It's flattering that Aly has hyped him up to her girlfriend. Then again, she doesn't have a mean bone in her body. Admittedly, he's happy for another reason too; or, he would be, if Jae would look at him.“Has Aly mentioned the Halloween get-together yet?” Melika asks. Under her suffocating watch, San is certain she already knows the answer.“No. Should she have?”“No, we only just decided on the date. Besides, it doesn't really matter who extends the invitation.”To his left, Jae huffs. San glances his way and observes with fascination the way his expression clouds until it’s reduced to a blank sheet, pale to match.“That is to say,” Melika continues, drawing his attention back. The corners of her mouth have lifted, amused, “you're invited.”Taken aback, San trips over a garbled mess of syllables before he aborts whatever response his instinct conjured - or, failed to conjure - altogether. He should probably have seen this coming, have read the signs as dictated by, well, normal rules of human conversation. But he was distracted. Melika is smiling like she knows this - knows all - and San kind of wants to disintegrate.“I'm not really big on parties,” he whispers. Like doing so will soften any adverse reaction to the confession.
Easily, Melika shrugs. “Isn’t really a party,” she replies. “There’ll be alcohol and maybe some bad dancing if we’re drunk enough, but no one will expect anything from you. It’s just the three of us who work at the parlour and our plus-ones.” She pauses to grin, like she can't quite help it. “Our friend’s is his girlfriend, Aly is mine. You…”San follows her line of sight to settle on Jae. Without his permission - against direct orders, in fact - hope stirs in his belly.The glare Jae directs at Melika softens by the time his eyes reach San. Becoming something vulnerable. San sees his reflection in Jae's mutedly stricken expression.“If you wanna come, we'd be happy to have you there…” he begins. The two of them stare off meekly before he swallows thickly and continues, “There's no pressure to come. No pressure if you do come, either. It's chill.”He finishes there, mouth snapping shut like he's hit the limit of words he can utter in one sitting. San isn't faring much better. His lips fall open but nothing comes out besides thin wisps of air.The prickle of unseen eyes on him come from both sides. Melika on the right, he knows, but the left…Horrified, San finds his manager watching him levelly.He snaps back quickly to avoid the harrowing sight, but his tongue ties as he considers how to suitably extricate himself from the conversation.Melika saves him.“Give it some thought,” she suggests lightly, her smile soft this time. San can see in an instant how she'd fit next to Aly.“Okay,” he agrees. He throws a thumb in the direction of the counter before awkwardly withdrawing it. Crossing his arms for good measure. “I kinda need to get back to work.”“Course.”It's Jae who speaks this time. A little too fast; but his features blur with uncertainty in a way San can sympathise with, so he tries not to read into it.“Thanks for the invitation,” he adds, nodding towards Jae and then Melika. “It was nice to meet you.”“Likewise.”San nods. Then he turns on his heel and makes his long-awaited escape.It's not very sweet for a few reasons, not the least of which being his waiting manager, whose observation he can sense easily as he slips behind the counter. The place has cleared out almost comically after the brief peak, so he's not surprised it's just the two of them. His helpful co-worker must have gone for a smoke break.The issue with demonstrating his commitment to his work in time to save himself is that he's lacking in opportunities to do so. How can he make himself busy with no customers to tend to and the manager’s strict ruleset rendering all surfaces spotless and equipment primed already? He begins by placing the spray bottle in his hand back in its place and dropping the cloth in some soapy water to soak. Unfortunately, this has him walking right past them.They wait until he’s emptied his hands, but that’s hardly surprising. What is surprising is that they ask, lightly,“Is everything alright?”Finding their eyes involves a pretty harsh craning of his neck. Downwards, that is. Height has long been romanticised, no least for the commanding presence it can afford, but San has always found that more mass just means more of him to be stared at, picked apart. He’s acutely aware of his oversized stature as Yamka’s earnest amber eyes bore into him, which he doesn’t think is intended. But still he manages to nod.“Yeah. Just people I know. Well. A person. I met the other one just now.”His gaze wandered while he babbled, but it recentres on Yamka to find them squinting. Their mouth opens before they close it again, rescinding a few sentences before they settle on saying, “Is it okay if I ask if anything’s up with you?”The intensity of their gaze has him shifting uncomfortably, and they seem to try to let up in response. “Why do you ask?” San chuckles nervously. It’s not very fair, and Yamka seems to deflate a little. So he amends, “Uh, I guess, yeah. But it’s nothing to be worried about.” He hesitates. “Thank you, though. For worrying.”Frankly, he’s not sure he buys his own reassurance. He has been moping. Overthinking. Only, now that Yamka has become confident enough in their prognosis to talk to him, circumstances have changed, and he’s not sure what to think. Should he be worried that his brain will break down attempting to process the absurdity of it? Why the hell has he been invited to a Halloween party? Or, get-together. Is that a euphemism for a cult ritual? Is he going to be sacrificed? It might just explain why Jae and a woman claiming to be Aly’s girlfriend had to march in here to invite him instead of just asking Aly to do it. His head is spinning and he just wants to lie down.But Yamka is smiling their toothy grin, and nodding. “Alright. You can always speak to me,” they assure him, and their conversation is over.Leaving San with, truly, nothing to preoccupy himself. In an instant, his eyes are drawing themselves to the table where Jae and Melika were last, but it’s empty. Though he’s half-glad, he deflates.When his eyes catch them lingering by the door instead, he perks up, though he prickles with dread simultaneously. Jae turns his head away while Melika waves with an easy smirk.“I’ll see you at the party, yeah?”San stares. He has little choice other than to nod.Melika grins, the cat that got the cream. Why San’s presence at a Halloween event is the cream in this analogy, he doesn’t know, but he’s affording increasing credit to the theory that he’s just stupid.“Great.” San doesn’t miss the way Jae’s head snaps to the front, especially since their eyes lock in an instant. “Aly will give you the details.”The two of them stare in total stasis for a maximum of two seconds. San isn’t sure what he expects, what he’s hoping for, but he expects and he hopes nonetheless.Jae smiles lopsidedly and lifts a hand just above his waistline to wave cloddishly, and San’s heart sings. He just barely registers Melika laughing and grabbing Jae’s arm to drag him from the shop until he’s turning, breaking their shared gaze only when he has to follow her through the doors.He thinks he can feel Yamka’s eyes on him, but it’s not the reason San’s face is hot.What the hell was that?♡Perhaps a more pressing question, in the end, is what the hell he’s doing loitering outside a tattoo parlour on the evening of the twenty-fifth. Drawing suspicious looks from passing parents trying to block their children’s line of sight, though he tries his very best to disappear from existence on the spot. It’s without an easy answer, though.After his shift ended that day - that fateful, confusing day - San meandered home in a daze. Running into poles and people (thankfully retaining all of his teeth, but it was a close thing), bypassing the temptation of a burger stand without a thought, accidentally spooking a flock of pigeons and muttering apologies under his breath for far too long, drawing looks for generally acting insane. And feeling a little out of it, too.Upon reaching the safety of his apartment, he made a beeline for his bed and flopped down face first. Before deciding he found it uncomfortable and rolled over to stare at his ceiling.See, despite evidence to the contrary, he’s not actually stupid. He’s seen the abundant depictions of characters who act coldly towards a person they secretly like for whatever reason. Seeked them out, in fact, when he was rendered sobbing in years past and desperately hoped that the ill treatment of others could stem from such a place, rather than simple disdain. Whether it be diffidence or closed-heartedness or merely a misunderstanding, he’d been prepared to accept any explanation with open arms, to forgive and forget. Just to be let down every time. He’s not so sure that such people really exist.Still, there is a possibility that Jae is just as awkward as he is, and when combined the two of them are guaranteed to make a mess of any conversation. That moment of shared vulnerability sticks in his heart like a burr, so seemingly incongruent with everything he’s seen of Jae - but is it really? Has San simply conceptualised a prejudiced idea of him, in his tall, tattooed, blank-faced presentation, that has blinded him to reality? He wants to believe so. But he’s been stung too many times assuming wrongly.His numerous attempts to connect with people have felt one-sided at best, if not outright met with opposition. Any decision to ignore these warning signs has backfired, had him snapped at or ghosted or even let down gently, but firmly. After twenty-seven years of trying, it feels time to stop putting himself in those situations. It’s what he’d resolved to do, before this. But then Aly had to go out of her way to treat him kindly, and Yamka had to be professional but sympathetic, and Jae had to confuse him like all hell.He doesn’t want to interpret things wrongly again. The thought of it had him sniffling softly and christening his covers with hot tears where he lay back on his bed. But, God, he doesn’t want to be alone, either.San hasn’t seen Jae for nearly a week and a half. He’s thought about him every day. With each passing second, he fears that his idea of him is becoming increasingly distorted, that he’s conjuring hope from nothing. But here he is, standing outside freezing off fingers and toes, because he wants a friend.
Were it the actual night of Halloween, San would still be half-convinced he’s in to be ritually sacrificed. But it’s a spiritually insignificant day as far as he knows, and the moon is in a less important phase of wane, which bolsters his hopes.The ever-present threat of ridicule tastes like a bleeding heart and iron in his mouth. Still. He’d come at Aly’s request even if he knew without a doubt that Jae hated him.There’s a bell which chimes gently as he pushes through the door, shocking him into turning to affirm its existence. Drawing his eye is a sign nailed behind it, which reads, Spooked by a bell?It feels terribly transgressive, bypassing the ‘Closed’ sign guarding the door and edging into the empty, dimly lit parlour. His mind conjures two scenarios befitting the season: the equipment whirring to life and whipping needled tendrils at him, tearing him to pieces with unfortunate difficulty; or his hosts leaping out from their hiding places to laugh at the fact that he really came. Perhaps the latter shouldn’t be distinctly more terrifying.Neither happens, though. There’s the thud of feet on stairs, and Melika is appearing around a corner, a break far back in the left wall he hadn’t yet registered. She smiles wide, genuine rather than barbed.“You’re here!” she exclaims. In her silent approach, he remarks her shoelessness, thigh-high socks slipping slightly against vinyl. San falters with surprise as she bypasses him completely, but she’s just locking the shop door. He tries not to let the words ritual sacrifice infect his speech.“Sure am!” San replies, instinctively matching her energy and regretting it a moment later. He gestures vaguely to his shoes. “Should I, uh…”Melika seems stunned for a moment, blinking slowly. San tries not to wince under her attention. Then she hums. “Oh, right. Only when you get upstairs. Speaking of…” She reaches the break from which she appeared, twisting to regard him over her shoulder. “Follow me.”She manages to catch him with a grin as he closes the distance, and he grimaces in turn. His heart is thudding hard and slow, uncertain. He can’t be sure whether it was a mistake to come here just yet. As he first lays eyes on an open door across the little landing as he ascends, he supposes he’s about to find out.Nothing happens just yet. First, he has to hurriedly unlace and tug off his shoes as Melika disappears past the door frame, loudly announcing his presence - no time to register his surroundings. He cringes, feeling his face heat already. Still, he marches obediently to his fate when Melika reappears, ushering him in.The space opens up into, at a glance, a studio apartment; a patulous space with nowhere to hide, and at once, San finds himself pinned by many pairs of eyes. He counts four: Melika, Aly, Jae, and another guy with a myriad of silver tattoos and sharp eyes.He can’t help lingering just inside the door frame as though he might need to bolt at any moment. This sliver of hope is crushed when Aly stands, smiling, and he totters forward to meet her.God, he hasn’t been to a gathering like this in years. It’s pathetic; five people, of which he is one, and he’s overwhelmed.“I’m so glad you could make it,” Aly croons softly, as though San’s presence were dependent on scheduling conflict and not the steadiness of his nerves. Whether intentional or not, he’s grateful she doesn’t point out the obvious. He perhaps shouldn’t be grateful that she pulls him into a hug, but it’s the first in a long time, and he clings a little bit.Without any footwear, San realises for the first time that he is, in fact, about an inch taller than she is. Inexplicably, this has him clutching her overly softly, protectively, as though he could possibly crush her with his skinny arms. As they withdraw, a sixth sense has him looking to his side.Jae is watching him. Face blank, the expression San very nearly has nightmares about. It’s difficult to read him, even if San should have honed the skill after a lifetime of unintentionally drawing a multitude of reactions from people.In the corner of his eye, Melika elbows Jae, prompting him to unfurl as though he’d forgotten his posture entirely. He lifts his lips awkwardly. “Hi, San.”San can feel himself deflating already. “It’s good to see you, Jae.” He tries to pour on the goodwill, but it falls flat. They end up locked in an impromptu staring contest; hardly what he was hoping for.A cough breaks them out. Melika grins mischievously, approaching San and looping an arm through his. It shocks him, but it’s not unpleasant. In fact, his skin tingles beneath the layers separating them.“Now, San,” she begins, “you may remember I mentioned the plus-one system.”Lost, San buffers, but the unfamiliar man is already rolling his eyes and groaning, “I told you she couldn’t come!”Melika draws San’s attention back, regarding him seriously. “He was ditched by his girlfriend,” she whispers - stage whispers - conspiratorially.San’s eyes widen, already anticipating the thinly veiled fight he’s become a pawn in, but the guy just huffs.“Don’t listen to her. She likes to cause trouble.” Twisting her head, Melika sticks out her tongue at him. San took the man for quite a serious character, but he returns the gesture, somehow more childishly. “I’m Keya, by the way.”He doesn’t stand to greet San, but his smile is friendly, and San is actually grateful not to be overwhelmed further.“Santiago,” he replies. “Just call me San, though.”“Will do,” Keya responds breezily. Then he twists in place, kicking his socked feet up on the coffee table. “We up for a movie, or?”“No one’s gonna spoil Friday The Thirteenth for you if you don’t watch it in the next ten seconds,” Melika rejoins, eyebrows raised. Keya scowls.The two of them begin a ping-pong game of light-hearted insults, which San phases out in favour of looking around. It feels wrong to be privy to their affectionate back-and-forth, though he knows they wouldn’t do it in his presence if they really didn’t want him to hear it.It’s a small, kind of scrappy place. It displays some of the same issues as the downstairs, and more: a weirdly shaped room, a scarcity of windows, bricks from the outside wall poking through in places like the builders couldn’t be bothered to cover them all up. A bit like San’s apartment. Where it differs is the personality evident in it. Whoever lives here must own the place, because San’s landlord would never allow him to hang up posters and polaroids or to use the enormous stereo system crammed into a corner or, presumably, to paint the walls in stunning patterns reminiscent of tattoo designs, white on black.Perhaps it feels illicit not because it breaks so many of the rules San has to follow, but also because it’s his tween vision of a den of debauchery. Packets of fatty, processed snacks and various bottles of alcohol smother a coffee table, jackets are strewn and feet kicked up on tables and sofas, various horror titles scattered on the stubby table upon which sits a chunky, ancient box TV wired heavily to a CD-player below.As far as his adult self is concerned, however, it’s pleasantly tame. If no one pulls out a ouija board, he might just survive this.“D’you want some snacks?” comes Aly’s soft voice, reeling him back.He buffers, but she waits easily. She’s dressed in her usual pastels and breezy summer tones in spite of the holiday they’re supposed to be commemorating, and it’s comforting.“Sure,” he agrees, finally. Telling himself he’ll just have one. “One can’t hurt,” he consolidates aloud, hoping that Aly, or anyone who hears, will peer pressure him out of going back on his word.“A drink?” Melika calls, putting a break in her conversation with Keya.Shifting uncomfortably under their shared gazes, San shakes his head, but no one presses the matter. The rambunctious two just return to their conversation, and Aly beckons him. He feels pleasantly warmer for it.He follows Aly to a sofa adjacent to the one occupied by Melika and Keya: still chattering, no longer bickering. The stormy material is rough and there are some tears in the skin that seem almost artistic, but San’s clothes nullify the problem. What he can’t combat is the exceptional sponginess, such that he’s almost swallowed by the cushion as he plops himself down, none the wiser. He jerks and yelps quietly, imagining, despite his best efforts, that the chair really is going to erupt with arms and seize him - like the scene in Ghostbusters!. A movie that left him scarred as a child, quite frankly.But no such thing happens, and San flushes as Aly bursts with a giggle. Though she apologises a moment later, to which San apologises, locking them in a stalemate until she utilises the reach of one willowy arm to drag a lidless tin towards her over the table, without breaking eye contact, and presents its contents to him, finally releasing them.San gasps, peering with wonder at the creations therein. The bodies of the cupcakes are concealed by cute wrappers, orange or black printed with patterns of cats or candies; but the truly eye-catching aspect is without a doubt the decoration: witches hats made from frosting and shavings of white chocolate, bats made from oreos, freakishly detailed pumpkins with stems and a few curling tendrils.“They’re so cute!” he exclaims before he can think of anything better to say. “Where did you get these?”Aly is quiet a little too long, so he looks up to find her refusing to meet his eye.“I made them,” she admits.Though he works in her shop, the majority of their time together is spent… well, working. In all honesty, though they’re well-acquainted, San doesn’t know much about Aly. Which is why they can launch for the first time now into an overly excited conversation about baking.Considering they’re a group of five, San half-expected that there would be a third wheel at some point. He just didn’t imagine for a moment that it wouldn’t be him. Their effervescent exchange dies down for the first time when Aly insists on fetching some water to soothe San’s throat after an embarrassing coughing fit induced by crumbs - leaving San to observe automatically the three others on the couch perpendicular. Jae drops a comment here and there, but it’s mostly Keya and Melika engaged in a breathless back and forth, jabbing and making each other laugh.Were his expression not always bare, San would almost say that Jae looks dejected. Defeated.He would be even less likely to express that his heart aches upon observing this. But that doesn’t mean it’s not the case.“Jae,” he calls, softly, across the space. Before he can really think it through. To his horror, all conversation ceases.It’s a nightmare - many eyes on him - albeit smaller-scale than the ones that actually taunt him at night. But he finds that it doesn’t matter as much as the way Jae perks up, boring holes in San’s skull with impassive interest. San swallows.“Wanna sit with me?”Silence. Then a high school-worthy eruption into giggles hidden behind hands, even a wolf whistle as Jae rises to his feet. San’s cheeks heat though he knows they’re just teasing, and he ducks his head as though that will dispel the attention.But it actually does. Melika and Keya turn away and resume their chatter, a steady background noise, and the tickle of Aly’s attention ceases. Although San doesn’t have time to feel grateful because the couch is dipping lower as Jae settles next to him.Not too close. But close enough to throw an arm around his shoulder if he wanted. As it stands, he sits slouched, fingers intertwined but otherwise still, while San’s itch to fiddle with the many buckles on his trousers. He’s stripped away his jacket and his arms are on display, this time hidden at the shoulder by a t-shirt, but still. San eyes the frankly terrifying bicep stretching the sleeve a mere few inches away before his eyes drift past to read the print above the rather gory depiction on the front of his tee: Metallica.By some instinct, San’s eyes find the wall. Tacked there is a Metallica poster.San frowns at Jae, who freezes somehow further than he had while San stared. His tongue nearly tangles itself, but he recognises that going through with the question poised there is his best bet for getting out of the situation relatively unscathed.“Is this your place?”Jae remains stock still. Leading San, reasonably, to assume that he was incorrect.“Oh, sorry. I just thought…”“No, it is mine,” Jae objects quickly. “I’ve lived here for about a year.” He chuckles for a second or two before falling silent.“It’s pretty convenient to live above your workplace,” San muses, smiling. Trying to salvage the mess he’s made. “My landlord would never let me hang posters up in case I ruined the paint.” It’s San’s turn to laugh, nervously - realising how passive-aggressive that sounded. “I just mean…your boss must be kind.”Jae frowns. The time afforded to San to contemplate how exactly he’s messed up stretches on as he considers.Drawing up, crossing his arms, attracting San’s eye to the minute movement of an extraneous zipper, Jae admits, “I own the place, actually.”San blinks. “You own it? What about the parlour?”Ducking his head, Jae sheepishly admits, “That too.”San is stunned into silence, a rare and momentous occasion, but it doesn’t last. Of his many questions - how old is Jae? Is he some kind of prodigy, or famous? Is he a rich kid, after all? - one takes the lead:“How did you land this place?”His awe is evident, and he doesn’t mind it. He’ll openly admire anyone who succeeds in their dream, in the way San unfortunately hasn’t.“I inherited it,” Jae admits. Rich kid it is, then. Until he adds, “The owner left it to me when he died early last year.”“Oh.” San blinks, feeling like a bumbling fool. “Were you two close?”Slowly, Jae nods. “I guess… I’ve worked here a few years and he was just old and tired and didn’t know what to do with it - no family.”While San ponders this, he spots a hand placing the forgotten glass of water on the coffee table. Sure enough, Aly is there, and immediately San is shot with guilt. He left her out of that totally.Thankfully, her smile is amused, watching them as she breezes past. “Time to set up the movie,” she states simply, perhaps to dispel the myriad of apologies she can probably tell San is about to explode into. He still wants to redeem himself, but lets her go.San looks back at Jae and they exchange awkward smiles, conversation crushed. It doesn’t matter much in the end, because Aly makes good on her word and puts in the disc within the minute, after fetching herself a refill of water. Then she flicks off the lights and takes her place at Melika’s side, the two of them curling into each other, while Keya kicks his feet up on their laps and lies back in the remaining space.Consigning San and Jae to the other couch, he realises.He can’t help but glance nervously at his seatmate. It’s dark and Jae’s eyes are slightly hooded, but even so they drink in the light of the unskippable disclaimers, easily betraying the heartbeat for which he glances down at San’s lips.Had San blinked, he would have missed it.He almost wishes he had, because now he’s wiping instinctively at his mouth and wondering with dread whether he had crumbs there this whole time and Jae was too polite to say anything.Jae is shifting uncomfortably now, San’s errors piling up, and he quickly twists to face the screen and leave the poor guy in peace. Whoever has the remote has pressed play already, the screen dark as it opens on the first scene, whatever sound there may be overridden by Keya’s insistent shushing in the wake of whatever comment Melika loudly made and Aly’s ensuing laughter, finishing up with a yelp. Jae readjusts himself, and San feels an arm weighing upon the cushion behind his back.Quickly, he forces his attention towards the screen. The opening scene is darkly lit. Some strange handheld perspective following a brief flash of some young people singing.San hasn’t seen many horror movies, and for a reason. But it doesn’t take him long to identify, even with the hopeful denial creeping up his side on a wave of goosebumps, that he’s watching one. No slashing or screaming necessary - but he knows it’s coming.Shit. He wants to get up and leave.Well, not really. He’s suddenly, irrationally terrified that he’ll end up as the first victim in the horror movie he’s unknowingly a part of. Rather, he wants to ask them to pause so he can collect himself and stage an escape, but just the thought is humiliating. How does he explain that he didn’t realise they’d be watching scary movies at their Halloween get-together until now? How does he go about this without making a fool of himself or ruining anyone else’s immersion? He can’t, so he grits his teeth - which want desperately to chatter, however embarrassing that is - and holds his peace.The first death hits, and he knows it’s coming, but still he flinches. More in anticipation of what’s to come than what’s actually occurring on screen. The second victim-to-be’s screams have him jerking so violently he falls back against Jae’s side, and it’s then that his blood at last runs cold.Pressed together, he’s privy to Jae’s petrifaction, the weave of his tensed muscles as surely solid as stone. San thinks he must have lapdified similarly, but he’s too distracted by the deliriant rush of blood to his face to tell.Semi-awareness isn’t enough to unstick him from Jae’s side. He stays firm, but for his minute trembles, and tries not to return his attention to the screen. He’s unsuccessful. A small jumpscare, and he’ll try to bury his face in Jae’s shoulder - imminent disaster he’s powerless to prevent.His shoulders drop when something presses on them, but otherwise he remains. Lucky, else he might have run screaming from what he realises is just Jae’s arm. Tugging him closer, curling protectively to graze just below his clothed collarbone. San exhales shakily and presses voluntarily into his side. A moment later, Jae is grabbing his hand, and San accepts that, too. He squeezes too hard, perhaps, but Jae holds his peace.Together, they weather the onslaught for an indeterminate period of time. San keeps waiting, hoping for a reprieve, but it seems like non-stop violence. He reacts strongly to every death, wondering endlessly how the others can bear this. There’s more to this than bloodshed, he knows, but it’s all he sees. Still, he endures.Until one particularly gruesome death, this one especially cruel, and he can’t anymore. He turns and hides his face in Jae’s chest.He remembers that he’s crossed a social boundary only when Jae jerks, before ripping away altogether. He gapes up at Jae’s towering silhouette with an infinitely more tangible sense of horror - pooling, gelid, at the base of his spine and devouring - as he realises he’s ruined it all.When Jae’s hand snatches his and he’s tugged from his seat, San actually whimpers - but it’s lost to the sounds of slaughter. Suddenly an apt soundtrack to his mental turmoil. Still, he allows Jae to lead him, already attempting to formulate an apology that doesn’t come off as insincere in its intensity, however much he means every bit of grovelling. The words die on his tongue, however, as he’s pulled in a wide berth past the entranceway.Jae draws him into another room. Swiftly shutting the door behind them - marginally dulling the racket - and flicking the light switch.At first, it’s all San can do to blink away the spots bursting, like the flesh of exotic fruits, over his vision. But they clear to reveal a messy bedroom, which San roams keenly with his feet planted fast.A crumpled quilt messily draped and two misshapen pillows, all clad in black, dress a bed pressed against the far wall. A wall oversaturated almost comically with band posters tattered at the edges, and a mostly empty pinboard. To San’s right is an uncomfortable-looking chair - no table - in which there is thankfully no chance of sitting, on account of the piles of papers stacked atop it, some of which having already spilled, in strings of entrails, onto the floor. The visible ones are filled with various drawings - actually filled: economically packed with designs all drawn in different orientations to fit - and he’d hedge a bet that the others are, too. There’s a set of drawers, the lip of the second drawer jutted out in a perpetual pout on account of the clothes spilling out and dripping over the edge, the arm of one shirt stretching for the stormy grey carpet like a grasping hand. It could almost be sold as a modern art piece depicting the agony of the human condition.Also featured inside the room is Jae. Because this is probably his bedroom. And San probably shouldn’t have gawked at it so unabashedly.“Sorry,” Jae blurts. San requires a moment to register that the word didn’t come from his own mouth. “I wasn’t expecting to have anyone in here so I didn’t clean,” San doesn’t miss the way he inches towards the chest of drawers, though he can’t be sure whether it’s an attempt to obscure the carelessly stuffed clothes or the used cups stacked on top, “but I promise it’s not usually like this.”There’s much to take away from this, but above all in San’s inquisitive mind it invites a single question: why is he here?When it clicks, he almost melts.“Oh. It’s fine. Really, just… Thanks, Jae.”It’s characteristically all over the place, but Jae seems to get it. San wonders whether he’s become used to San’s jumbled speech or whether his sincerity simply shines through, in the split second he has before Jae’s dazzling smile is knocking the breath from his lungs.It’s not broad or attention-grabbing, by any means. Just a bashful little thing, accompanied by a hand rubbing at the back of his head, but so earnest it couldn’t possibly be ignored. He’s pretty, San realises again. In the analytical, fascinated way he first discovered the beauty of deep space photography. The enormity of what he’s seeing hasn’t quite caught up with him yet, but for now he can appreciate it as a detached observation.“Yeah, no problem.”They lapse into quiet, the clamour of the movie feeling interminably distant, but it’s not truly uncomfortable. San’s discomfort stems from the unwanted reminder of his embarrassing behaviour, which has him scrambling to make a comment about the electric guitar he notices leant against the drawers.“Do you play?”As though drawn by some magnetism, Jae’s eyes snap instinctively to the instrument. Black but painted boldly in white and red - wings and hearts and even a skull, all very emo in style. His face flushes anew, an expeditious process which San observes with fascination, but he nods.“Yeah… I used to play a lot more, before I inherited the shop, but I still play with Kay and Mel…”San raises both eyebrows. “That kind of sounds like you’re in a band.”He doesn’t exactly expect Jae to avert his eyes and confirm, “Yeah, you could call it that,” but he lights up regardless.“Really? That’s so cool!” Jae’s head snaps up, hanging onto his every word, which might unnerve him into silence were his mouth not already running. “Definitely cooler than when I played violin in the school orchestra.”“Violin? That’s cool.”It’s San’s turn to blush. Before Jae can preconceive any notions, San admits, “I was never good at it. But my parents told me I should at least try playing with a group since the opportunity was there.” He thinks they thought he’d make some friends. It didn’t work out in the end, but he still appreciates the attempt in hindsight; now that time has dulled the fear and embarrassment he felt playing in front of others and being relied on to do something he wasn’t great at.Jae, thankfully, doesn’t press the matter. San half-expected he’d insist he must have been great, but he doesn’t. It does prime them for another awkward lapse, though. San’s eyes flit around for something to fill the space, instinctively following Jae’s nervous little glance and finding his eyes landing on the bed.Ah.It’s juvenile, and yet San can relate to it. Perhaps missing out as a teenager on the experience of worrying about having another person in his bedroom and the messages it might send has left him immature. He sure feels it when his face heats up, averting his eyes before Jae can notice but unfortunately being sucked straight into the stream of Jae’s eyes.They stare off in a motionless, blushing affair and San can’t help, for a split second, imagining what would happen if Jae kissed him. He doesn’t especially want to kiss, but he can’t help considering the prospect.A cough breaks the spell, Jae ducking into his elbow to contain it. Resetting them, the atmosphere, such that he can straighten up and smile lopsidedly - boyish and awkward and charming. His posture opens up, bringing San’s attention to the fact that it was closed before. Has always been closed. He’s still stiff as anything, but something has changed.“The others will probably be watching movies until early morning,” Jae comments. Wringing his hands before stuffing them in his pockets, unwonted movement. “They might take a break in between but…”Oh. He’s being kicked out. For his own good, but it’s not what he expected. Still, he can’t blame Jae for not wanting some guy he’s conversed with a handful of times sheltering inside his bedroom.“I don’t want to bail so early,” San admits, worrying his lip. “Do you think they’ll be mad if I leave?”He’s not sure what prompted the honest question, and Jae’s face blanks like he wasn’t expecting it. Slowly, he replies, “No. Not at all. They’ll understand.”Gratefully, San nods. Honestly, he can’t imagine Aly holding it against him, and the others seem nice, as well. The real problem is that he doesn’t want to leave at all, wants to communicate this somehow in the hopes that he’ll be invited again. But he just can’t watch those movies and he can’t ask them to stop on his account, either.With a sigh he hopes conveys all this, San concedes, “I guess I’ll get going, then.”Jae’s face is carefully neutral, which worries San.“Thanks for the refuge,” San jokes, which only prompts a tiny, deliberate twitch of Jae’s lips.Head down, figurative tail between his legs, San surrenders and reaches for the doorknob.“I could walk you home,” Jae says suddenly. If San couldn’t recognise an outburst despite the multiple that leak from him every day, he thinks there would be no hope for him. He just wonders what caused this one.Jae is standing at his full height, stock still but poised as if prepared to chase after San, bunched up like a crouching big cat. San’s eyes widen further, his heart uncertain whether to flutter as discreetly as possible or hammer with anxiety.“Are you sure? You’ll miss the movies…”“Yes,” Jae agrees quickly. Stunning San into silence again. But he loosens up a little, shoulders hunching and fingers prodding the insides of his pockets. “It’s no problem. I’ve seen them all before. Keya is just having this phase where he’s all about vintage and retro, and he’s been watching all these old classics and…” He cuts off his rambling abruptly. “I… want to walk you home.”Oh.Maybe San’s world slows a little. Just a tiny bit, though there’s not much point of reference besides the rise and fall of Jae’s chest. And that’s just the thing. A confession breathed between just the two of them. Something that has San feeling so overwhelmingly special he could almost cry. Perhaps he shouldn’t feel special, shouldn’t read into it, but Jae is watching him, awaiting his response with this edge of suspense, and he does.“Thank you,” San whispers. “I’d love that, I think.”Jae doesn’t sag with relief. Or overflow with a radiant smile. Nothing so dramatic. But his corded muscles disentangle themselves and his lips twitch, and twitch until they’re ticking upward.The moment breaks quickly, gone at once like a popped bubble, and Jae seems mildly troubled by something.“I just need… to...”He skims a puffy coat from atop the mess on the floor - from which the keychain dangles still - and pulls it on. He easily skips the few steps between them, perhaps overestimating the distance, and lingers where there are only inches between them.Then he breaks away like a jerking marionette, smiling tensely and reaching for the handle to pull the door open.The light streaming from his room is the only thing illuminating the body of the apartment besides the TV, which thankfully isn’t showing any horrific images as of this moment.Infinitely more horrifying is the way it pauses in an instant, and three heads are turning to fix shadowed and owlish eyes upon the two of them in the doorway.Mutually, the two parties stare. Masterfully simulating a Wild West showdown as San imagines it. He expects to be blown back by a shot to the gut at any moment, and imagines that would likely be preferable.Melika speaks first:“Hey, Jae. We noticed you’d stepped out.” The light is sufficient for her eyes to sparkle. “What’s up with that?”“Yeah, Jae,” Keya agrees. “What could possibly make you ditch your bestest friends in the whole wide world?”Aly is attempting to push her laughter back with her hand, while the other two grin shamelessly and shark-like, having finished their piece. Just letting them flounder.A step in front of him, Jae is taking the brunt of the attention. San thinks it’s commendable that he fish-mouths only briefly, without sputtering or conjuring a garbled mess of attempted words.“San was feeling sick so I took him aside. I’m taking him home now.”San appreciates the more flattering lie.Unfortunately, it is blatantly a lie.Prompting a two-person chorus of wolf whistles, supplemented by restrained giggling, which pursues them as Jae presses his hand to the middle of San’s back - a ghost of a touch - and guides him out the door.They escape down the stairs with shoes in hand and with Jae’s hand still searing a brand into his skin. Shockingly warm, drawing a sharp contrast, even though San would wager that his face is hot enough to evaporate any sweat which tries to cool it. The contact is pleasant, soothing, but not enough to assuage his embarrassment.He knows they were only teasing, but still. Him and Jae? Maybe Jae is walking him home now, and maybe he let him take shelter in his bedroom, and maybe they shared something San might tentatively call a moment, but that doesn’t have to come from a place beyond simple kindness. He misjudged Jae, and this is the universe’s way of making him realise. He’s not standoffish, just awkward, like San himself, and he shouldn’t have let his negative experiences poison his impression of this stranger.Is he a stranger anymore? San hopes Jae doesn’t think so.They make it outside, somehow - Jae procuring a key from somewhere. Engulfed suddenly by the night air, San shivers. Drawing Jae’s suffocating attention and prompting him to reclaim and caress the vulnerable skin of his middle back with swipes of his warm thumb. Then release it with a little jump, fumbling air for an extended moment before he stuffs it in his pocket, puffing out a silent breath which stains and makes itself known to San.Even in the half light, Jae’s cheeks are rosy. They’ve only just stepped outside, so it can’t be the chill.San tries not to read into it. He really does. He almost convinces himself that it’s just Jae’s complexion. But a small, clandestine piece remains. A pesky seed poised to germinate with the slightest ray of hope.Not that he’s hopeful.They’re just standing around now, he realises. Jae has already locked the door behind them, there’s nothing binding them here, but they’re not moving. Panic rises; has he changed his mind? What has San done to cause this? How can he change it back?“So, where’s your place?”They stare. Right. San needs to lead the way.With any luck, Jae will mistake the darkening of San’s cheeks for an effect of the cold. Hence why San judiciously ducks his head in an attempt to hide his face and rotates a full, natural ninety degrees to begin the journey.Jae, sweet as he is, hurries to fall into step and attempts to catch a glimpse of his face, brows furrowed at the edge of San’s vision like he yearns to determine what’s wrong, and San just flushes darker.“It’s not far. Closer than Green Bean, actually,” he comments with a strained voice. Coughing into his elbow to clear it, he lies, “Might be coming down with a cold, sorry. At least the others will think you were telling the truth.”In his mindless narration of his thoughts, San barely even registered that he’d told a joke. The light-tipped huffing comes as a shock and draws the beginnings of an uncertain smile to his face - a smile he tries to restrain. He’s not quite sure whether he’s being laughed with or at, whether he’s going to break some careful balance by being pleased with the reception.He can’t give it too much thought, because Jae’s laugh is so pretty. Soft and furtive like he thinks he needs permission, syrupy like his voice. Almost resembling the airy jingle of the bell above the door at the shop, transporting San to an environment thick with the scent of nectar and a far cry from the chill nipping at his nose, where that bell first announced the presence of the man perfectly matching his stride now.
Jae turns to look at him, his expression clouding until the mirth from moments ago is a lost memory, and San’s grin fades in turn.His eyes fall to Jae’s throat when it bobs. “Would you prefer that?” he asks. Licks his lips, faces forwards, and supplements unhelpfully, “If they thought that?”It’s a loaded question. Clearly. The weight of which San isn’t sure he’s entirely getting. He studies Jae’s face for an answer, breaking away only when Jae has to seize his arm to pull him from the path of a man striding with purpose. His grip releases with a tentative apology after an extended moment, both of them turning to watch the man whipping past without a backwards glance; but it leaves a lasting impression on San’s skin beneath his coat. Shuddering, he wets his cracking lips and tries to remember what it is he’s supposed to be answering.“I don’t know,” he muses honestly, abandoning his attempt to pre-formulate a coherent response. “You did a kind thing, something I appreciate, and that’s what matters. I don’t really mind what they think.”Like life itself, they trundle on, ducking against the slice of a cold breeze, but Jae is silent. San looks - and finds his reflection, swimming in some inexplicable emotion encased within the most beautifully dark eyes, glittering with the many lights of the highstreet. The stars are obscured; there’s a readied rant about light pollution which San could launch into at a moment’s notice if prompted - but not now. Not in this moment. This moment where the breath is knocked from his body, a pale wisp swallowed by the air around, as he marvels what could by no artistic stretch be described as galaxies. Platinum, twinkling - a microcosm of the cosmos.Jae breaks away first. San lingers a little longer. Swallowing heavily, hanging out for another glimpse, but following Jae’s lead when he decides he’s crossed over into rudeness.The evidence of the season is blatant all around: pumpkins perched on windowsills, stickers of spiders and black cats peering through shop windows, a fake skeleton propped in the window seat of a barbershop they pass - even the smell of something spiced and cinnamon. It’s obviously October, so really San should have had the foresight to dress more warmly. Yet here he is with nothing but a sweater and a relatively thin coat to shield him, the occasional gusts of wind slicing through him like sprays of bullets.Shivering madly, it’s all he can do to keep his teeth from chattering. Jae, on the other hand, manages to pause the motion in one fell swoop by pressing into his side.The world doesn’t change drastically. They’re still trudging down a city street abuzz with excitement for the coming season, a small troupe of people in costumes even skipping past them, the increasingly insistent wind whipping against all inadvisably exposed ears. Jae is a soothing presence against him, the only source of warmth battling against the elements. The contact is minimal, their coats restricting most exchange of heat, but the difference it makes lies in the work it does to thaw San from the inside, his blood warming and heart swelling. Which makes it all the more bitter when a moment later he has to tug on Jae’s sleeve to pull him to a halt.“This is me,” San admits tentatively. He catches the tailend of terror in Jae’s eyes as he turns, but it’s gone in an instant. Leaving them in some delicate but not unpleasant stasis, like two people perfectly balancing a seesaw.Neither of them wants to get off first.“Come- Come out the cold,” San blurts, grabbing Jae’s hand like his verbal impulsiveness has extended to his body now, too. Hastily procuring his keycard by some miracle and towing Jae past the entrance door with more self-assurance than he really possesses.It’s not warm inside. But it’s out of the elements - shut off when the door falls closed behind them, sealing them in some pocket of irreality. So maybe San drops Jae’s hand a tick too slowly - flashing with fear that his skin might be sweaty, though he doesn’t think he could muster a drop if a gun were held to his head - but that can be blamed on the strangely stagnant atmosphere.Likewise, they linger in repose. Sizing each other up, wondering who will take it upon themself to break away. At least, San does. He can’t speak for Jae. He shouldn’t assume that Jae is thinking the same as he is. Oh, no, has he been making assumptions this whole time?No, screw that - he can’t spiral right now. This moment is so delicate that it crushes the urge like a grape, and San almost feels like floating in its absence.“Thank you for walking me home.”San’s voice is a few decibels above a stage whisper. The air around them swallows it like a hungry thing, coinciding with the delayed bob of Jae’s throat.“It was nothing. I’m sorry you had to leave early.”Despite himself, San soaks up the concern. The validation. The sense that his discomfort isn’t something to apologise for, but rather to receive apologies for, though neither is really true.“It’s fine. I had a good time.”Their murmured conversation feels juvenile, but not in a negative sense. It feels like whispered words at a sleepover to avoid waking parents in the next room, like the budding of a first ever crush at a time when love is a rumoured concept - a novel, grown-up postulation one pretends to understand to feel adult.All of a sudden, San is questioning whether he actually does understand it. Not whether he’s ever felt it - he knows that he hasn’t - but whether he really, truly comprehends the abstraction at all.“Good night, San,” Jae breathes. San blinks rapidly. He can’t begin to guess how much time passed in the interim.“Good night,” he agrees, though he doesn’t want to bring an end to this delicate balance they have, or to this night. Still, he watches passively as Jae hesitates, aborting a twist of his body toward the door, before he renews it and begins to pick his way there.San watches him go, and wonders how he feels about it. Upon reaching the exit, Jae pauses, and turns to look over his shoulder.A beat passes.And then, at once, as one, they share tiny, secret little smiles. Something solely for two.Ten seconds later, each of them counted by the steady beat of San’s heart, Jae is gone.Gradually, San unsticks himself from his place and approaches the elevator. Presses the button for the third floor and waits with a patience that feels infinite. There, holding the gaze of his blotted reflection in the dulled metal doors, he shares a smile just for himself.