of good mornings and don't let gos
ChunJoe ; PG-13
Los Angeles, circa 2012
Honestly speaking, he's tried his best to avoid this guy ever since their first encounter. He just wishes that the music was a bit louder and that he was a little more drunk when it happened, though, because maybe they would have actually gotten along then. He likes to think he's open minded, but he doesn't quite know how to deal with someone-- a guy-- who hits on him the first time they meet. But here he is, the morning after a night he can't remember, eating breakfast across the table from the very same person he's been trying to avoid and the situation is awkward at best. He dumps his sixth packet of sugar and cream into his cup of coffee, though that doesn't alleviate the taste.
"So what happened last night?"
He could have sworn he went home with a girl last night, though, he remembers slender arms around him and he remembers putting his arms arms around a tiny waist, remembers the scent of sweet perfume and how pretty she looked even through his hazy eyesight. But now that he takes another look at the male in front of him, (Chan..shee? Chanyong? Chun-- ah, fuck it, something with a C, he can't remember) he realizes that he really does have all the makings of a really pretty girl (not that he'd ever say that out loud) and maybe he was just mistaken last night. C-man (as he'd so cleverly dubbed him in his head) only shrugs at the question after he takes a sip of his drink.
"You cried all over me and wouldn't let me leave-- something about not leaving you behind to go to Seoul."
Fuck, he can't believe he'd done something so embarrassing, and in front of a complete stranger, no less. He wants to melt into a puddle of nothing, wishing his drilling headache would dissolve him until he gets mopped up and cleaned away, never to be seen again. But unfortunately for him, it doesn't happen, and he's left trying to cover up the embarrassment he feels pooling up in the heats of his cheeks and ignoring the pointed (and almost judging-- probably judging) look from the other male. "Look, I'm sorry you had to see all that-- Chan..shee?" he blurts out the closest to his name he can remember. "But I can promise you it won't happen again. We can just put this behind us, yeah?" He swears he sees a look of disappointment flash in the other male's eyes, but it's gone in an instant and he doesn't know if he imagines the whole thing or not.
"It's Chanhee. And okay, but you can at least pay for breakfast since you put me through all that trouble. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
--
But it does happen again, again and again and again after he promises that it'll be the last time one after the other. It'd always be when he's at that point of inebriation where his feelings claw at him raw and unbridled, of how thoughts like he hates himself, hates this city and hates this life come bubbling up to the surface. He doesn't even know how long he cries, but there's always a cup of hot coffee waiting for him when he wakes up in the morning, and a pair of pretty, worried eyes staring down at him. He doesn't know how he can ever repay him.
"Who's Tiffany?" he finally asks one day, but Byunghun has no words for him. He couldn't begin to explain her in words if he wanted to. "Did she leave you? Did you guys break up? What's the story here?" He presses on, but he can only sigh in return, because as reluctant he is to talk about it, Chanhee probably deserves to know at least that much. He's been told he mumbles the name in his sleep a lot.
"Breaking up implies that we were actually together in the first place." he replies when he finally finds his voice, albeit a little cracked and hoarse. Cold fingertips pad against the warm surface of his mug, coffee steaming as they catch a glimpse of the sun rising up from the balcony. Despite his first impression, Chanhee's not such a bad guy, he finds. He even lets him hit on him now, and he grows not to mind it at all.
"Why don't you just go after her, then?"
The suggestion is so simple, yet the thought had never occurred to him-- why not leave behind everything he hates and start anew? Why not go out to try and find her? Surely it can't be too late to fix his mistake, the mistake of not telling her he loved her when he still could. But he finds the answer when he glances to the side, at the other male who's also looking out to the sunset, hues of golden orange dancing good mornings against his skin as he emits this warm, familiar aura around him; he realizes that maybe everything is a bit of a stretch-- he doesn't hate it all, because he certainly doesn't hate him.
"Maybe I will." But maybe I'll stay behind just a bit longer, and for the first time in a while, he feels the corners of his lips tug up into a smile.
--
A/N: i have no clue what i just wrote pls forgive me I'm being a little feels-y lately