“What would your order be?”

A waiter in monochrome shades stood in wait, a small notepad in hand. Seokjin read the simple label against black that Yoongi overlooked with a lazy glance. The waiter’s smile was placid, patient, too patient for a Monday afternoon at 12 when even the sun seemed too lazy to break through veils of clouds.

“Chef’s pick then.” Because Mondays were lacklustre, filled with traces of a bitter end and the clinging memories of snipped red threads. Yoongi couldn’t care much for the flavour of the food slipping through his throat, flour, butter and eggs was what all cakes were at the end of the day.

A nod and the waiter disappeared behind a wooden door being shut close, revealing only glimpses of mixing bowls and flour and dough in neat arrays.

Yoongi found his fingers closing around the pen on the tabletop, fingers letting the thin plastic casing roll between the empty gaps of his fingers. The pen was stilled, tip tracing letters and notes linked to half moon eyes and front teeth barely peeking above red lips.

No Min Yoongi, it isn’t worth your time.

The pen was uncapped, ink flowing across white plastic.

Because Mondays are memories, an ending that hasn’t been completed.

“Here’s the cake of the day, Monday Yellows.” A clinking of porcelain as a ceramic plate was placed before him.

“Real creative isn’t he? Your chef. Thanks anyways.”

“He’s... creative, yes. He requested you finish the slice though. I hope you enjoy it.” And the placid smile disappeared behind the counter once more, hands busying over coffee lids and flavoured syrup pumps.

Yoongi took another look at the soft yellow, sponge base and the drizzled caramel and he found a slight chuckle escaping his lips.

Yellow. Who the hell names their cake Monday Yellows?

But he found his fingers dropping the pen for a spoon, a portion cut away from the slice and dropped onto his tongue.

Yellow. The cake was yellow.

Yellow in the way it was airy and light, yellow in the way the caramel was condensed rays of sunlight in sugar, yellow in the way it filled you with expectation.

As the traces of crumbs and melted sugar were wiped clean, Yoongi noticed a tiny slip of paper peeking from beneath the ceramic, half-curves and lines of messy script visible. He withdrew the note, easily grasping the content in a quick scan.

“It seemed like you were having the Monday Blues so I thought it might be a good idea to cheer up with yellow instead. Keep smiling! P.S. I hope the sugar in the caramel wasn’t too thick. Caramel is a good topping don’t you think? The way you create it accidentally by dumping it in the oven with sugar. I think it’s an amazing topping J

-Your anonymous chef”

And Yoongi found a slow smile breaking across his lips in sheer amusement, fingers slipping the note into a pocket subconsciously. A thank-you was thrown in the direction of the counter as glass doors swung open into the street, slow, slanting rays of light through thick white lighting up patches of cement.

*~*

Tuesday was marked by the banging of glass doors, the steady chime of metal amidst empty chairs and the steady thrum of beans being ground.

“Welcome! But please refrain from breaking the front door or you’ll be tasting skate in your cake.” The ever melodic lilt in the waiter’s tone didn’t seem to have disappeared eliciting a slight, lopsided tug of Yoongi’s lips as he walked towards the same seat he had occupied the day before. The chair was dragged out, chalk being dragged against board, before he took a seat, chin resolutely planted upon a propped palm.

“Chairs too. But you might have vinegar used in place of syrup in your coffee for the chairs. What would you like today?”

The waiter was by his table once more, soft, brown orbs still patient, cheeks still lifted as he smiled calmly.

“Let your chef’s creative juices spill. Pass me whatever he’s got today.” A nod and Seokjin had left to slip behind solid wood and soundproof walls.

Sharp tongue, hastily spilt words over open wounds, mixing with red and clear liquid.

His fingers found the pen on the table easily, briefly taking note that the note from the day before had yet to be erased, dried black a stark scar against white.

Tuesdays are failed beginnings, feet catching and tripping upon the first few rungs of a ladder.

He turned, sight catching on the translucent image looking back, a multitude of colours defining the boundaries of his reflection.

Short phrases, cut fragments of glass, swift steps taken to escape.

And he thought that just maybe he should have reconsidered bland syllables, forceful pushes of strained red strings. He had a habit of speaking without considering, of insisting without understanding. And he supposed it was that very habit that had pushed away warm smiles and familiar tugs on his hands.

“He called it Strawberry Avalanche. It’s your call to judge its validity.”

Yoongi turned his gaze towards the tabletop, a simple thank-you murmured beneath his breath. There was simple shortbread on ceramic, sliced red strawberries simple adornment.

The strawberry is understandable but where’s the avalanche?

He still picked up the spoon though, still scooped up a sizeable portion and in his hurry or possibly because of the dregs of frustration pent up in muscle, he jammed the spoon into his mouth. The piece broke against his tongue, crumbs melting within seconds into a tasteless mix. There was a momentary pause, confused creases forming between his brows.

How the hell did he manage to screw up baking in the span of 24 hours?

That was just about when he noticed a triangle of blue, peeking from beneath the porcelain plate in the exact orientation as it had been the day before. Yoongi drew out the note carefully, unfolding the solid creases in the paper that held messy blue handwriting identical to that on the paper resting in his pocket. It read rather simply.

“Ok, so I decided maybe a mound of shortbread wasn’t the best idea so the avalanche isn’t very obvious is it? But the shortbread should still crumble really easily if I got it right, kinda like snow in an avalanche. Tip: Don’t eat the cake too fast or everything will fall apart before you can taste it.

P.S. Eat it with the strawberries! They’re sour but they make the shortbread last longer.

P.P.S Erm, don’t take this wrong but the strawberries kinda look red like your lips haha. Sort of. Yeah.

P.P.S Enjoy!

-Your anonymous chef ;)”

Yoongi found inadvertent laughter spilling from his lips, the frown previously creasing his forehead easily wiped away.

Whoever this chef is, he’s got guts. And a weird as heck sense of humour heh.

This time the shortbread was slowly consumed, a mix of sweet butter and sour strawberries just as was indicated and as the door was opened once more, albeit a lot more gently than before, Yoongi found himself attempting to match features and possibilities with the cheesy individual with strange names for pastry.

*~*

“You know, hiding behind the door doesn’t exactly help you with talking to a person. Maybe you should, I don’t know, walk up to him and actually talk.”

“Shut up hyung, he’s just going to think I’m weird.”

“It’s for your own good, listen to your hyung for once. Anyways, when you’re done peeking at the chair where he was sitting from behind the kitchen door, tell me. There’s a cafe to be run.”

“Hyung!”

*~*

Wednesdays were valleys, dipping points overflowing with runoff and debris.

The pen was capped tight and discarded back in the tiny box filled with post-its and stationary. Plain sheets of paper lay empty on the table, a scattered array, only barely held down at the corners by a stack of textbooks and guides that were only of any use as paperweights.

Damn it, I have work to finish, I can’t be up again tonight.

It would be his third day in a row. He really shouldn’t or Hoseok would be on his case again for another week.

Another week. Of being scolded by a dongsaeng. A kid.

No, best avoid that.

But there are always those times when your mind wanders about in its own private fields, loping off to odd corners and pulling at strings that had you doing things with no explanation or reason. This was one of those moments when thoughts were impossible to rein into any conceivable order or rationale because Yoongi really couldn’t understand why he was in the corner cafe that was at least 30 minutes away from his dorm when he could have easily slipped into a library to finish off the spare coursework or better yet, he could be sleeping. Sleeping.

He really couldn’t understand the awkward thudding in his chest either because what the heck he hadn’t even run all the way here.

But when Seokjin approached him bright smile and notepad in hand, he found his neck craning around the figure before him, towards grainy wood that served a barrier to the smell of bread baking and icing on cookies. He realised only after blinking twice that Seokjin had already left the table towards another occupant seated on the couch. He wet his lips, tongue parched with an unfamiliar taste that was very likely because he had close to no clue as to the words that had slipped off them a few seconds prior.

This didn’t make sense. It was probably the lack of sleep. And the 30 minutes wasted on unnecessary travel. Of course it was.

“And today’s slice. Are you ok? You’re zoning out. Do you want me to get you some water?” An anxious hand was shaking right in the centre of Yoongi’s vision, snapping it back into focus as he turned to the hovering figure beside him. A pair of imploring eyes met his, brows creased together in concern.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m good thanks. By the way, what’s the chef’s oh-so –creative label for this one? Let me guess. Cheesy Love.” He found his voice attempting a dead pan at odds with the belligerent quirk of his lips. Damn it, his face was acting weird today.

But Seokjin only laughed, head tipping back before righting himself to reply. “Was the cheesecake and heart a dead giveaway? I told him but yeah that’s close enough. Sea of Cheese. He was trying to be poetic. He tried.”

Sea of Cheese.

Sea of Cheese.

Right.

“Your chef keeps getting more interesting day by day. Could I possibly meet this anonymous chef?”

“Mhm hm, someday, someday.” And Yoongi was left to watch Seokjin’s receding figure, no closer to matching blue notes and messy handwriting with anything substantial other than passable baking (ok, good baking if he was being honest) and strange choices of cake.

And as the days before, he found his fingers closing around a blue post-it at the base of the plate, signed by the now-familiar blue script.

“It’s the middle of the week but don’t get too overwhelmed hyung. It’ll be over and something good’s bound to turn up! That’s why it’s cheesecake today. Hopefully the cheese isn’t too much. I might have, possibly misread the recipe and added er... too much cheese. Fighting!

~Your anonymous chef xD”

*~*

“You should just talk to him. He even asked for it.”

“No.”

“How are you ever going to make friends without hyung looking after you?”

“Eh! Stop it hyung, I just need... time that’s all.”

“If you say so.”

*~*

“Could I meet the chef today? It’s slightly unnerving to be receiving er... carefully thought out cakes from someone I’ve never met.” Yoongi was aware that his words were strangely garbled, not quite conveying the intended message, not quite translating the strange loops and knots of thoughts in his head. This was frustrating. Especially since there still was no clear rhyme or reason why he was back at the cafe for a fourth day in a row.

“Hm? Well they’re part of the chef’s recommendation of the day so no need to worry. Also, he’s slightly shy so maybe tomorrow? I’m sure he’ll eventually agree.” Seokjin sent him a placating nod, before lifting the notepad once more to indicate that it was about time Yoongi ordered.

“Right, of course. Just thought it strange s’all. In that case, let the chef recommend again. He’s not that bad at it.” An awkward laugh briefly broke through his sentence, twisting into the lopsided curve of a smirk.

His cheeks weren’t heating up at all. Why the heck would they be, it was 16 degrees everywhere. Nope, no reason to be heating up at all.

The spare moments between Seokjin’s departure behind closed doors and the setting of ceramic before him, Yoongi spent with a pen resting between his fingers, piston pressed against his finger pads in repetitive clicks. To the three other phrases already etched in black against white, he added.

Thursdays are an epithet of moments cascading from open palms, too quick, too soon.

“Sour chances and sweet beginnings. Don’t ask. I’m reading exactly what he wrote on my palm.” The plate had a single slice of crumbling yellow and brown, top cracked artfully to reveal moist cake within.

“Sure, I won’t ask but that’s a mouthful.”

“Exactly what I told him, but does he ever listen? No, of course not. But I won’t bore you any further. Enjoy.”

Yoongi found his hands completely abandon the spoon to expectantly lift up the plate, teasing out pale blue and private messages tucked away.

“I’m sorry hyung. I’ll introduce myself tomorrow, promise. Until then, the lemon drizzle should keep you awake right? It’s just slightly sour but I like the blend of sweet in it. It leaves your tongue tingling. Try it! You’ll understand what I’m talking about.

~Your anonymous chef ^_^

Despite the mysterious entity’s words, Yoongi still found the sharp sting of sour against his tongue, of missed chances and beginnings derailed. There was a slight burn as the soft crumbs slid down his throat, mild acid against his throat. His eyes narrowed further, squinting against the light upon glass panes because this doesn’t make sense, was he developing a chest burn at 21 no, he couldn’t be.

And yet, just as the note promised, he found the sizzling of zest and citrus against his tongue filling him with an odd eagerness for the next day, alert and awake to pick up the sound of drops of water hitting cement and the tick of the clock against the wall.

Yeah, it was the lack of sleep. He really wasn’t meant to leave his haven of a house. Never.

*~*

“Daily chef’s recommendation hyung? Really? It’s so easy to call out on that!”

“Don’t complain, it could have been worse.”

“And I’m not shy! I just don’t want to be mistaken for a random overly enthusiastic stranger.”

“Who goes out of his way to customise his cakes for a random stranger. Yeah that seems about right.”

“He looked sad! Hyung, this is terrible, you’re terrible.”

“Shush, you know you love me. Now get back to work.”

*~*

“Something with caffeine in it. Just... yeah. Thanks Seokjin ssi.” The name is foreign against his lips and chords but it was about time he got used to it, having seen the same 7 letters 5 days in a row.

“Of course...?” Seokjin’s brows were arced in a question, voice tapering off into a raised query.

“Yoongi.”

“Ah, Yoongi. Guess you’re a regular now. Will do, I’ll run this to the back.” The plain brown door was already swinging open, parting slightly to reveal an interior filled with trays of dough and ovens against countertops.

“Hey, wait Seokjin ssi is that kid around? Or is he too shy to come out again?”

Yoongi paused, catching onto his own words as the syllables were slowly processed.

Min Yoongi what the hell are you saying?

This, this was why he needed the caffeine.

“No, sorry about that. Maybe next time?” There’s a clatter of metal against tiles, the faint tinkling of glass and yelps from the kitchen.

“Yeah sure, it doesn’t actually matter. Just get the cake done right because he seems...”

Another crash.

“...flustered.”

Seokjin’s head peered from behind, eyes curved into apologetic half moons.

“I’ll see to that, don’t worry.” Right.

It took ten glances in the direction of the tiny window against brick partitioning revealing a figure slipping across the kitchen, twenty furtive steps towards the wooden counter masked by a poor excuse to get water and thirty impatient taps of his fingers against hard plastic before the ceramic plate was slid across the short distance of the table towards him.

“Sinfully sweet coffee.”

A distended and mildly embarrassing snort reached Yoongi’s ears before he identified it as his own and brushed it off, flicking off dust visible only to him in a semblance of aloofness that went against the constriction in his lungs and the off-beat rhythm in his chest.

“Has that kid even drunk coffee before? Because I don’t think coffee is meant to be sweet.”

“Actually, he can’t stay away from it. But I guess if you add enough sugar, it’ll turn sweet. Anyways, enjoy the cake and please finish it all. That last request was from the chef, not me.”

“Yeah, yeah thanks.”

Yoongi dragged out the paper he now knew accompanied each plate, the paper he knew hadn’t been attached to any of the other orders that Seokjin was currently ferrying around the small space.

“Sorry about today too, I’m really busy right now in the kitchen. But I really like coffee too so yep! I always add extra sugar though. And could I nickname you Suga hyung? Your cheeks really look like marshmallows and I think Coffee and Suga sounds cool, so there. I hope you eat the cake well! (And you should smile, marshmallows look good smiling.)

~Your anonymous chef :D

“That punk, does he even realise he’s talking to a stranger older than him?”

But Yoongi dutifully placed a portion of the coffee coloured cream atop a light brown base, feeling satisfaction seep through sweet and feather like across his tongue. His eyes flicked over to the small opening cut out amidst syrup bottles and neatly stacked cutlery one last time, noticing the top of a head just barely visible from behind the ledge, still and unmoving as though seated.

I’m really busy.

And no there really is no logical reason why the sweet, smooth mixture across his taste-buds dissipated in an instant’s notice to be replaced by a smattering of bitter, roasted beans pounded into powder, why it felt like the dregs of instant coffee had now settled at the base of his tongue. Because coffee was always bitter, masked beneath countless layers of artificial sweetening that only lasted that much and coffee and sugar were never meant to meld upon taste buds, not really.

A fifth message was penned in quick , plate abandoned before a short wave was thrown to Seokjin who had finally stilled behind the counter.

Fridays are the seconds hands, a blink too fast to latch onto.

*~*

“You think he noticed me behind the window?”

“No of course he didn’t. That’s why he finished the slice in half the time he usually takes and left through the door, barely acknowledging me.”

“Hyung have I told you that you’re terrible?”

“I think I deserve thanks for finding his name for you. At least now he isn’t just ‘the sad customer I’ve been sending notes to even though I barely know him’”

“Hyung, the notes were your idea! Although... Yoongi isn’t exactly a bad name.”

“And this is why you’ll never progress.”

*~*

“I’m really, really sorry. Does the red velvet make up for it? I’m sure we’ll meet eventually. I promise!

~Your anonymous chef >_<)

“Still an anonymous chef.”

Yoongi flicked the blue paper with his thumb, holding it up against the rays of light slanting in through the tinted glass panes at his side in hopes of catching more than the two simple sentences inked across the surface. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter, so what if the person who has been crafting him dessert each day with more meaning than a self-help book wants to remain anonymous, it doesn’t bother him. He tells himself that this might be like red velvet, in the way red velvet was technically still red velvet without all the cream and the extra embellishments to carve out an identity, a flavour so unique to red velvets.

So he proceeded to scrape away the cream cheese and the white flowers of whipped cream artfully added through an icing cone. The spoon cut away a piece of red and was lifted to his mouth, unconcerned. It should taste fine unless the chef managed to screw it up somehow.

He balked as the cake finally settled and registered on his taste receptors, the flavour (or the lack thereof) painfully clear.

Because red velvet minus the cream cheese tasted of dried flour and numb lips, bland crumbs caught against his teeth.

He coughed, lips contorting and pulling his cheeks into knots. A glass of water was downed, the remaining cake worked through and washed with water because he had been requested to complete it. He would complete it as well; it was rude to leave it since he had in all honesty ruined the taste for himself.

A quick note was then added at the end, against a never ending list of black script against white,

Saturdays are the gaps between your fingers, the striking realisation of the desire for it to be filled.

Yoongi felt his brows creasing, pen hovering over the words and he scratched out desire, replacing it with need. It straightened the creases but only slightly, as he dropped the pen back in the casing. The glass doors were swung open as he stepped out, fingers running over 6 folded squares of paper left in his jacket pocket, feet landing on paved walkways uneven and in time with the erratic thumping against his ribs.

*~*

“Hyung you think I scared him? He didn’t even finish the red velvet properly. He left out the cream! Who leaves out the cream?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. If you stop postponing your meeting. This isn’t some weird blind date, what are you even afraid of?”

“I know, I don’t know. Agh. But  I will. Tomorrow.”

“By the way, you forgot your note so I wrote it for you instead today.”

“You what.”

“Don’t drop the hyung from your speech, it’s disrespectful. But yeah I did. Don’t worry it’s nothing embarrassing. I just might have written your number at the bottom of the plate but he might not have seen it...”

“Hyung. You what.”

“Hm? Wrote out your number?”

“Kill me now. Why is it so hard to befriend someone?”

“Poor boy, it’ll work out fine. I think it might have to do with how he looks like a marshmallow with a permanent scowl... yes probably.”

*~*

Amidst quiet walkways and avenues shrouded in a lull of half awoken slumber, quiet footsteps were traced along a now familiar path leading to a small opening carved out of brick and mortar, jostled between a dimly lit art studio and a hardware store slowly whirring to life. Fingers wrapped around a metal handle, hot beneath a sun that had just ascended to its apex, and pushed it inwards to step into the cool interior of soft rugs and chairs in black and white.

Yoongi was finding it extremely difficult to rationalise his choices at that point, why he was half-way across the city from his flat, why he wasn’t still beneath the covers of his bed like a normal human being would if he was on two hours of sleep on a Sunday.

I’m here, might as well make the best of it.

Resigning himself to regrettable decisions and actions, he took a seat by the window once more, the table’s white surface marred with his messy characters and letters trailing into the unknown, missing a or two here and there.

He found his gaze slipping from the simple light fixtures to the block of wood sealing off the kitchen and its occupants from the rest of the cafe.

What are you even looking for?

Light fixtures, light fixtures were interesting.

“On a Sunday too? It’s nice to have such a devoted customer. I’m sure the chef will be happy.” Startled, Yoongi looked to his side, vision glazing over in an attempt to cover up surprise with indifference, concern with the flippancy that was supposed to be there.

“Yah, hyung don’t let the kid flatter himself. I’ve had nothing to do the past week s’all.” Seokjin’s smile only remained serene, eyes crinkling in deceptive innocence.

“I’m sure. Alright so what will it be today?”

“Doesn’t matter. Not feeling picky today.” Yoongi flicked at a piece of lint on the table, lips quirking oddly at a strange realisation sprung to life in his mind.

I haven’t actually made an order since the first day.

“I see. The usual.” And it seemed that this had become a routine, the way Seokjin would snap his notepad shut with finality, not a single word having been jotted down before he would slip into the kitchen to leave Yoongi with only bare glimpses of a short figure dressed primarily in black stepping forward to receive the order.

He wasn’t interested in the possibility that the figure might be the anonymous chef, not at all. Nor the fact that after three attempts, the identity of the chef still remained elusive.

Chin resting against the crook of his elbow, he reached forward to unclip the pen from the basket, eyes glancing over the six short phrases penned permanently against pure, white plastic, bold and demanding attention.

Because Mondays are memories, an ending that hasn’t been completed.

Tuesdays are failed beginnings, feet catching and tripping upon the first few rungs of a ladder.

Wednesdays were valleys, dipping points overflowing with runoff and debris.

Thursdays are an epithet of moments cascading from open palms, too quick, too soon.

Fridays are the seconds hands, a blink too fast to latch onto.

Saturdays are the gaps between your fingers, the striking realisation of the desire need for it to be filled.

His fingers stilled, the pen rolling to a stop between his thumb and index. It was uncapped, the cap discarded next to the menu, before black ink spilled from its tip across the white table, sinking to stain the pores and fault lines of plastic.

And Sundays are trailing ends, unsettled bitter endings still on the verge of completion.

“Hm... I think Sundays are the best actually. They’re sort of the start and the end at the same time so you don’t really have to stop living at the end of seven days and start over the next. You just sort of continue.”

The soft slightly, high-pitched voice had Yoongi’s head jerking up, balled fists rubbing at bleary eyes to focus on dark brown orbs resembling the liquid chocolate that was streaked across the brownie now seated on a plate before him. It was a few seconds before he connected the words that had drifted past his ears a while ago, a few more for him to blink away the remnants of sleep catching on from a night spent worrying over nameless chefs and cheesy pastry labels and a final few seconds to string together a response sufficiently coherent to answer the statement.

“Ugh right.”

“Thought you might like brownies today. They’re nice aren’t they? Pretty ordinary but with the right toppings you can’t go wrong with them. I thought they looked lonely so I added ice cream. It’s so hot outside.” With this said, the boy’s cheeks puffed out, masking the red tinting his cheeks with the heat of the sun against skin and the red light filtering through the tinted glass panes.

The way the boy talked was familiar, constantly bright and sunny somewhat like messy scribbles against blue and honest words translated through ink.

Your anonymous chef.

His anonymous chef.

Wait this was the anonymous chef?

Yoongi had taken too many double-takes over the past few days.

The boy settled himself opposite Yoongi, chin nestled between the palms of his arms propped against the table. And as the boy’s gaze restlessly trailed over the familiar bends and curves of the cafe, Yoongi found a lazy smile warm itself across his lips, one end tipped higher than the other as was customary.

“So what’s your name? It isn’t fair that I’ve been receiving notes anonymously for a week now.” The boy’s eyes widened, easy smile slipping into worry before retuning brighter than it had been.

“Ah, so you read those. But I’m Park Jimin. It’s nice to finally meet you!”

“Well Jimin-nie, I’m Min Yoongi but I guess Suga works as well. What’s that bright baker’s brain of yours decided to name this?” Jimin blinked thrice, teeth momentarily worrying his bottom lip before the smile and half moon eyes returned without fail.

“I think this one will be called a Brownie, just a plain Brownie.”

*~*

Sometime later that afternoon, Yoongie found himself retrieving the pen from the basket at the edge of the table to cross out the last few words of a simple list. Without slowing, a few more words spilled forth in black in place of those that had been cancelled.

And Sundays are trailing ends, unsettled bitter endings still on the verge of completion.

And Sundays are beginnings and endings melding together into a simple cycle of sweet, sour and bitter cake.