University .

Well, at least it when you let your father bully you into taking a course in Economics with a surly Jamaican professor (who is just a little too fond of the meter-stick) every Thursday morning. At half-past-eight. What kind of ungodly person is awake for class at half-past-eight? All Minho wants to do is graduate with his Arts degree and get in three hours of sleep every night.

Sadly, the course is doing its damndest to make sure he gets neither.

After flipping through a stack of material taller than his mini-fridge, Minho has written a grand total of twelve pages out of the expected twenty (and he’s pretty sure that everything after page seven is glorified bull; the graph on page nine doesn’t even have anything to do with the prescribed topic). Worse still, he figures that he’s been up since Friday morning and it’s currently Sunday afternoon (there might have been a couple of power-naps in between, but they were more boredom-induced than consciously-chosen) and there really isn’t any caffeine left to be found in the apartment. Plus Key (that’s the roommate, and yes, that’s also apparently a Real Name) has started warbling about being “Born This Way” and has pulled out the feather boa so really, it’s time for Minho to make his exit.

Gathering the journals and textbooks into his much-abused messenger bag, Minho grabs his wallet and heads out the door before Key insists on a duet.

(Which, in case anyone was wondering, is a terrible idea because Minho can’t sing and would look dreadful in pink tassels.)

And it’s like the whole universe has something against him.

Minho’s regular café is packed with throngs of students being loud and jovial. Jovial. Where the do they come off as being jovial when Minho has not slept for an unknown number of hours and still has eight whole pages to write on product elasticity? Giving the closest person a withering glare, Minho marches out to the next-closest café.

Which is six blocks away.

(What kind of messed up university town has only two cafés within six blocks of each other anyways?)

And really, he supposes he could have been nicer.

Only, there happens to be a parade, yes, a parade separating Minho from the next-closest coffee place. It takes him the better half of an hour to circumvent the processions and by the time he walks into the coffee house, he is admittedly harried-looking and possibly exuding murderous intent. So he really can’t be blamed if he walks straight to the corner table and plops himself down in an armchair and proceeds to ignore the world at large in favour of his Economics assignment.

Which would have worked pretty well if not for the fact that, ten minutes in, a voice inquires whether or not he plans to buy anything.

He gives a non-committal grunt in response which apparently isn’t adequate because the voice continues to address him.

“Sir, you have to buy something if you’re going to sit here; it’s our policy.”

Minho is just about to tell the voice where exactly they can shove their policy when he looks up and sees a nervous-looking boy currently chewing his lower lip to a pulp.

Say what you might about Minho, but he’s not a bad person; generally, he’s pretty nice if not a little on the taciturn side. It’s really not the poor barista-boy’s fault that his paper is ty and he hasn’t slept and life’s a in general, so Minho softens his glare into something more amicable.

“Uh,” says Minho, trying to make out the items on the menu board, “I’ll have the cheapest thing on the menu,” he pauses, “and I’m sorry about before, had a bad day – weekend, whatever.”

The boy’s worried expression transforms into a smile, “don’t worry about it. One small coffee, coming up.”

Minho attempts to smile back but the Econ paper continues to kick his so there’s a good chance that it comes out more like a grimace. Doesn’t matter though, as the coffee-boy has already turned to the counter on which the coffee machine sits.

So Minho submerges himself in his reading material and doesn’t look up again until a paper cup is placed before him, filled with freshly-brewed coffee. He takes a large gulp despite the scalding temperature and as he lifts the cup from his lips, he notices a scribble on the side of the cup.

you look like you could use a medium instead. don’t worry, it’s on the house. ☺

Minho takes a moment to register and appreciate the sentiment before diving back into his work. He finishes the paper somewhere around seven in the evening and packs up, leaving behind enough money to cover the medium coffee all the same (and if not, the barista-boy can take the change as part of a fairly-generous tip). As he walks out, he squints at the coffee-boy’s nametag.

Taemin, he thinks.

He fails the stupid assignment anyways.

Apparently, the professor isn’t as bad at detecting bull as Minho had hoped. However, after an onslaught of condescending looks and verbal abuse in the form of rhetorical questions (“wotcha doin’ mon?”), the professor did allow Minho a make-up assignment.

So here he is, on another perfectly nice Sunday afternoon, at the café six blocks away, drowning in Econ textbooks. (Why are all the students at his regular café on Sundays anyways?)

He does remember to buy something, which makes the coffee-boy – no, Taemin – smile, before he holes himself up in a corner, an improvement from the last time.

(Once again, he doesn’t leave until the sky is dark but he does get his work done.)

Over the next several weeks, Minho shuffles in and out of the café six blocks away every time he has an Econ assignment.

He’s there at least once a week which says something about his professor’s penchant for doling out assignments.

It comes a point where, one day, Taemin actually speaks to him as he places down the coffee (medium, one sugar – it use to be “as much as you can dissolve into the cup, I need the sugar rush” but Taemin refuses to enable Minho in his bid to acquire multiple cavities), “you know, if you’re going to become a regular here, I feel like I should at least know your name.”

“Minho,” Minho replies, nodding gratefully for the coffee, “and you’re Taemin. Uh. Well your nametag says you’re Taemin so I assumed –”

Taemin laughs, “yea, that’s my name,” pause, “so I’m guessing you’re a university student?”

Minho nods, “what about you?”

Taemin shakes his head, “nope. Still in high school, but I’m graduating this year,” he glances at Minho’s (evil) textbooks, “how’s life as an Econ major?”

Minho actually manages a weak laugh, “wouldn’t know. I’m majoring in Literature. But I suspect that all Econ majors are masochists or have no soul and I’d jump off the nearest cliff before finding out for myself.”

They spend the next three hours discussing the probability of soulless Econ-robots taking over the world.

(Minho doesn’t finish his assignment, but he can’t bring himself to mind.)

There really isn’t a problem until there is one.

Minho doesn’t even realize the change until Key asks him to make a coffee-run and it takes him an hour and a half to return with the coffee. To say Key was displeased is an understatement.

“So,” Key hedges snippily, “where did you get the coffee from? Colombia?”

“Nope,” Minho responds, ignoring the edge in Key’s voice, “just the coffee place on Fleet Street.”

Key arches an eyebrow, “why would you go all the way there? Don’t you usually get your coffee from the shop across the street?”

Minho shrugs, “I guess I like this coffee shop better. It’s not really a big deal.”

Key actually looks like he’s about to drop the topic when suddenly he dramatically points to Minho’s cup with a (much exaggerated) gasp, “oh my god. What is that on your cup?”

Minho turns the cup to read a hastily-scrawled good luck on your exam tomorrow ♥and shrugs, “it’s just a note from Taemin.”

Key’s eyes narrow, “who’s Taemin?”

“Uh,” Minho has no idea what Key wants to hear so he settles on the truth, “the barista who works at the café?”

“Oh. My. God,” Key proclaims loudly (read: screeches), “the barista wrote you a note on your coffee cup?”

Minho is a little worried at this point, “it’s really not a big deal Key. He does it all the time: have a nice day; don’t work too hard; this might sound like i’m trying to talk myself out of a business but should you really be drinking so much coffee.”

Key looks mortally offended; “you walk six blocks to get coffee that is borderline horrible,” Minho makes a move to protest but Key pointedly ignores him, “from a barista who writes you notes on your coffee cup? And you didn’t tell me?”

“I don’t see how this has anything –”

Suddenly, Key’s face makes a change from how-dare-you-traitor to such-a-fuzzy-bunny, “you’re so precious,” Minho’s manhood protests in silence at the adjective, “he likes you. Oh my god. You like him.”

“Wait…what?”

Key looks positively gleeful, “you like him.”

“What are you, a pre-pubescent girl?” Minho asks irritably and hopes that he’s not blushing or anything because Key has the profound ability to embarrass people.

When Key continues to give him a knowing look, Minho protests, “Look, you’re really making a big deal out of nothing. We just talk sometimes. And I bet he writes on everyone’s cups.”

Key shoves his cup (of low-fat latte; Minho doesn’t even think Key has weight to watch) into Minho’s line of vision, “do you see proclamations of love on my cup? No? Neither do I. What you need to do right now is buy a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates and –”

There’s really no point in arguing with Key (because you just can’t win with your dignity intact) so Minho grabs his bag and makes a point of slamming the door as he leaves.

(He thinks he hears Key say something about a sonnet – because what’s the point of being a Lit major if you can’t profess your undying love in fourteen lines? – and tries not to think too hard on it.)

It’s quite spectacular how fast things can go downhill.

Personally, Minho thinks this is all Key’s fault and if someone cares to examine the timeline correlation between The Key Incident and when Minho starts to feel jittery around Taemin, they’ll see exactly what Minho means (screw Key’s correlation-does-not-equate-causation argument; not everyone’s a wannabe-lawyer).

It starts off okay. Minho still chats with Taemin about mundane things and sometimes (often) complains about his Economics course. But he also starts noticing things. Like how Taemin smiles a little brighter when he’s around. Like how Taemin laughs at his jokes even though he’s told them at least a hundred times already. Like how Taemin always writes little notes on his cup to cheer him up when he looks like he’s having a bad day. Like how Taemin’s fingers brush his when he places the coffee on the table.

Like how Taemin is kind of really amazing and has really nice hair and really pretty eyes and his unflattering apron is really kind of adorable and, oh my god, Minho doesn’t know how to deal with this.

(So he does what any guy would; he leaves.)

Life is kind of depressing.

Minho has two reports due for his econ class and nowhere to write them.

Key alternates between yelling at him for being a terrible human being to Taemin and giving him pitying looks.

(Minho wishes he didn’t miss Taemin as much as he does but he really can’t face Taemin after what he did – is doing, whatever.)

Normal people don’t get ambushed on their way to their apartments.

And, Minho thinks, if they do, it’s not usually by badly-dressed men who smell like fried chicken. But Onew (Minho really needs to ID the people he meets; these can’t be Real Names) is a friend of Taemin’s so Minho invites him into the flat.

Apparently, the only person who has less of an idea of what Onew is doing at Minho’s apartment than Minho is Onew himself.

“Uh,” starts Onew, wringing his hands nervously, “I didn’t mean to stalk you or anything so please don’t call the police. Um, actually, I don’t even really know why I’m here.”

Minho just stares at him.

“Well I do,” amends Onew hastily, “it’s obviously about Taemin. But I don’t really know how to say this.”

Minho is just really glad Key is at yoga right now.

“The thing is,” Onew tries again, “Taemin has been kinda down lately. And I happen to notice, well no, I sorta cajoled him to tell me, that it has something to do with you not-going to the café anymore,” he glances at Minho and adds hurriedly, “not that it’s your fault or anything,” which it totally is, “and I’m pretty sure you’re not a bad person,” which you totally are since you broke Taemin’s heart, you jerk.

Minho is going to have to do something about those unhelpful voices in his head.

“Anyhow,” Onew stalls, “what I mean to ask is, uh, did Taemin do something that scared you away?”

Before Minho’s brain can filter anything, his mouth yelps a sharp, “no!”

Onew’s startled look prompts Minho to elaborate, “It’s not anything he did. It’s um. It’s the way he – uh – it’s like – he’s kind of – and I want – but, it’s complicated?”

Onew nods as if he understands Minho’s word-vomit which is pretty much bull since even Minho doesn’t know what he just said.

“It’s cool man,” Onew assures him, “well, it’s not since Taemin is sad. But I understand; it’s nothing personal and you guys have only talked for like a couple of months so, yea, you’re not obliged to share your life story or what-not. Um, I can pass the message along to Taemin if you want?”

And it’s wrong, wrong, wrong because Onew is making it sound like Minho’s Great Aunt died and her last wish was for him to never see the cute barista-boy on Fleet Street ever again but the truth is that Minho is just too much of a coward to face whatever feelings he had – still has.

(And even if Minho doesn’t deserve Taemin anymore, Taemin at least deserves the truth.)

This is how Minho is standing outside a coffee shop at six in the morning on a Sunday.

He can clearly see Taemin firing up the coffee machine behind the counter and almost turns tail and runs. But then Taemin sees him and gives him this sad, heartbreaking smile and Minho isn’t a terrible enough person to turn away from that.

When he reaches the counter, Taemin pauses and gives him a soft, “hi.”

When Minho doesn’t respond, Taemin forces his watery smile wider, “it’s okay. Onew told me that you had some things going on and I totally understand so you –”

And that kind of breaks Minho because before he knows what he’s doing, he’s kind of grabbing Taemin’s arm and talking a mile a minute, “I’m really sorry. And don’t believe what Onew told you, not that he’s a liar, but you need to know that it’s all my fault and I’m a terrible person who likes you a lot and probably doesn’t deserve you because I made you sad by being the world’s biggest coward-slash-douchebag. And if you never want to see me again, I promise I won’t bother you anymore but I just needed to apologize and um – why are you smiling?”

“Because you said that you liked me,” responds Taemin brightly, “a lot. And I kind of like you too.”

Minho boggles, “are you sure you heard the part where I told you that the reason you were sad was because I am the world’s biggest jerk?”

“Yes,” laughs Taemin, “but I also heard the part where you apologized.”

“And you forgive me?” asks Minho in disbelief, because how do people that nice even exist?

“Well,” Taemin pretends to think, “that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you’re planning to ask me out,” responds Taemin airily, but he has to duck his head to hide the oncoming blush.

“Oh, uh,” Minho says smoothly, “do you want to, um, grab a coffee somewhere?”

Taemin’s eyes crinkle up in laughter, “somehow I don’t think my boss will be too thrilled with me bringing business to the competitors. But maybe we can catch a movie later?”

And yea, that sounds pretty fantastic to Minho.