He types his name first—Park Chanyeol—then hits the enter key with too much force and an overly dramatic sigh, and types his professor’s name on the next line. Under that goes the class—a poetry course called Music is Poetry that’s meant to help comp students with lyric writing—and, finally, on the last line he types the date.

Park Chanyeol
Professor Zhang Yixing
Music is Poetry
7 February 2017

Today’s technically not the seventh of February anymore, but he’s tried starting this blasted paper at least five times so Chanyeol doesn’t think it’s unreasonable to put down the day he first attempted to write the essay, instead of what day it is now. And, really, in Chanyeol’s defense, this paper’s not due for another month anyway. His friend and classmate Kyungsoo thinks that if you don’t write the entire essay the day it’s assigned then you’re procrastinating, but Chanyeol disagrees.

Besides, if Chanyeol doesn’t have homework left to do while he’s at work, there’s not much else to keep him awake at—he checks his watch lazily—3:57 am on a Thursday night.

Or is it morning?

At this point in his shift, Chanyeol’s never quite sure; that’s part of the reason he elected to deconstruct this particular poem, “Four in the Morning” by Wislawa Szymborska, for his Music is Poetry assignment. It’s only a few nights a week when he works at the 24-hour coffee shop that’s around the corner from the arts university he attends, but that’s still an excessive amount of time that Chanyeol spends being awake at four in the morning. Aptly then, and after pressing enter a few more times, Chanyeol titles his essay “Why the Am I Awake?—It’s Four AM.”

Chanyeol doesn’t have to check his watch to confirm the time because at that very moment, precisely four am, the bell above the door jingles merrily, just as Chanyeol knew it would. At this time, it's never anyone else.

Without looking up from the mess of an essay on his laptop, Chanyeol also knows that the new customer who’s just entered is a boy, possibly still blonde, with a dazed sort of look in his eyes and a grumpy pout on his lips. The boy is tall too, possibly in sweats but possibly in skinnies, depending on the weather and what day it is. Once he makes his way to the counter to sleepily demand a maple brown sugar latte, hold the foam, he’ll dump exactly enough change on the ledge to pay for his order before he heads to the overstuffed armchairs by the window. There’s always a loud thump when he drops his bag to the floor and collapses into his seat, but neither the boy nor the other customers—all three of them, on average, at any given time—ever seem to notice.

Chanyeol supposes there’s a sort of comforting anonymity in being out this late—early?—so he tries not to let the boy’s taciturn silence bother him.

With a sigh, Chanyeol turns away from his laptop, taking care to save what little he’s written so far, and begins to prepare the boy’s drink. He receives a quiet murmur of thanks when he delivers the latte, as he always does, directly to the boy’s chair, and spends the rest of his shift daydreaming about the softness of that voice, essay forgotten.

He remembers it’s existence as he trudges home after his shift through the changing darkness of early morning, but figures he still has a solid four more weeks to finish it and doesn’t worry about working on it again until his next shift the following Monday.

When he next opens his laptop to continue the assignment, he’s just started work and it’s barely past 11. With at least five hours between now and when the boy will undoubtedly step through the coffee shop’s door, Chanyeol thinks he can get a lot written before the distraction sets in.

The document loads:

Park Chanyeol
Professor Zhang Yixing
Music is Poetry
7 January 2017

Why the Am I Awake?—It’s Four AM

And Chanyeol laughs aloud at his own sardonic wit—though he makes a mental note to go back later to change the title, once he’s written the paper and actually knows what it’s about.

“I’m a comedic genius,” he whispers before subconsciously pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and buckling down to really write this paper.

A customer’s entrance, and subsequent order, pull Chanyeol from his concentration sometime around 2:15. After finishing the order and delivering it, Chanyeol returns to his laptop and scrolls back up the document to check his work. He’s pleased to find that he’s made some good headway, having written nearly half the paper with his current total of three pages, single spaced; but the actual quality of his writing is, unfortunately, another matter entirely. Chanyeol wonders how much bribing he’ll have to do to get Kyungsoo to look the paper over for him; he then wonders how much bribing it will take to get Kyungsoo to just write the rest.

It’s this thought that consumes him for another forty-five minutes, but even then it’s still not even a quarter past three and Chanyeol’s got to find some way to waste time before the boy comes in because he’s so done with this paper right now. He rubs a hand over his face to dispel any creeping exhaustion and decides, instead, to reorganize the coffee beans on display in pretty glass jars behind the counter. Chanyeol takes his time with this task, and is soon immersed, his musician’s concentration trained for focus, even when he’s not actually playing anything.

When the bell rings, he jumps, startled to find that it’s four o’clock already, but when he turns around to take the boy’s order and gather the coins of his exact change from off the counter, he’s surprised to find someone else standing in front of him.

“Who?” he asks, not quite forming a full question but catching the customer’s interest nevertheless. Chanyeol murmurs under his breath, “It must not be four yet,” but the customer who’s just walked in shakes his head and smiles, his thin lips curling upward mischievously.

“Oh, no,” he disagrees. “It’s four am exactly. Hunnie insisted, the brat.”

Chanyeol doesn’t know who Hunnie is, but he does know that if it’s four then the mysterious boy should be here by now and he isn’t. And, since he’s been a staple in Chanyeol’s working life since he started this job last semester, the boy’s sudden absence is worrying.

Nevertheless, in front of Chanyeol stands a customer, so Chanyeol pushes his concerns aside for the moment and prepares to ask what said customer would like.

The boy, but not the boy Chanyeol really wants to see, beats him to it.

“A peppermint mocha for me,” he orders thoughtfully, eyes peering up at the menu options scrawled artfully with chalk on blackboards which hang above their heads. “And a maple brown sugar latte for Hunnie,” he scrunches his nose at the sweetness of the drink, “as always.”

Chanyeol tries to ask, “Is Hunnie–” but he’s cut off by the customer again, who begins to rant.

“I told him that coffee’s not the thing to have when you’re sick in bed with the flu and need to rest, but he was all “Caffeine doesn’t affect me like that, hyung. I can’t sleep without my latte.”” The boy in front of Chanyeol continues to speak as he pulls a wallet from his back pocket and carefully counts out enough bills to pay for his order. When he’s done he leans closer to Chanyeol from across the counter, like he’s about to impart some precious wisdom, and says fondly “His puppy eyes are irresistible. The brat.”

Chanyeol gives up on trying to speak. He turns back around to make the order, hands them off to the chatty boy once he’s done, and watches, almost forlornly, as the boy accepts the drinks with a chipper “Thank you!” and turns to leave.

“Is he–” Chanyeol tries one more time, desperate to know about the boy who’s always there and then suddenly just wasn’t. The boy turns back to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Is he very ill, your friend?”

“Ah,” the boy smiles and Chanyeol finds the expression disturbingly devious. “You’ll see him on your next shift, Chanyeol. Don’t you worry about that.”

The bell jingles again as he exits. Chanyeol’s suddenly very curious as to how his most favorite patron’s friend knew his name. He’s also concerned enough about the boy, most likely called Hunnie, being sick that he makes sure to stop by the pharmacy the next time he’s on his way to work, just in case Hunnie shows up and needs cough syrup, or cold and flu relief pills, or lemon-ginger-herbal tea that the pharmacist assured Chanyeol would bring even the sickest of patients back from death’s door.

Chanyeol’s not sure how truly he believes that tidbit of information about the medicine he’s purchased, but he hopes Hunnie will appreciate how much Chanyeol cares. At that realization—that he does, indeed, care—Chanyeol wonders why he does, and if it’s maybe just the general haziness of the early morning that has his heart in knots and his stomach doing flips when the boy enters at exactly 4 am, as Chanyeol hoped he would.

Hunnie’s voice is a little rougher than usual when he orders his drink, and the bags under his eyes rival those of the quiet Chinese martial artist who Chanyeol sometimes sees working out at the gym in the afternoons. Chanyeol has half a mind to argue that what Hunnie needs right now is more sleep, and the things Chanyeol’s purchased for him from the pharmacy, rather than caffeine or to be up so late/early in the night/morning, but then Hunnie yawns and Chanyeol forgets everything.

He stutters rather embarrassingly, flustered beyond function at Hunnie’s overall, unbelievable adorableness, yet valiantly still attempts to thank Hunnie for his purchase and inform him that Chanyeol will deliver the drink to his chair like he always does. Hunnie, seemingly oblivious to Chanyeol’s struggle, smiles sleepily at him while fishing around in his pocket for change to pay, and then becomes rather confused when Chanyeol shakes his head and mutters a gruff, still highly flustered, “It’s on the house.”

Hunnie’s smile becomes blinding, to Chanyeol at least, and Chanyeol barely hears the boy thank him, the response is so shyly uttered.

Chanyeol swallows hard, gathering useless at the remains of his composure, and offers Hunnie his own best smile, the one Kyungsoo blush furiously even though he grumps that it’s too gummy and scares people away. “My pleasure,” he replies sincerely, “Please enjoy.”

He repeats this sentiment when he finishes making the drink and walks it over, when Hunnie thanks him again.

“I will,” Hunnie tells him. Then, and hesitantly with his eyes studiously directed away, toward the window, he adds, “Chanyeol.”

If Chanyeol had still been holding Hunnie’s drink he would have dropped it, likely spilling hot caffeinated liquid all over the both of them. As it is he’s still got the bag of medicine in hand, but that somehow ends up directly on Hunnie’s lap when Chanyeol drops it, so he figures everything works out just fine.

“You know my name too!” Chanyeol exclaims, right as Hunnie realizes what’s in the bag Chanyeol’s unceremoniously dumped onto his lap and abashedly murmurs, “How did you know I’d been sick?”

They each try to answer the other at the same time, too, and have little success. At first. But then Hunnie, to Chanyeol’s surprise and delight, tries again.

“You came to a department recital once. For Jongin?” Hunnie admits how he knows Chanyeol, who nods thoughtfully as he racks his brain and tries to remember seeing Sehun that night. “I had pink hair then, and yours was red enough that I could see it even from the stage.”

Chanyeol blushes brightly, likely turning the same color that his hair used to be, but nods more fervently as he finally recalls the lithe dancer in the back with pink hair and killer thighs. He'd asked Jongin about the boy when they'd gone out for drinks to celebrate Jongin’s success, and Jongin had merely laughed at him. Now Chanyeol thinks he knows why.

“Your friend mentioned something about you having the flu the other night when he came in. You're Hunnie, right?” Chanyeol asks for confirmation. “Affectionately referred to as The Brat?”

At the nickname it's Hunnie’s turn to blush, and he whispers out an annoyed “Goddammit, Kim Jongdae!” before responding to Chanyeol.

“It’s Sehun, actually,” he corrects. With a cough, he blushes deeper. “But you can call me Hunnie, if you want.”

Chanyeol does want to, and says as much. Sehun takes this news with further coughing to cover his pleased embarrassment, and Chanyeol makes him take a dose of cough syrup before he agrees to Sehun’s request that he sit in the armchair opposite and stay awhile.

“There’s no other customers tonight,” persuades Sehun. “And you can get up if you need to, I won’t mind.”

The fast approaching due date for Chanyeol’s Music is Poetry doesn’t even cross his mind. He collapses in a long and pointy limbed pile across from Sehun and smiles his biggest smile again. Sehun tells him it’s a little creepy but he likes it; Chanyeol laughs that Kyungsoo feels the same way. When Sehun asks who Kyungsoo is, Chanyeol launches into an easy explanation of all his friends, Jongin included, and before either of them know it, they’ve been talking for almost an hour, their conversation transitioning seamlessly from Chanyeol’s friend group to Sehun’s, to hobbies, majors, and even plans after graduation, though it’s a solid two years away for Sehun and one semester less than that for Chanyeol.

Sehun ponders this difference aloud. “That makes you my hyung then, doesn’t it?”

Chanyeol doesn’t think there’s much of an age difference between them, if any, but the term of endearment warms him all the way down to his toes and he’s absolutely certain his ears have turned red.

“You can call me hyung if you want,” he agrees, copying Sehun from earlier.

“But do you want me to?” Sehun questions teasingly, unwilling to let Chanyeol off the hook once he realizes how much Chanyeol seems to like it.

“I want,” Chanyeol starts. He closes his mouth suddenly, reconsidering, and starts again. “I want to take you out, for coffee or something.”

Sehun laughs, open-mouthed and crinkle-eyed—beautifully, in Chanyeol’s opinion—and holds up his now empty cup, the contents of which Chanyeol both prepared and paid for. “You already did,” Sehun reminds him.

“No, no,” Chanyeol shakes his head, though he’s still smiling sweetly at Sehun. “I meant, like, when it’s light outside. When the sun’s out and stuff, you know?”

He trails off, unsure if Sehun’s interested in actually seeing him at any time outside of this sacred hour between four and five in the morning when they’re both half-awake and already half-interested in each other.

Sehun’s immediate in his agreement, though, so that helps Chanyeol’s nerves a bit, especially when Sehun’s phone chimes, indicating that it's five o’clock, and time for him to leave.

“It's not you, hyung,” Sehun promises. “I've just to sleep a little before my first class at 10.”

“You could sleep at night,” Chanyeol jokes. “Like everyone else does.”

Sehun’s already gathering up his bags, including the one Chanyeol gave him from the pharmacy, but he pauses to shyly meet Chanyeol’s gaze. “You don't sleep at night,” he reminds Chanyeol of something the musician had shared just a few moments earlier. “Why should I?”

Chanyeol likes that answer so much that he finds himself unable to form a coherent response, and just ends up waving foolishly out the door after Sehun as the dancer walks away through the darkness, looking over his shoulder every few steps to smile and blushingly wave back.

Suddenly inspired, and finding himself with nothing to do now that Sehun’s gone and there’s no one else in the coffee shop, Chanyeol remembers his laptop. The paper’s longer now, one conclusion paragraph short of being done, and Kyungsoo’s already looked over most of it so Chanyeol’s sure he’ll have it done well before the due date in two or so weeks.

He’s right, easily finishing the conclusion paragraph on the inspirational wave of happiness that being with Sehun has created in him. Chanyeol completes his essay for Music is Poetry and actually feels proud of his non-comp related writing for once. He shares this pride with Sehun, who bravely takes the initiative to reward Chanyeol’s good work by holding his hand first. It's their only their second date but Chanyeol’s beaming instead of blushing and the next time he does something right he promises he’ll at least get a cheek kiss out of it somehow.

Sehun’s happy to comply, not in reward but just because, when Chanyeol drops him outside his dorm room door after their third date, excluding further hours spent together at the coffee shop. Chanyeol thinks this is as good a time as any to ask Sehun to be his boyfriend, officially, and Sehun kisses him again, this time on the mouth.

“That's a yes, hyung,” Sehun reassures Chanyeol. “Don't over think it, just enjoy the moment.”

Chanyeol follows this directive with the eager obedience of a newly trained puppy.

Sehun comes in before his usual time and keeps Chanyeol company behind the counter as he works? Chanyeol just smiles and lets him.

Sehun wants to hear some of Chanyeol’s original compositions, as sung and rapped and played by Chanyeol himself? Chanyeol protests halfheartedly, then eagerly awaits Sehun’s compliments, sweet like kisses and equally welcome.

Sehun wants to drape himself over Chanyeol’s back as the slightly older student suddenly remembers he has to change his essay title before he turns his paper in tomorrow and frantically opens his laptop to do so? Chanyeol whines that Sehun’s blocking the light and hurting his back but doesn't push the younger off and answers all the questions Sehun has as he reads over Chanyeol’s shoulder.

Before Sehun’s eyes, and under Chanyeol’s flying fingers, the top of the document changes, though the name, class, professor, and date information stay the same as they’ve always been. Now, the title reads:

And Let Five O’Clock Stay

“What’s it mean?” Sehun asks, curious as to what it is that Chanyeol’s referencing.

Chanyeol scrolls to the bottom of the document and gestures toward the concluding paragraph that he’d written immediately after his first real conversation with Sehun.

“Read it,” he says, and Sehun, still draped over Chanyeol’s back like a barnacle and with both arms around Chanyeol, clasped in front of his chest, obeys.

Wislawa Szymborska, though she wrote a beautiful poem to its dedication, does not seem to actually like the time frame about which she writes. Four in the morning is, according to Szymborska, “the hollow hour/blank, empty,” and a time when “no one feels good.” Others, like American poet, storyteller, and author Rives, are so dedicated to the wonder of this “hour from night to day” that they curate while museums in its honor. Szymborska writes in her poem that, “if we’re to go on living…let five o’clock come;” but Rives, for whom love was a product of four in the morning, is likely to argue the opposite. Instead, Rives might end this poem differently and write something more personally compelling for his own life—something like “And let five o’clock stay.”

“You're a surprisingly good writer,” Sehun compliments once he’s finished, “But I’m still not sure I entirely understand.”

Chanyeol turns his head to brush his lips across Sehun’s cheek and smiles warmly. “The poet wants five o’clock to come because she doesn't like the hour of four in the morning,” Chanyeol explains softly. “She says earlier in the poem that it's the hour of “and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.” But for Rives I argue that it's the opposite. Sort of a and-what-if-all-remains-after-but-us, which is exactly what prompted him to start whole museum in the first place.”

Sehun hums against Chanyeol's nape, the sound reminding Chanyeol that perhaps he’s rambling.

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly, then continues. “Anyway, basically he doesn't want five o’clock to come because he doesn't know if his love will last after four in the morning is over.”

“Ah,” Sehun understands now. “I always had to leave at five,” he muses quietly, not really sure what he’s asking but hinting at something nevertheless.

“And I,” Chanyeol confesses, saving the document before closing his laptop and turning to face Sehun, “always wished you'd stick around longer, even before I really knew you. I'd sit and try and do homework but mostly I’d just watch you when I could and think “Let five o’clock stay.””

This is loosely inspired by Wislawa Szymborska’s poem “Four in the Morning,” as well as Rives’ TED Talk “The Museum of Four in the Morning.” Both are great, but watch the talk before you read the poem and it’ll be even better. Then come back and read this (again!).