Cat Boy

15 | midterm week

Wonpil isn't sure what he had expected when he walked into the café later than his usual hour, but it definitely hadn't been this.

What once was a pleasant, open space empty of the throngs of people that tend to cluster around the other cafes, is now a veritable bedlam of panicked people. There's a nasty-looking spill near the entrance the color of ketchup (or blood, he thinks with a shiver) and the place is filled to the brim with very loud, very unsatisfied customers all of college age, and a quick glance is enough to identify most of them as in post- or the middle of a mental breakdown.

"Uh..." Wonpil stammers, noticing an unfamiliar barista hurry past him to attend to the frightening bloodstain, unsure what to say. His bag is clutched in white-knuckled hands, and he stands in the doorway looking over the chaos like that one guy with the cake in the middle of a fire. "What is...happening?"

"Oh." The new barista hops to his feet with the explosive briskness of the cap of a soda can popping off from too much pressure. There's a mop in his hand and an out-of-place sailor cap sitting askew on his head, atop a mop of copper hair. "You must be new," he says with a friendly, dimpled smile, but even the dimples aren't enough to hide the cornered-animal look in his eyes. "It's, ah, midterm week. It tends to be—messy."

Messy sounds like a gross understatement when taking into account the sharp wail that cuts through the air, drowning out the other sounds. Wonpil recalls Vernon saying something unsavory about midterm week last weekend, and his mouth falls into an 'o'. "I see," he says, hearing more than seeing as the wail breaks into a hiccupping sob. "How long does this usually last?"

"For the week," the boy explains, not a hint of humor in his voice. He's tall, broader than Wonpil, but despite the coating of muscle around his biceps he does not seem physically intimidating. "Don't worry, I think I should be able to snag you a seat somewhere."

Somewhere doesn't sound promising, but Wonpil doesn't have time to chase that trail of thought when a crash resounds through the café. It's a loud one, not like that of breaking glass, but of something much bigger. The new barista's eyes widen, and he grips his mop tighter, tossing Wonpil an apologetic look. "Sorry, I gotta—"

"Oh, yeah, of course," Wonpil says, stepping out of the way. The barista offers him a tight-lipped smile before hurrying to clean up the mess. Wonpil allows his eyes to linger on the spill for another moment before making up his mind and stepping inside.

Vernon had been right; midterm week did seem to be a nightmare. There doesn't seem to be a place to sit, so Wonpil remains standing awkwardly in the middle of the place with his bag still clutched in his hands. How does Joshua handle this?

With help, the answer seems to be. Wonpil spots three new people hurrying among the seats, all with tense smiles on their faces except for one who seems to be either high or very, very laid-back. A person shoves past him—a tall male, with a brown overcoat and scarf hanging over his thin frame, and Wonpil catches a whiff of the boy's familiar pine and woodsmoke smell.

Jeonghan floats by one of the booths, smiling at a nervous-looking student and exchanging a few quick yet languorous words of greeting. The dark-haired boy he's chatting with seems to be on the verge of unloading over his (Latin?) grammar notes, but eases up a little when Jeonghan speaks to him. Wonpil looks on in confusion, unsure whether or not the blond has noticed him—he did model for the art student, of course, albeit reluctantly.

"Bad day for a dead language," Jeonghan murmurs in soothing tones, the characteristic slight smile still visible on his lips. He leans against a wall separating the booths, ignoring the sharp glares of the students around, and cocks his head at the boy.