Chapter Text
The part about job hunting that nobody bothers to give Gyuvin a heads-up about is just how many offers have a borderline insulting salary. Or don’t even display it at all, which is just code for ‘we also pay like sh*t, and we enjoy wasting your time on top of it!’
(That’s one he won’t fall for again after last week’s god-awful interview for a marketing position in some company he doesn’t care enough to name, where it was all going swimmingly until he learned he’d barely have any money left over after rent — hypothetically — if he took the job, which somehow is okay because in this company, we’re a family! and, well… Gyuvin’s mom has never let him leave the house without eating breakfast, for one, and he isn’t so sure he can say the same about this so-called family.
Smile, bow, bow, thank you for the offer, but I’ll be exploring other opportunities at this time. )
Nobody tells him how every damn entry-level position needs five years of experience plus an university degree, either, and while said diploma is sitting pretty in his parents’ living room amongst the countless baby pictures of all four Kim children, it’s effectively little more than a very expensive decoration until he can get a job.
Which brings us back to the root issue: we’re losing the greatest minds of this generation to recruiting hell.
It’s hopeless. He’s already stopped counting just how many times he’s looked over his resume in search of whatever’s wrong with it, because surely there must be some glaring mistake somewhere in there if he still can’t get a damn job after weeks upon weeks upon grueling weeks of obsessively refreshing this stupid website.
Even the gentle hum of the ceiling fan is starting to get on his nerves at this point, that’s what life is coming out to be. Both his hands tangle into his hair to pull at the unlucky locks as he laser-focuses on the little message icon on the recruiting site as if trying to will a new offer into existence.
It doesn’t work, but what does happen is that his mom chooses that moment to walk into his room with a plate of kimchi dumplings. She doesn’t say anything, but the comforting smile she offers him is all he needs.
And the dumplings too, actually. He is pretty hungry.
*
His life changes forever two failed interviews later, where both times they decide to go with a more experienced candidate regardless of how well Gyuvin tries to sell the whole “fresh mind, new ideas!” shtick. Maybe Gyuvin would have experience too, if they weren’t this god damn difficult. But you can’t win them all, so might as well come to terms with that much.
Anyways, that’s not the point. The point is that when he’s in the middle of checking flight prices with Gunwook for an overseas vacation neither of them can afford to take, an e-mail notification comes through with a loud ding! that’s completely jarring in Gunwook’s otherwise quiet bedroom.
So Gyuvin snatches the phone out of Gunwook’s hand to read better as he taps to open it, with Gunwook quickly perching his chin on top of Gyuvin’s shoulder just because he’s nosy.
Gyuvin blinks once, twice. His eyes feel a bit dry.
“Huh,” is his brilliant take on the e-mail.
“I think it says you’re scheduled for an interview tomorrow, hyung,” usefully pipes up Gunwook, in a voice that’s way too loud to be comfortable when he’s this close to his ear.
“I know it says that, stupid.”
“You’re stupid.”
Now Gyuvin’s about to say your mom’s stupid, but Gunwook’s mother is in fact a very kind and smart lady who does not deserve such an insult.
So instead, he gives the email another once over. Admittedly, Gyuvin doesn’t recall submitting an application to this Kim Technology Corporation place. It’s also worth mentioning that, plainly put, Gyuvin doesn’t know the first thing about electronics beyond how to factory reset his phone and restart the router when the internet connection’s so slow he’s getting bullied over it on PUBG by pre-teens who’ve, apparently, just learned swear words exist.
And since he’s being real honest today, Gyuvin did submit a flurry of applications last Monday at 3 am when he couldn’t sleep due to the neighbor’s loud music he could hear all the way across the street and bordering on a complete mental breakdown, so this application probably must’ve gone out then.
Makes sense, or at least as much as it can.
Gyuvin hands the phone back to Gunwook who promptly chooses to take a selfie making a peace sign and all, right on time to capture Gyuvin mid-yawn.
*
The following day has Gyuvin in a crowded waiting room in the fancy district of the city, squished right in the middle of a potted plant and another hopeful who won’t stop brushing out the non-existent wrinkles on his pants. Every time he does his elbow digs into Gyuvin’s side, but he’s too polite to complain so he kind of sucks it up and hopes this guy’s next (and that he doesn’t get the job).
Okay, that’s a little mean. He does hope the guy gets the job, so long as he’s here for a different position. He just doesn’t hope he has to work with him, because if bones could bruise his ribcage would definitely be all kinds of purple by now. Not the pretty type of purple, either.
It’s exactly seventeen minutes past his scheduled interview time, queue ahead still unmoving, when who he can only assume is the hot, young CEO walks in.
Gyuvin swallows thickly, all of a sudden feeling real inadequate in his dad’s hand-me-down suit jacket and the one tie he’s recycled for every formal function since his cousin’s wedding five years ago. Is that a f*cking YSL logo on his bag?
Aimlessly, he scuffs his shoes against the linoleum flooring. That sh*t has to cost a good three months of the salary offered here, at the very least.
Is this what we as a society have come to?
His tall figure moves gracefully through the hallway, carrying so much confidence and poise you’d think the seas just parted open for him and apologized for stopping him in the first place. His blonde hair is styled in a way that carefully outlines his face, and then… His actual face is kind of a work of art of its own, starting with a pair of eyes so round they look like marbles. The eyebrows framing them are strong, yet his features tie together into a delicate picture topped off by heart-shaped lips.
This is the part where Gyuvin should probably stop staring. He trains his eyes squarely on the water dispenser across the hall.
The hot boss slows to a stop by the other side of the potted plant, absolutely too close for Gyuvin’s comfort, but if Gyuvin shifts his body weight to lean closer in his direction regardless then that’s nobody’s business but his own.
This guy even smells rich.
What the f*ck (and hell, and sh*t, and many other colorful expletives so graciously bestowed upon him by the PUBG tweens).
What Gyuvin still isn’t sure of is what the hot boss is doing standing next to a nondescript potted plant in the corner of a random room in a floor seemingly forgotten by the rest of the building — seriously, when he got on the elevator the number 5 was the least worn one by far — but asking might just be the right way to get his dream love story straight out of a drama started, he figures.
Because if he gets this guy to fall for him not only will he have a ridiculously attractive husband and a crazy amount of money to boot, but he also won’t have to worry about landing a job ever again because nepotism works in non-mysterious ways and Gyuvin’s pretty convinced he’d nail the sexy assistant role. Totally redefine it, even.
Gyuvin nods his head, slow. He’s kind of really smart.
Once he’s built up his resolve and tilts his head up towards him to speak, Gyuvin has barely opened his mouth by the time the other beats him to it.
“Good morning,” his voice is a lot softer than what he’d expect from that face, but Gyuvin might just like it better this way. “Umm… Are you here for the interview, too?”
Gyuvin closes his mouth.
Okay, so hot boss turns out to be hot fellow hopeful.
That’s alright, he can still make it work. Gyuvin’s nothing if not resourceful, and he’s likely here for a different position anyway. Like front desk or whatever, because he’s too pretty to be kept within the confines of a sad little cubicle in Nowhere, Corporateland.
Gyuvin opens his mouth again. “Yeah!” There’s a pause as he wracks his brains in search of the title he’s after. Thing is, when you look at as many corporate words as he has over the past month, they all kind of start sounding like complete nonsense. He doesn’t even remember what he’s here for.
Finally, “I’m here for the administrative assistant position.” And then, because it’s simply the polite thing to do, “and you?”
Hot fellow hopeful tilts his head just a couple degrees to the right, lips playing in a mildly amused smile. “Oh, me too! Best of luck on the interview!”
A bubble bursts inside the water container, and another one inside Gyuvin.
The grin Gyuvin himself wears grows, but it’s not with sheer happiness let alone joy for life. “Yeah, good luck to you too! Let’s both do our best.” This guy can go to hell.
Divine intervention comes in the way of a guy who’s entirely too smiley to look like he belongs between these boring walls in different shades of gray covered up with pretentiously minimalistic artwork poking his head through the wooden door at the end of the room. Gyuvin isn’t sure what he could possibly be happy about, because personally, his own world is currently collapsing as he mentally prepares for another rejection email.
“Mr… Kim Gyuvin? Is Mr. Kim Gyuvin here?”
The breath he releases then is pretty loud. Embarrassingly so, actually, so he very intelligently chooses to try and conceal the tail end of it with a yawn.
Which is kind of worse, considering he’s here to get employed and yawning isn’t exactly an employable skill.
Whatever. What matters is that Gyuvin stands up then, now taking his turn to smooth out the wrinkles of his trousers, and raising his free hand to call the recruiter’s attention. “Yes, I’m Kim Gyuvin!”
He bends slightly to pick his briefcase up off the floor. Gyuvin’s more than anything just carrying it around to look smart, its contents being limited to his phone charger, a pen, and a bunch of printer paper because you never know when it’ll come in handy. Once he stands at full height once more, his eyes meet hot fellow hopeful’s.
His dark eyes are reminiscent of a cat’s, partly but not entirely due to the eyeliner neatly extending his lash line upwards. The other half of it is the faint sparkle of curiosity within them as they take Gyuvin’s features in, and…
“Umm… Mr. Kim Gyuvin?”
Gyuvin turns around to face the recruiter. He looks rather sheepish and like he’s just interrupted something important, standing in the midst of the doorframe with his clipboard closely hugged to his chest. Even his hair seems stressed out, with the light brown strands poofing up seemingly of their own accord.
“Ah, forgive me!” Speaks Gyuvin, in a tone not unlike the one he uses when speaking to elder relatives. Just the right mix of refreshing yet polite, with a winner’s grin to match. His feet turn towards the door, but he doesn’t walk without first giving the hot fellow hopeful one last look.
The other steps up to the plate, chin angling slightly upward in the most subtle of challenges as he leans back against the wall. His arms fold across his chest, too.
Then there’s a smirk twisting on the corner of his lips, not exactly subtle at all.
Gyuvin merely gives him a taunting little wave before fully turning to face a confused recruiter, effectively dissipating the tension built between the two of them once his back is completely towards him.
Gyuvin bows with all the grace of a young puppy still growing into its limbs and disappears through the door, with the recruiter arching a brow towards the blonde as he pulls the door shut.
He wishes he had an answer for him, but if he’s being completely honest with himself he’s not really sure what all that just now is about either.
*
The following week or so post-interview brings forth the five stages of grief, with Gyuvin reliving the entire process every day with an intensity directly proportional to how many days have passed without hearing back from the recruiter.
If we were to graph this, taking “(n) days since the interview” as our x axis and “certainty he did not get the job (%)” as our y axis, we’d obtain a beautifully inclined line with a pronounced slope of m=1/2. Which is kind of the worst slope to have, if you ask him.
And all of that is, of course, just a bunch of big words to say that:
a) he took too many math subjects in university and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try to make all that studying pay off, and
b) he’s so sure he’s still safely unemployed that he’s comfortable acting the part by playing Call Of Duty with Gunwook, shutting his brain down and merely following the instructions his best friend borderline barks into the microphone. At least he has control over something here unlike in the real world. Even if it’s something as inconsequential as how many zombies he takes out before time’s up.
What he doesn’t account for is his phone ringing midway through the round, but that’s kind of the caller’s fault for not texting instead. And it’s probably just a spam number anyway, Gyuvin figures. On the off chance it isn’t, they’ll call back if it’s important enough. Probably.
The ringing stops, just as suddenly as it started, and right before its rhythm digs a little home for itself right below the little snail that lives inside his ears.
“—dude, what the hell? It’s right behind you! Turn around!” Gyuvin hears the panic in Gunwook’s voice, but he doesn’t quite listen enough to figure the individual words out. Rather, they amalgamate into a single word in a language Gyuvin can’t speak. “Hello?! I said turn around! Hey, Kim Gyuvin! Are you hearing me?”
A zombie gets to his character and digs its teeth in, infecting him before Gyuvin can even register it. Poor boy never stood a chance. Then the game over screen pops up, just to add insult to injury, and a defeated Gyuvin drops his controller onto his lap.
Ah.
So Gunwook had been trying to warn him.
(Let’s pretend they’re not the only two people playing, and maybe then he can also ignore the way Gunwook yelled out Gyuvin’s name and all.)
The ringing starts back up, cleanly cutting his mental process in half. A slice of it falls somewhere by Gyuvin’s foot, idly flopping next to his phone.
“Dude, can you give me a sec?”
On the other side of the line, Gunwook groans. “Yeah, that’s okay,” he sounds a little annoyed, but Gyuvin just chalks it up to Gunwook being a bit of a sore loser. “‘cause I got just about time for one more round before I have to go back to studying.”
Gyuvin rolls his eyes, affectionate. Even if Gunwook can’t see him, he hopes he can sense it. “Yeah, yeah. Midterms, whatever. This is what’s nice about being unemployed— I don’t really have anything to worry about right now, not anymore.” Except for the shrill, insistent ringtone echoing through his bedroom and disrupting his peace, that is.
Right.
“Just gonna ask these cold-callers to get me off their list, or something. I’ll be quick, Wookie.”
It can’t really be anyone else given that none of his university friends have talked much since spring, two weeks after graduation at most. Once a week, one of them randomly pops into their group chat to propose plans that never come to fruition because half of them don’t bother to reply, and the half that do claim to be so busy, so sorry! Next time, for sure!
While his friend group drifting apart to find their own way in life is something that doesn’t come as a surprise, Gyuvin does have to admit he’s miffed by how fast it happened (in no small part due to how quickly everyone else got a job, and thus he feels like he’s the only one lagging behind and struggling to catch up long after everyone else’s reached the finish line. But he swears he’ll arrive, too, even if he’s panting and sweaty and hopelessly late by the time he does).
So all things considered it’s probably just the bank asking if he wants a credit card, which would have him go from no money to no money, plus another secret thing: debt. As appealing as reckless spending without worrying about the consequences of his actions sounds, it’s not nearly enough to offset the earful he’d receive from Gunwook over it.
So Gyuvin raises the phone to his ear, the carefully practiced I’m not looking to open a credit line today, thank you. Could you please take me off your list? I’m kind of unemployed, so I promise I’m not your intended audience, on the tip of his tongue and ready to roll as soon as he answers the call.
But instead of the classic million mile per minute spiel, Gyuvin receives a simple sentence instead.
“Hello, this is Kim Taerae from Kim Tech. Am I speaking to Mr. Kim Gyuvin?”
Gyuvin clears his throat, the deep voice catching him off guard for a second.
“Yes! Good evening Mr. Kim, this is him speaking. What can I help you with?”
Gyuvin can hear the smile on his voice, or maybe he’s just trying to convince himself of it because if the recruiter’s smiling, that implies a better possibility of getting hired. “Would you be available on Thursday at 9:00 in the morning?”
Could it be…?
“We would like to see you for the second round of the interview process.”
Well, that was too good to be true. That’s on him for hoping, really.
But Gyuvin’s twenty-three going on twenty-four, so he can process this as a step up from a plain rejection email. If they call him back it means they see something in him (and honestly, who wouldn’t?).
He clears his throat. In the distant background, Eumppappa barks. “Yes, I can make it. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kim,” there’s the sound of papers shuffling on the other end of the line.
Next there’s a sort of dull ‘thud’, drowned out by the static, and it’s followed by a muffled oh, sh*t.
Papers shuffle again, slightly faster than the last time. “Um… That will be all. See you on Thursday morning, Mr. Kim!” Call ended, 0:51.
Gyuvin unmutes his mic, and takes hold of his controller once more. “Sorry, man. Those damn spam callers again.” Gunwook offers him little more than a little humming noise as commiseration before restarting the game.
*
Thursday has Gyuvin back in the waiting room, now wearing a different tie he’s fished out from the trenches of Gunwook’s closet that looks a lot like the one from his high school uniform. His briefcase today carries the ultimate daily necessities: a pack of chocolate chip cookies, spare change for the subway, and his earbuds.
Thursday also has the hot fellow hopeful back in the waiting room, except this time he sits down next to Gyuvin instead of standing by the potted plant. If it were up to Gyuvin he’d take the bruised ribs over the awkwardly heavy silence they’ve had going on for the past three and a half minutes, but it’s not so he might as well do something that is.
In this case, said something sounds a lot like, “good morning. Back for the second interview round?”
The other’s head snaps up from his phone, now turning towards Gyuvin. When their eyes meet Gyuvin tries really hard to pretend his shoulders don’t shake just a little bit, clearly caught off guard. He tries even harder to hold eye contact instead of glancing towards the safety of the water cooler, but he can’t admit defeat like that. Especially not to him.
When Gyuvin zones back in, the blonde’s already smiling.
“Yeah. I think I did well in the first round, so I’m excited to see what happens in this one.” And if that has his blood’s temperature rising by a steady degree, he doesn’t say a thing.
Or, well, he sort of does: “I mean, you probably didn’t do all that well if I’m back here too.”
Silence falls upon them. While Gyuvin hadn’t actually meant to say that aloud, he can’t find it in himself to claw it back to shove down his throat again now that it’s out there. The other seems too confused to speak, the pending question all too apparent in the furrow of his neatly styled eyebrows, but even if he opens his mouth in a curious little ‘o’ the quiz never comes.
Instead, a deep voice that belongs to neither of them rings throughout a room that’s, all of a sudden, feeling entirely too cramped for the both of them. “Mr. Shen Ricky? Is Mr. Shen Ricky here?”
Gyuvin’s not sure he likes this recurring motif.
Whatever edge he’d scraped against this Mr. Shen Ricky falls apart brick by brick then, under the shine of his teeth that appear to be so white it could border on uncanny valley territory or — and this is more likely — Gyuvin’s just picking out something random to be mad about. As Gyuvin (figuratively) crumbles, Ricky raises his hand. He reminds Gyuvin of the typical kid that answers all the professor’s questions and reminds them about homework right at the end of the day when everyone’s already put their belongings away. Perhaps Gyuvin’s just looking for something to hate on again.
This is getting old. But Ricky’s lips reveal a bright grin as he stands up, and it bathes his anger in a new light. It’s hot and gleaming, twisting something nefarious in his gut.
“Good luck, Kim Gyuvin-ssi.” When he says it, he doesn’t even bother fully facing Gyuvin. Rather, it’s more so a comment thrown over his shoulder as he heads towards the curiously befuddled recruiter, who likely doesn’t get paid enough to bear witness to this.
Gyuvin can relate, except he’s not getting paid at all.
*
There’s not much to be said about the third interview round, and if you ask Gyuvin he’ll insist it’s because he’s running on four hours of sleep and can barely cope with the basic human functions that keep his body alive instead of admitting it’s because Ricky, who had up until this point appeared to be a permanent fixture in this tiny waiting room, isn’t there this time. Serves him right, thinks Gyuvin.
(SERVES HIM RIGHT FOR WHAT, THOUGH?
This voice is a little louder, floating around in his skull and bouncing off the edges and never quite fitting into a corner like the DVD logo on the standby screen.
Um… For being an annoying smug asshole, obviously.
BUT WHAT, EXACTLY, HAS HE DONE TO BE AN ANNOYING SMUG ASSHOLE?
Bring YSL to a stupid job interview. I mean, who the f*ck does that? It just comes off as thinly-veiled arrogance disguised as an interest in fashion.
AND YOU HAVE A LOT OF THINLY-VEILED INTEREST IN HIM DISGUISED AS UTTER DISTASTE. WHO’S WORSE?
Ugh, who cares? He’s not here, so he didn’t even get the job. End of story.
GYUVIN…
If I meet him outside this place, I’ll take it as a sign and ask him out or something. Happy? Yeah? Now shut the hell up!)
“Sooo… When do I know if I got the job?” As he walks into an office that’s quickly becoming familiar once again, Gyuvin briefly entertains the idea of bribing Kim Taerae, head of the Human Resources department, with a cookie. It’s Tuesday this time, and Gyuvin’s packed a couple Oreos to survive the commute back home. Still, he can bear parting with one as a sacrificial token of goodwill. Maybe.
Kim Taerae just chuckles, low, and shakes his head as his eyes rake over the contact info written down on Gyuvin’s resume. “Ah, Gyuvin-ssi. About that…”
This sounds a lot like foreshadowing for terrible things, but luckily Gyuvin’s too distracted by the tick of the clock on the wall behind Kim Taerae to really listen. And if he doesn’t listen, then logically nothing bad is happening. He pulls out the chair in front of the desk, wincing when its back legs scrape against the floor in a way that would definitely hurt were it not an inanimate object. Hey, Gyuvin’s no monster. He can empathize.
Gyuvin blinks his eyes back into focus when his gaze centers on Taerae. “Sorry, what did you say?”
This time, Gyuvin’s eyes are caught by a mug sitting near the small plaque that reads out Taerae’s name. Its pattern illustrates different kinds of cats, cutely sketched in black and white, against a mint green backdrop. “…So I can offer you an alternative position in the Human Resources department instead.”
Wait.
What’s going on here?
“Wait,” chin tilting ever so slightly downwards, Gyuvin’s eyebrows knit so far into each other that it has to count as crochet as he tries to make sense of the half-sentence he’s heard. “What’s going on here?”
Taerae leans back in his chair, producing a stapled bunch of papers from a folder under Gyuvin’s resume and holding it out for him to take. “The, um, the higher-ups decided to go with someone else for the administrative assistant position,” he explains, eyes sympathetic, and Gyuvin wonders if suddenly he’s morphed into a small, helpless animal because that’s exactly how Taerae looks at him. “But your skills and abilities are something we need in the company, too, so they decided to offer you a position with Human Resources. The pay’s a little less than what was proposed for the position you applied for, but there’s plenty of room to grow.”
Static crackles by the snails that live in Gyuvin’s ears.
“It’s a new position, so we’d only be offering you a six month contract at this time.” Absently, the cap of Taerae’s pen taps against his stack of papers. “Depending both on your performance and an evaluation from the higher-ups, by the end of this term we may offer you a longer contract. This is, of course, still up in the air.”
The following pause is joined by a smile, bright and reminiscent of a charismatic performer’s. It makes sense that he’s the one who runs the show in this department. “So, what do you say?”
Between six months of job hunting and six months of working, albeit temporarily, the choice comes easy.
“…How much’s the pay for this one?”
*
Gyuvin recalls his first day of university, fresh-faced and receiving the world ahead of him with a wide-eyed gaze along with his heart comfortably resting on his sleeve. You see, Kim Gyuvin is a man of few problems — and that’s in no small part due to what Gunwook deems as the bright red flag flying atop his carefully constructed castle: Whenever a problem comes up, his go-to course of action is to look for a way out in place of facing issues head-on.
Back then Gyuvin’s heart far outweighed all his other organs put together and then some. So when he asked an upperclassman for directions and was led to the exact opposite side of campus for no apparent reason beyond the fun of it resulting in missing his first class, his trust decided to give the stranger the benefit of the doubt even despite the way the upperclassman’s friend snickered by his side. Because Gyuvin was trusting, always believing each person was inherently good at their very core even if sometimes their decisions were, at the very least, morally questionable. But that was the Gyuvin fresh out of high school, sheltered and hopeful for the future.
In other words, he didn’t know jack sh*t about how the world works.
On the other hand, the Gyuvin fresh out of university is one jaded by disappointment; By the impending doom of global warming, realizing dodo birds are only extinct due to human inadequacy, the harsh reality of the piss-poor state of the job market in the entirety of South Korea, and — most recently — getting the rug pulled out from under his feet right when he’s closer to landing a job with pay good enough he’d be able to live on more than ramen and rice than he’s ever been.
So now, Gyuvin faces his first day at his new job. He’s still fresh-faced, and still receiving the world ahead of him with a wide-eyed gaze as he adjusts to the glass, shiny metal, and polished wood of his new surroundings. The difference is only half his heart rests on the ill-fitting sleeve of his suit jacket this time. Today his briefcase holds an agenda, a stapler, and an assortment of different colored pens because he’s a respectable member of the workforce or, at the very least, he’s trying his best to method-act as one. His briefcase also has vanilla wafer cookies, because while you can put the Kim Gyuvin in the office, you can’t take the Kim Gyuvin out of the Kim Gyuvin.
Or however the saying goes.
It’s Monday, and Gyuvin’s rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands behind his back in the midst of Taerae’s office. This feels a lot like standing in the principal’s office waiting for a scolding, except Taerae’s office smells of lavender and fresh pine thanks to the air freshener plugged into the outlet behind his head.
“So.” Taerae straightens out his stack of papers against the wooden surface of the desk, sound loud enough to command for Gyuvin’s attention. “First of all, can you stop looking like a kid who just caught shoplifting and is about to get lectured all the way to the pearly gates of heaven just to get rejected there and sent to eternal damnation? It’s stressing me out.”
Gyuvin freezes, and his heels touch the floor. “Better?”
Taerae just shoots him a look, brows raising as he peers up from over the top of his metal rimmed glasses.
Gyuvin’s hands let go of each other, and his arms drop to uselessly flop by his sides instead. The line of his shoulders is tense, deltoids aching with the effort of keeping them square.
Taerae looks at him again, this time up and down. It lasts all of three seconds, and Gyuvin’s pretty impressed by how he manages to rake over every square centimeter of his body in that time. Gyuvin swallows, the little ‘gulp’ sound far louder than he means for it to be, and adjusts Gunwook’s tie just a little tighter around his neck. It’s right at the sweet spot between business formal and an attempt to choke himself, which definitely has to be what the fashion blogs refer to when they say business professional.
Eventually, Taerae concedes with a nod of his head as he leans back into his chair. It makes his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose until they hang from the very tip of it, and Gyuvin nearly sputters out a laugh that he promptly forces into a poorly-faked cough. It’s empty and too dry to be believable, but it quickly gets stuck in his mouth when Taerae’s posture straightens up again as a thinly-veiled threat.
Gyuvin swallows again, silent. If Taerae’s entertained by this entire thing, the only hint Gyuvin gets is the melodic drum of his fingers against his desk. And then, “I already went over this during our last meeting, but your new role is as Human Resources assistant.” Now Taerae’s pushing his chair back to stand up, wheels squeaking as they roll back, and steps around Gyuvin’s frozen frame on his way out of his office.
By the time Gyuvin’s brain catches up to suggest he should perhaps turn around to find Taerae, because Taerae used to be in front of him and now he isn’t anymore, Taerae’s already leaning against his door frame and eyeing Gyuvin like he’s a curious little creature. This guy clearly has a habit of looking at Gyuvin like he’s anything but human, but Gyuvin doesn’t even have the time to get mad about it when Taerae’s grinning at him and pointing his thumb behind his shoulder.
Behind him stands the rest of the office, and even though Gyuvin’s not entirely sure he’s ready to face the reality of the beginning of his life in the workforce just yet he kind of has no choice when Taerae continues with a, “this way! You’ll be mostly working with Sung Hanbin, so let’s go to his desk together.”
(“I’m good, but thanks,” Gyuvin would say, and pull out the chair in front of Taerae’s desk. He’d turn it around and sit backwards, both arms folded across the backrest and his chin atop them like the cherry on top.
Taerae would question all the layers of decision-making that went into hiring Gyuvin, but would ultimately shake his head and mutter something or other about needing his morning coffee under his breath. So then Gyuvin would spend the next eight hours of his shift twiddling his thumbs, effectively getting paid for doing nothing at all.
He’d slip right into a Gyuvin-shaped crack in the system, showing up to work every day but spending 40 hours away hiding in one place or the other, skillfully blending in with the background day in and day out. And by that he means he’d be hiding in plain sight, sitting in a common area with his laptop out pretending to work and cheerfully greeting everyone that walks past him. Good morning, Mrs. Jang. How was your vacation? Oh, Mr. Lee, long time no see! Been busy? Yeah, my project’s smooth sailing. Just need to polish some minor details… Why, thank you, Miss Son! Good day to you as well, please give my regards to Mr. Kang!
So, that’s the idea. He’d keep up the pretense for a good two years and a quarter, until one day someone in accounting squinted at the most recent payroll documents and said, “and who the f*ck is Kim Gyuvin?”
The money would stop reaching his bank account, Gyuvin wouldn’t show up ever again, and it’d be a chapter of his life he’d look back on fondly after retirement. He’d make an example of cheating the system and getting one back at capitalism, maybe even write a book about it that would go on to become a bestseller.)
But alas, that’s not what happens. Rather, a resigned Gyuvin comes to terms with his future and the void left behind by the lack of bestsellers within it in the moment it takes to exit Taerae’s office.
This Sung Hanbin’s office is next door to Taerae’s, which appears to be all too convenient when it comes to preventing Gyuvin’s escape. He knows he’s doomed when the door opens two knocks and a half after, a smiling face shining brighter than the aggressive white lightbulb over their heads.
“Good morning, Taerae!” He says, voice far too cheerful for the bleak time that is a quarter past seven in the morning. His eyes slip away from Taerae to focus on Gyuvin, then, pausing as they round to fully take him in. Even if he’s still smiling, Gyuvin just thinks it’s a little bit scary because seriously, it’s a quarter past seven in the morning. Who the hell smiles at a quarter past seven in the morning?
“You’re the new hire, right? My name is Sung Hanbin. Good to meet you, come on in!” Apparently Sung Hanbin does, because now he’s opening the door wider to usher the both of them in.
Taerae’s hand on his back, gently pushing him forward, nearly has him stumbling for balance but it’s not like anyone else has to know that. So Gyuvin takes a couple steps in, choosing to settle a respectable distance from the door without getting too close to the desk, either. The decorations are minimal, a collection of sticky notes in neon colors on the wall by the computer being the most noteworthy thing in the room. Gyuvin can’t read what they say from all the way over here, and even if he could probably squint his way through it he figures it might just be better to not come off as the nosiest guy this place has ever seen on his first day in the office.
Anyways. Other noteworthy additions include a hamster doll on top of a cabinet and a small potted plant that seems to be living a good life, along with a bowl of candy that looks a lot like the ones his grandmother favors in the middle of an U-shaped desk. One side of the desk is occupied by what he can only assume is Hanbin’s computer, while the other side is vacant except for a lone ballpoint pen.
“Yes, my name is Kim Gyuvin,” cue a bow, “pleased to be working with you.”
Taerae and Hanbin look at each other before they both turn to Gyuvin.
“You can relax, you know. Getting Hanbin as your boss is almost like hitting the office jackpot.”
Gyuvin releases the accumulated tension in his shoulders, that hurt like he’s carrying the weight of the world on them. And he might as well f*cking be, if you ask him.
Hanbin’s eyebrows furrow, confused. “I thought the office jackpot was when they served you an extra piece of meat on Fridays?”
“It is. That’s why I said almost.”
Gyuvin feels like he’s back in the playground trying to play catch before hitting his growth spurt, stuck between two people that consistently throw the ball far higher than he can reasonably reach just because it’s funny to watch him jump.
Hanbin claps, still smiling, and Gyuvin vaguely wonders just what he is so happy about this early in the morning. “Okay, Gyuvin! As I’m sure Taerae’s already filled you in about, starting from today you’ll be my assistant.”
Gyuvin nods, looking a little bit like a bobblehead doll.
“Perfect!” Hanbin’s fingers intertwine in front of his chest, pleased. “Again, I’m Sung Hanbin, and I’m the Human Resources coordinator. We…” Pause. There’s a little laugh bubbling up there, “we’re gonna have to do a little bit of everything, kind of. On top of my usual duties, I always take up extra work that needs to be done but isn’t covered by anyone. Umm… Filling in the blanks, yes?”
The chuckle that follows that next part is a bit hollow, almost like there’s nothing funny about it at all, but Gyuvin doesn’t mention it. Taerae, however, barely manages to choke back a snicker. “Well,” he hovers by the doorframe, “I’ll leave you two to it.” He doesn’t look the least bit happy when he adds, “the rest of my day’s just meeting on top of meeting, and even though half of those could’ve been e-mails I’m not even mad ‘cause I’ll just get paid to sit on my ass while Mr. Kim hears himself talk.”
The door closes behind his silhouette and Hanbin’s “good luck with the meetings!” feels entirely too small then, crashing against the door and helplessly landing on the floor with a pathetic little thud.
Well, that doesn’t seem to matter one bit because Hanbin claps again. Now he’s pointing at the chair on the empty side of the desk, “you’ll be working in that spot, so feel free to leave your things there while I give you the grand office tour and we go over your tasks together.”
His agenda and lucky pen, a high school graduation present from his father, find a home for themselves right in front of his desk chair. By their side there’s the stapler, and his briefcase is safely stowed away under the desk. Speaking of, “why’s your desk shaped like that?”
Hanbin blinks. “Like what?”
“Like, weird.”
“U-shaped?”
Gyuvin shrugs.
“It’s because even when it was just me in this office, I’ve never been the type to like having the desk between me and any visitors,” he muses, index finger absently resting against the line of his jaw. “Feels a little impersonal, you could say. That’s not really for me, as I think a team is most productive when there’s effective, comfortable communication with a solid foundation of trust under it.”
Gyuvin’s hand quickly reaches out to grab a piece of candy from the bowl. His attempt to go unnoticed doesn’t work out, but at least Hanbin doesn’t pay it much mind. “That’s why I keep those here, too. Since this is where most of us spend most of our day we have to make a little home far from home, no?” His eyes crinkle at the corners, reflecting the earnesty of his words. He’s so gentle Gyuvin almost feels embarrassed to eat the candy he just shamelessly swiped.
But almost isn’t enough, because as soon as Hanbin turns to lead him out of his office Gyuvin makes quick work of removing the wrapper and popping the strawberry hard candy into his mouth. The final step of his crime is to shove the incriminating evidence into the pocket of his trousers, crinkled-up wrapper never to see the light of day again.
The first stop of the aforementioned grand office tour is a door that looks a lot like Taerae’s and Hanbin’s had, except a little charm that distantly resembles a raccoon hangs from the doorknob. A doorknob that Hanbin promptly pulls open without even bothering to knock more than once, mind you, and even if Gyuvin’s taken aback by this the person inside doesn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by it. Or react much at all, actually, like this is just the way things work around here.
“This is my work wife, Zhang Hao. He’s the Administrative Director.” Even if Gyuvin has yet to see Hanbin without a smile on his face, the way the small dips of his dimples become more pronounced as soon as they land on the other is pretty telling on its own. Maybe that’s what he’s so happy about this early in the morning.
The work wife, Zhang Hao, gives them a small wave as he looks away from his monitor for a second. His eyes look tired behind the round-rimmed glasses, but they’re every bit as gentle as his smile. “Hey.”
Hanbin pulls the door closed.
Right outside work wife’s door, Gyuvin nearly runs into a desk that he’s not sure how he missed on their way here. Who the f*ck puts a desk right outside someone’s doorway?
But he doesn’t ask that. Instead, “who works at this desk?”
His boss stops in his tracks, turning around to face Gyuvin. “Ah, we just recently hired an assistant for Hao. It’s his first day today, too, so hopefully you’ll be able to get along well.” And then, as an afterthought, “I don’t think he comes in until 9 am, though.”
And here Gyuvin was fighting for his life at 6 am to get into the jam-packed subway in hopes of getting to work at 7 on the dot. First he takes Gyuvin’s ideal position, now he also gets the better schedule.
Lucky bastard.
The next stop in their adventure involves passing by a bunch of desks, where they’re met both by curious gazes lingering on Gyuvin and greetings for Hanbin that range from echoes on autopilot to way too enthusiastic for a Monday. In the very corner of the floor stands a lone end table with a coffee machine that’s definitely seen better days, and Gyuvin’s not sure if he’s just hallucinating this or if there’s an ominous, dark haze emanating from it.
Gyuvin shudders.
“This,” gestures Hanbin a safe distance away from the appliance, and his smile’s starting to look sort-of plastered on in a way not unlike a sticker. “Is the floor’s coffee machine. Nobody’s really used it since the cafe next door opened, though…” Hanbin pauses, seemingly trying to pick the correct words out from between the wrinkles in his brain. “While you’re welcome to use it, as is anyone on this floor, ummm…”
The liquid inside the jar’s long gone cold, and the glass is vaguely stained brown. By the machine’s side, there’s a prehistoric-looking tub of powdered coffee creamer. Hanbin’s voice is slow-paced and he wears a somewhat troubled expression as he continues, “I suggest not to, because nobody really knows how long that coffee’s been in there and at this point everyone’s scared of dumping it out.”
Gyuvin kind of wants to tap on it like it’s a fish tank, just to see if a little critter will pop up from beneath the sea of caffeine. He manages to hold back despite his poor impulse control, but that’s only because he wouldn’t want to be tasked with cleanup in the event this sh*t breaks.
Hanbin’s office door is a dark shade of brown, and there’s a golden plaque reading out his name and title at eye-level. Right below it, there’s now a neon pink sticky note reading out, AND KIM GYUVIN, HR ASSISTANT! :)
By the time Gyuvin gets to settle down into his brand-new desk chair, it’s almost as though he’s being swallowed up by its soft cushions. He’s melting with all the exhaustion a 40-minute walk through several floors of the building brings forth, head leaned back in a way his cervical aligns perfectly against the headrest. His limbs are heavy, but if he stretches his leg out just right –
There’s the gentle swing of the door, and any hope of getting a quick nap in on company time evaporates into a distant pipe dream.
The little cloud is chased further away by the kind sound of Hanbin’s voice, soft as it permeates into the depths of his eardrums. In his cranium, it echoes: “Umm… Gyuvin-ah?”
When Gyuvin cracks an eye open and immediately adjusts his (Gunwook’s) necktie to straighten it out, he’s met by a sheepish little grin and a gigantic f*cking stack of papers in the box Hanbin carries. “Sorry to interrupt!” This guy’s so polite it hurts. Maybe Gyuvin should work harder… “But could you please help me sort these documents by date and type? They’re purchase orders for different things around the organization. Payroll usually takes care of these things, but…”
But you’re a bit of a pushover, boss. Just a teensy, tiny bit.
Hanbin scratches the back of his neck, a small scar visible on his forearm under the fold of his rolled-up sleeve. “But! They’re stuck with a huge backlog of other stuff, so they asked us for help. I have a big meeting right after this, so I won’t be able to assist you, but I trust you’ll be able to take care of it.”
Us. Does payroll even know Gyuvin exists?
(Well, he’d sure hope they do. He has bills to pay, and by that he means Eumppappa’s food.)
Squeezing his eyes several times in rapid succession as if to will the last remnants of sleep away, Gyuvin rises to his feet then, just in time to receive the box Hanbin offers. It’s heavier than it appears, his arms temporarily dipping under the surprise of the weight. But he manages a smooth recovery, and swiftly sets it down on his side of the desk before his arms can betray him again.
“Sure,” it comes out a tad squeakier than he means for it to, so Gyuvin clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get all that sorted out, boss.”
Hanbin dismisses him with a little wave of his hand, “Just call me Hanbin. Boss feels a little stiff, and we’re all equals here!” While he knows Hanbin’s completely serious about this, it’s just sort of funny when he very likely makes twice as much as Gyuvin himself does.
But that’s just him being bitter, really, so he shakes his head to get those thoughts out of there and returns Hanbin’s smile instead. “Alright, Hanbin. Don’t worry, I got this!”
*
The fact of the matter is Kim Gyuvin does not, in fact, ‘got this.’
Because this glorified receipt for a ridiculous amount of plastic cups – oh, won’t someone please think of the environment? – has grown eyes of its own and is staring back at him as he grapples with the very real dilemma of what category, exactly, to sort this sh*t into. Because while he can’t immediately declare them to be office supplies, it’s not like he can’t fully rule it out either…
Thing is that after two hours, a Hanbin-sponsored coffee (caramel macchiato, whole milk, extra sugar) and half the box’s worth of papers, a problem greater than where to assign the plastic cups arises: he kind of really, really needs to pee.
Hanbin’s door softly clicks shut behind him, and he’s presented with the intimidating expanse of the open plan part of the fifth floor. The only private offices here, as far as he knows, are Hanbin’s, Taerae’s, and Hao’s. The rest of the desks are arranged out in the open so surely it can’t be that hard to find the bathroom, and if he explores he’s bound to stumble across it soon enough.
He thinks to ask Taerae about it, but that doesn’t seem to be a great idea when Gyuvin stands in front of his door, fist raised and ready to knock, only to be met by some hushed and, might he add, very strongly worded sentences coming from the other side.
You know what they say. No matter how bad your day may be there’s always, always someone out there having a much worse time. Gyuvin’s fist listlessly drops to rest by his side.
Maybe he can try to figure it out on his own.
He tries, he does, but in the midst of his quest his peripheral vision catches sight of Hao’s door and he figures asking might just beat walking around like some dumbass looking for something he might just never find by himself because his sense of direction is kinda terrible. Just ask his dad about that time he took the opposite route of the subway he was supposed to and his dad had to come fetch him all the way across the city, and –
And he sets towards Hao’s office. The door is still closed, and while he doesn’t have the Hanbin-exclusive privilege of walking in like that’s his own office, maybe three polite knocks will do.
Or perhaps four for good measure, he contemplates as his eyes find the ceiling and very nearly burn into a crisp under the aggressive, fluorescent lighting. But when his eyes roll back down, they’re not on Hao’s door.
Rather, they find a crown of bleach blonde hair peeking up from behind a monitor.
Well, this should do. Spending his entire school life and then some getting manners drilled into his brain like some sort of makeshift lobotomy has to come in handy for something now, even if all he’s used those skills for so far is to beg his professors for extensions on assignments. He’s a grown adult in the working world, and it’s about time he starts acting as such.
So Gyuvin breathes in and straightens up his posture, needing the extra confidence boost he can only get that way, voice nearly uncharacteristically soft when he says: “Excuse me, do you know where the bathroom is…?”
Silence hangs thick in the space between him and this comically large computer monitor. It stills, microscopic dust particles and all, only for the blonde head of hair to suddenly raise in search of him.
As he takes in the other’s eyebrows, thick and perfectly arranged, Gyuvin’s own lower to ponder a familiarity he can’t (or doesn't want to) pinpoint. His gaze wanders in nauseatingly slow motion just a centimeter lower to meet his eyes, dark and cat-like, and that’s when it’s all over. The silence shatters into tiny crystals, and they dig deep into all the parts of Gyuvin’s skin that aren’t melting under this stupid suit.
“Sorry, I don’t know,” answers Shen Ricky, head tilted a slight angle to the right (in that way Gyuvin’s quickly learning he does when he wants to mess with him). “It’s my first day, so I don’t know my way around the floor yet.” He has the gall to smile, faux-apologetic, and…
And then his eyes flicker back to his monitor to presumably focus on his work, leaving Gyuvin with the burden of introspection (namely, why being ignored is pissing him off as much as it is. He doesn’t need to say that part out loud in his own head, and can choose to merely leave it as a fleeting whisper in there. One not even the most remote of his brain cells will catch. So it’ll scurry down the metaphorical drain and reach his stomach, where it’ll promptly dissolve in acid and that’ll be the end of its short little sad life).
“Alright.”
“Alright?” The other’s voice drips of confusion and something else, but Gyuvin doesn’t really want to stick around long enough to find out what it is. So he turns around with little more than another echo of ‘alright’ under his breath, and promptly makes a beeline out of the entire f*cking office and down the hallway to find the elevator, because apparently there’s not one damn bathroom on this entire god damned floor.
Oh, how he loves the sixth floor. Not only does it have a bathroom – and a pretty comfortable one, at that. Have you ever seen a sink this pristine? – it also has a lack of annoying, attractive, annoyingly attractive Shen Rickys as if that wasn’t enough! What did they do on this floor, again? Marketing? Maybe it’s not too late to ask for a department transfer.
Then again Hanbin’s a pretty good boss so far, he mulls it over as he scrubs his hands clean. This soap has a ridiculous amount of foam, but it smells like berries and reminds him of the tear-free shampoo his mom used to get for him when he was younger. He always cried anyway so that was a total lie propagated by good advertising and a jingle that always got stuck in his head, but… Gyuvin reaches over to grab a paper towel, which tears apart halfway through. He grimaces, the too-thin paper getting stuck on his palms. It feels sort of smushy and wet and all kinds of gross.
So Hanbin’s a pretty good boss, and he’s heard enough workplace horror stories to go and risk that much. Perhaps he can just stay locked up in his (their) office the entire day. How would Hanbin feel about getting a mini-fridge?
*
The lead of Gunwook’s mechanical pencil breaks at the same time Gyuvin puts away his favorite bowl, the one with the blue and white stripes that converge into a spiral at the very bottom. It’s just the perfect size to hold his cup noodles when he wants to pretend he has his sh*t together enough to not eat them directly from their cup. “These things break every three words, I swear,” Gunwook complains with a grimace over Facetime, but he kind of looks more like an overgrown baby pouting after he didn’t get his favorite toy.
Or maybe that’s just Gyuvin’s own bias speaking, who’s to tell?
“I don’t know why you even write stuff down in pencil first and then go over it with a pen. Like, you’re just working twice as hard for no reason,” he folds the sponge so it’ll fit right into his mug, and scrubs hard in hopes of erasing the two-day old mystery stain within. “Anyways, so then he just looks up at me all like ‘ummm…. Sorry…. I don’t know… where the bathroom is…’ ” His attempt at mimicking the cadence of Ricky’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed, but that doesn’t mean it’s any good.
On his phone screen, Gunwook’s eyebrows furrow in amusem*nt as he seemingly tries to pick out just what is wrong with Gyuvin. It’s sort of a hopeless affair, but Gyuvin doesn’t let him know that simply because it’s funny when Gunwook gets frustrated upon not understanding something. He sputters out a laugh, and the lead of his pencil breaks again. “Hyung, what did the guy ever even do to you? Like, actually.”
Gyuvin sighs, dramatically loud and evidently long-suffering, and a plastic plate slips from his hands. It clatters uselessly against the pile of dishes still in the sink and Gyuvin makes a point out of sighing once more, just to make sure Gunwook fully comprehends just how awful his life currently is. “Take my f*cking job!” When he picks the plate back up, he scrubs at it with a renewed vigor. It’s little more than a channeling of his senseless rage, but the ends justify the means. In this case, he’s gonna have to annoy himself into washing six people’s worth of dishes.
Gunwook carefully sets his mechanical pencil down on top of his notebook, raising both hands to be in camera view. “Hyung, he didn’t, and I quote, ‘take your f*cking job,’ ” as if to really drive the point home, Gunwook makes air quotes at him. “He took the interview, just like you, and got the job fair and square. You can’t be hung up on this forever.”
Except he damn well can, and both of them know that much.
The proof of this comes in the way Gunwook rolls his eyes, a little fond but a lot more annoyed, as he picks his pencil back up when Gyuvin opens his mouth to speak again. “ ‘He got the job fair and square,’ ” now it’s Gunwook’s turn to be mocked by Gyuvin, and he doesn’t even bother to look up from his paper to see it happen.
Instead there’s a simple, noncommittal, “Gyuvin, I don’t talk like that.”
Squeaky voice makes another special appearance: “ ‘Gyuvin, I don’t talk like that.’ ”
Now, that does seem to be worth Gunwook’s attention. Because at the same time his head snaps up, presumably to chastise Gyuvin and argue he does not f*cking talk like that even though he clearly does, he presses his pencil a little too hard against his blameless notebook.
In usual Gyuvin fashion he, of course, pretends he doesn’t notice so he can successfully feign innocence. He rinses a cup, the water permeating into the long sleeves of his shirt. Gyuvin just makes a face at it before speaking again. “So, as I was saying! I know he thinks he’s sooo much better than me ‘cause he got the job we both were after, but my boss’ boss said there’s a lot of room for growth or whatever in my position so I’ll overtake this guy if it’s the last thing I do. Are you with me, Wookie?”
“Mm-hm.” He’s totally checked out. “Hey, hyung. Should I say furthermore or moreover? What sounds better?”
Gyuvin places a plate on the drying rack. “Furthermore, I think.”
“Cool,” there’s the faint sound of lead gliding against paper, “thanks, Gyuvin hyung.”
“No problem.” There’s something that looks a lot like disgusting mush in this bowl, and Gyuvin stares it down as if that’ll make it vanish at the same time his upper lip curls up with distaste. He doesn’t know who left that in there, but he’ll hunt them down and make them pay. “Right. So like, this f*cking guy…”
It’s about to be a long six months.
*
Later that night, Gyuvin turns off the lights and flops down onto his bed to lay on his back. It’s decorated by washed-out blue bedding with an assorted sports balls pattern that’s most certainly already lived out his full lifespan and then some, and the windows are adorned by curtains of a matching fabric. A familiar ceiling looms overhead, from which hangs a fan with three lightbulbs. One of them has long since gone out, but Gyuvin never bothered to change it. By its side there’s a neon green sticky hand, one of those that were all the rage at the playground just shy of fifteen years prior, that he’d never managed to… Well… Unstick.Back then he’d accidentally tossed it upwards during a spat with his little sister because he didn’t want her to have it, but the part he didn’t think through was that he was too short to reach up and too embarrassed to ask for help. Even though he’s beyond tall enough by now, he still can’t bring himself to take the poor thing down because there’s just something about it that pulls the entire aesthetic of the room together.
(WHAT DO YOU MEAN, IT’S BEEN FIFTEEN YEARS?
The thought alone upsets him a little bit, and thus Gyuvin folds it up to shove into the corner of a drawer between his underwear and a pair of sweatpants that don’t fit him anymore. It’s safely packed away now, to never see the light of day again.)
This room is just like he remembers it from last year and the one before that, and ten years before it as well, because sometimes it’s not the decorations the ones that change. It’s people that do, instead. Every time he walks through the threshold into his childhood bedroom he’s a different version of himself; a Gyuvin who’s ever so slightly improved from the last, yet fundamentally remains the same person at his core. Or, some days, the Gyuvin that walks through the door after getting home from school and immediately dumping his backpack by his desk is just a little bit worse than the one who’d left that same morning. Today’s Gyuvin had dumped a briefcase in place of a backpack, and neatly draped his suit jacket over the backrest of his chair.
And that much is fine, honestly, because people are always changing and regression isn’t always necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes, getting worse just means you’re experimenting as you try to find out who you really are.
That begs the question: Who is he really, then? Is he truly himself, or is he someone else?
Gyuvin groans into his pillow, drowsy in the after-dinner daze, train of thought deliberately missing the station and re-routing off his mental map as he pulls at the covers with clumsy hands to cover himself all the way up to the top of his head. The psychoanalysis can wait, as he’s much too tired after a hard day of work to entertain this crap today.
He’s also too tired to think of Shen Ricky’s stupid face, and most certainly too exhausted to let his mind wander onto Shen Ricky’s stupid black shirt tucked into his ridiculous black slacks highlighting his dumb slim waist just right, with the infuriating belt that costs about as much as the car he doesn’t have sitting pretty right under it, its glitz only serving to further irritate him.
When he haphazardly throws the sheets off of his head, he’s met by dim moonlight and his face is a lot hotter than it should be for a cool September night.
And that’s just Shen Ricky’s fault, really, because everything that’s gone wrong over the past two weeks or so is. First he shattered his hopes of marrying a sexy, young, rich CEO by not being a sexy, young, rich CEO. Then he went and took the position Gyuvin had spent so much time looking for with seemingly zero effort whatsoever, while Gyuvin himself unfairly gets stuck with lesser pay and a terrible work schedule and not even an assigned parking spot in the god damned company parking lot, for f*ck’s sake!
(Once again, he does not have a car. But that doesn’t matter, because a privilege is a privilege even if it’s useless to him. He just likes having the option.)
So then, it’s Shen Ricky’s fault.
In the same way it’s Ricky’s fault that his annoying heart-shaped lips are the image that comes to mind when Gyuvin closes his eyes and rolls over in bed, and it’s also his fault that Gyuvin recalls the pretty little ‘o’ his mouth had shaped into the other day. Briefly, he wonders what it’d be like if the ‘o’ was a little wider, a little rounder.
His eyes abruptly snap open only to be met by the neon green sticky hand. One of its fingers uselessly hangs downward. Gyuvin completely pushes the bed sheets off of himself, and sits up with the intention of opening the window only to find it’s already open.
(And that’s Ricky’s fault too, right? Just as Ricky’s exclusively the one to blame when Gyuvin’s mind wanders far, far away, all the way to the office and directly to Ricky’s stupid desk he’d nearly tripped over earlier that day. Speaking of that stupid f*cking desk, it’s big and sturdy and full of too many papers that probably don’t even actually matter. Papers he could so very easily push away to comfortably lean over the desk, just the right amount to reach out and grasp Ricky’s tie. It’d probably be some ridiculous material like organic mulberry silk or whatever, slipping through his fingers, but all Gyuvin would have to do is pull him in a little harder.
Oh, and Ricky would look up at him again. With those dark, cat-like eyes of his, prettily adorned by carefully applied makeup and topped off by a daring glint in his pupils. Gyuvin would take him up for the challenge, because Kim Gyuvin doesn’t lose. Especially not to Shen Ricky. There’d be the hint of a smirk playing on his lips, too, just to add insult to injury.)
Gyuvin hates Shen Ricky. He f*cking hates Shen Ricky for stealing his rightful job away from him, he f*cking hates Shen Ricky for getting the nice schedule, he f*cking hates Shen Ricky for getting his own desk and, most of all, he really f*cking hates how Shen Ricky draws him in without even having to try, for he wants to pull apart every bit of his deadpan front until it comes undone. Until he comes undone. It’s Shen Ricky that brings Gyuvin’s hand lower, lower, until it deftly slips underneath the waistband of his pajama shorts. Their material is soft when it brushes against his knuckles.
(As much as he’d like to keep gazing into his eyes, studying the way they look back at him with an impish sort of curiosity, Gyuvin thinks he’d much rather bend Ricky over his desk instead. He’d rather push his annoying, form-fitting black shirt upwards to bunch it up by his ribcage so he could splay his hands around his waist. And about the ridiculous black slacks? Yeah, they’d need to go too. As much as he enjoys the way they hug Ricky’s narrow hips just right, he figures they’d look far better around mid-thigh.
And then – oh, and then Ricky would angle his head just enough to glance back at him, a silent question hidden within his expression: are we doing this, or should I get back to my paperwork? I don’t know about you, but I actually have work to do.
Infuriatingly enough, that’d be all it took for Gyuvin to give Ricky what he wanted. What Gyuvin himself wanted, too, except he’d be hard-pressed to admit that in front of his coworker. Wouldn’t it be easy, then? The slap of skin against skin would echo around the empty office, with a frenzied Gyuvin maintaining a ruthless pace until the end. The thing to piss him off the most, then, would be the way Ricky would have no problem keeping up with him without breaking a sweat.
He’d handle Gyuvin at his worst like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done, and in the end he’d just sit up straight in his desk chair and adjust his tie like nothing happened at all. By the time Gyuvin made it back to his desk to catch up with the extra work Hanbin had entrusted onto him, there would be a single email waiting in his inbox:
﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍
RE: (!!) Meeting
To: [emailprotected]
From: [emailprotected]
Hello Mr. Kim,
I believe the matter has been settled satisfactorily.
Thank you for your attention.
Cordially,
Shen Ricky
Department of Administration
﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍
Satisfactorily? f*cking satisfactorily? They just had mind-blowing sex and that’s all he’d have to say about it? Even in his fantasies, leave it to Shen Ricky to push – no, more like mash the sh*t out of – his buttons.)
When he comes, hand sticky and uncomfortable, he isn’t pleased. Cleanup consists of little more than a rudimentary wipedown with a tissue that he promptly tosses into the trash bin nearby, and even if he misses the shot he doesn’t even have it in him to bother picking it up and promptly rolls onto his side instead.
As he drifts off to sleep, he wonders whether the framed pictures on the bookshelf by his bed are of himself or of someone who just so happens to look a lot like him.
*
His eyesight is still bleary as he drags his feet all the way into the bathroom, the time just shy of five in the morning, and his limbs might as well be made out of lead because try as he might to make them hurry or else he’ll be late to his second day in the office, it doesn’t quite work out as well as he’d hoped.
Well.
The part that matters is that he makes it into the shower, and if he’s on the brink of dozing off in the middle of shampooing his hair because he’s scratching his scalp a little too tenderly, that's nobody’s business but his own. The lavender scent of his shampoo doesn’t exactly help, either, but what does wake him up is the abrupt, disrupting loud horn of a car somewhere on the street below him.
So people here still drive like animals, even at five in the damn morning. Go figure.
Gyuvin blinks in rapid succession, both to get the stray water droplets and the last bits of fatigue out of them, and steps out of the shower. He roughly pats himself dry with the towel, only to let it hang off his shoulders as he steps into a clean pair of shorts. The Gyuvin he finds in the mirror then is one not unlike the one from midterms season, the one that looks like he’s holding on for dear life after narrowly escaping getting run over by a car and losing a fight against a raccoon that suddenly decided it had a problem with him and resolved to finish him off.
Upon arriving at the office that day, the first thing Gyuvin does is sit down in his cushy swivel chair and make himself right at home.
And, after a cursory glance to make sure Hanbin’s things really aren’t there yet, he scoots the chair over to the very center of the room and spins around in it so fast that for a moment his pace catches up with the rhythm of his pounding headache, and he doesn’t feel it at all.
As the pressure subsides, as fleeting a moment as it is, Gyuvin dumbly grins up at the ceiling even as the soles of his shoes hit the side of a cabinet and nearly send it tumbling down. Does it matter, then? He’d just pick its contents up and re-organize them if they spilled, hell, maybe he’d alphabetically sort them and all not only out of the kindness of his heart, but also…
Because that’s his job! He has a job! He’s made it! No more compulsively refreshing the job offers website, no more camping on PUBG or Call of Duty or Valorant or whatever game he and Gunwook have decided to obsess over that week, no more making Eumppappa his therapist against her will and, most of all, no more begging his dad for money for inane things he doesn’t even need which quite frankly makes the begging even more humiliating than it intrinsically is…
Success!
Or, at least, it’ll be when he gets his first paycheck.
Hanbin seriously hadn’t been lying when he said this coffee machine was f*cking haunted, or something like that.
(Okay, well. While Hanbin hadn’t actually mentioned anything about a ghost possessing it he might as well have, what with the scared sh*tless look he wore when introducing him to the appliance. An image is worth a thousand words, after all. Or, as is the case, five words: This sh*t is totally haunted. )
Because, you see, even the most strict of skeptics would be hard-pressed to ignore the apparent autonomy of the machine when it keeps turning off by itself every goddamn time Gyuvin presses the button to turn it on.
Gyuvin fixes the machine with a look, eyes flat and devoid of any joy for life, as if that’ll make it suddenly start working. It doesn’t, so that can only mean one thing — right as he raises his hand to try some classic percussive maintenance on the poor thing, the sound of approaching footsteps grows louder. Gyuvin’s hand changes directions towards himself instead, then, to very subtly rest against his hip.
“Umm… Morning. What are you doing?”
“Oh, uh. You know,” Gyuvin’s finger now reaches out towards the button once more, and the little orange light of the appliance turns on. It’s then that his hand can spare to give a dismissive little wave, and, “trying to make some coffee here, ‘cause I got too much work to make a run to the shop nearby.”
One step, two step.
There’s a nervous bead of sweat forming in Gyuvin’s brow. Are they gonna report him for manhandling the coffee machine? He’s innocent, he swears…!
And he’s also really good at giving the puppy dog eyes and lying his ass off so there’s that, too. But before jumping to conclusions and drawing up backup plans for the backup plans, the best strategy to follow is to play dumb. So, he does.
He resolves to make a peace offering, lips curved into a friendly smile reminiscent of customer service, as he slowly turns back to look at the newcomer. “Do you want a…?”
Gyuvin sees the form-fitting black slacks from his f*cking nightmares first, corners of his mouth drooping by the millisecond. His eyes take in the black dress shirt expertly tucked in at the waist second, and it’s almost humiliating how they help him recognize the other person before he even gets a look at his face.
“…Cup?” He only finishes because not doing it would be even more pathetic, really. Forget about the almost — this is totally, positively, utterly mortifying.
When they make eye contact, there’s a shameless glint of something Gyuvin’s not interested in figuring out playing in his eye. As if to answer his question, Ricky tilts the pink drink he holds upwards. “Thank you, but I already got a drink for today.”
Of course he’s so much better than Gyuvin with his smoothie. Go f*cking figure.
Ricky smiles, hint of gums teasing from behind his lips, but Gyuvin knows better than to think it’s some sort of olive branch. Still, Gyuvin smiles back. It’s no outstretched hand on his part, either.
When Gyuvin’s gaze returns to the appliance, the orange light still flickers with life.
There’s a low chuckle coming from his side, but Gyuvin doesn’t bother on dignifying it with a response (except his body kind of subconsciously does, because his brows suddenly relax. He doesn’t even know when he started frowning).
After that, there’s silence. There’s the gentle bubbling of boiling water, there’s the bustling sounds of the city beneath them, there’s the gentle clicking and clacking of diligent keyboards behind his back, there’s the annoying f*cking slurping of Ricky drinking his annoying f*cking smoothie, there’s the sing-song of Taerae’s cheerful voice as he calls out to a coworker whose name Gyuvin can’t yet associate to a face. But most of all, there’s silence.
Until there isn’t, because the switch of the coffee machine flips and a third person strolls up to them. Don’t any of these people know a guy’s morning coffee is sacred and private?
“Hey,” greets the third voice, Gyuvin’s eyes rising to peer up at him as he pours some coffee into his travel mug. His hair is blonde too albeit darker, and he’s got a contagious sort of grin to it. Gyuvin finds himself mirroring. “Which one of you guys is Hanbin’s assistant?”
Gyuvin dumps a spoonful of coffee creamer into his mug. “Me!” And then, because it seems like the professional thing to add, “anything I can help you with?” Gyuvin adds a second spoonful of coffee creamer, because it’s not like he has to pay for it anyway.
A hand comes up to blondie’s chest, almost as if he’s clutching his heart. “I’ve been looking for that guy like crazy all over this damn floor,” it’s now that Gyuvin realizes he’s not clutching his heart — rather, he’s holding an envelope. It’s a little crumpled up at the edges and all, but it’s more-or-less safe and sound.
“Yeah, he’s got a meeting… He won’t be here for another hour or so. Something about going upstairs? Dunno what’s up there, but…” Why’s he explaining this place to someone who’s worked here for presumably longer than his one day? Gyuvin listlessly stirs his coffee as he reorganizes the thoughts in his head. It’s a little hard with Shen Ricky’s stupid silhouette lurking in the edge of his peripheral vision and disrupting the peace of his thought process, but he makes it work. “Well, umm, surely you do.”
Blondie’s expression changes to one of understanding as he gives him a little nod. “Poor Bin-hyung. If he’s lucky, he’ll make it back here by lunch…”
It’s half past nine. What does he mean, lucky to be back by lunch?
“Right!” Now, that startles Gyuvin. His eyes widen and his posture squares up, but he wants to think he does a good job of concealing it because neither party mentions it. “Both of you are new, right? If you’re Hanbin’s assistant, then you’re…”
As Blondie’s eyes jump to Ricky, he finally puts that forsaken smoothie down. “I’m Ricky Shen, administrative assistant.”
The plastic of the spoon digs into the palm of Gyuvin’s hand. Sweetly, “and I’m Kim Gyuvin, human resources assistant. Pleased to meet you!”
Blondie’s bottom lip juts out in a pout, but he’s also sort-of smiling. It makes for a pretty funny expression. “Ah, you both remind me of when I was younger…” This guy can’t be all that much older than either of them, really. “my name’s Matthew. I work in the mailroom, so we’ll be seeing each other often!”
Ah, that explains the cute blue polo shirt instead of one of these stuffy button-ups. Then again Gyuvin’s not a fan of polo shirts either, so he’s not sure what he’d rather have.
“Anyways,” Matthew dominates the conversation, clearly. While Gyuvin’s all too used to being the loudest voice in the room half the time, he finds it’s a welcome reprieve from having to overanalyze every single word and movement of body language exchanged between him and Ricky. It’s now that Matthew finally extends the mysterious envelope in Gyuvin’s direction, “can you get this to Hanbin as soon as you see him? I’d usually just slip this in under his door, but it’s got the important stamp on it. Need to make sure it gets to him.”
A quick, curious glance down treats Gyuvin’s eyes to a hideous shade of yellow and big, block letters reading out URGENT!
Yeah, he gets the idea.
He looks back up at Matthew. “Sure, I’ll let him know.”
Matthew reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, friendly. “Cool. Thanks,” before parting, he gifts both of them a smile. “See you later!”
Matthew’s footsteps shrink, shrink, shrink… Until they’re finally gone, and Gyuvin takes a particularly long sip of his coffee before he turns to face Ricky once again. “I should get going, too,” he says, ever so slightly apologetic and with a little gesture of his eyes to match. “Got a backlog to catch up on.”
He’s not even done talking yet before his feet are already leading him away from Ricky’s side and towards the safe haven of his (their) office. “Later, Shen.”
*
“Wookie, you should’ve seen him with his stupid f*cking pink drink.”
On the other side of the line, Gunwook merely snorts. “God forbid a guy have a smoothie.”
