#also i didnt kno lucas has a part time job but apparently now he works at a diner

[cir]

@luxinexitium:

he doesn’t sleep well these days. even after jolting awake, gasping and trembling, he can still hear the crunching of bones, the mangling of a slender throat. his fingertips buzz from the phanton feeling of flesh against them, twisted, torn, buried beneath his nails. coating him from head to toe, the thin sheen of sweat feels more like a spray of blood, iron fresh on his tongue as if it had all caught him by surprise. between each thunderous heart beat, he hears thepop and snap of joints, a strategic arrhythmia. he doesn’t waste another second to scramble out of the cold sheets, shoes hastily shoved on and bag slung over a shoulder before he bolts out the door.

the hour hand is nudging at two when he slinks into the diner, past the dingy glass door beneath a rusting bell. in the peace of the building, the chiming of the bell sounds more akin to a siren, and he hates it. beneath his eyes, sunken rings of lavender appear almost turquoise beneath green-tinted lights, but the melancholy he wears is not uncommon here. the woman behind the counter greets him without missing a beat, unperturbed by the listlessness of his gaze; as awful as he looks, she’s probably seen worse. out of habit, his gaze wanders towards the small window to the kitchen and spots the freezer door, lingering for a beat before darting elsewhere. (now is not the time for faraway memories and dry humour.)

his muscles groan in protest as he retrieves what little cash he has from the pocket of his jeans, straightening out the wrinkles and creases before counting the total, twice. it isn’t until after his gaze floats between the laminated menu on the counter and the bills in his hands, then back to the menu does he place his modest order for a single serving of chips. he is as slow to move as he is to speak, counting out his cash a third time before sliding it across the counter. fortunately, the server doesn’t seem to mind. there are only two other people in the diner, not counting the pair in the kitchen, and they look just about as close to death’s door as he does. there’s no rush.

somewhere between the sizzling of oil and the traffic signal switching from green to yellow, the familiar clink of a plate against the counter sings in greeting. he shouldn’t be disappointed upon the first bite, but an entire week of restless nights does nothing to stop the dip of something in his chest. it never tastes the same, never quite like that fateful night of hushed laughter and childish i dare you’s. the familiarity in his late night snack is nominal, and perhaps that’s for the best. in some petulant effort at staying awake, he starts stacking his chips like bricks and says to anyone who will listen– “they’re never crispy enough. always a little too soft for construction.” a brief pause to steady his precarious tower. “the chips, i mean.”

“Maybe you should give ‘em your good ole’talk, Lucas.” It’s far past one in the morning when Minjoo speaks it into their conversation. “Maybe you’ll make a friend.” 

Lucas’ gaze falls on the stranger, who is really not such a stranger to him, whether Kyungsoo knew or not. He was a frequent here, sitting at the same exact stool. Made his way in around these weird, limbo hours, ordered anything fairly cheap and quick on the menu, then barely touched the food only to linger for a while, only to leave. 

Kyungsoo has become a pattern to him, more or less.

It takes him a little further into two when he finds the push to put it into action. He’s still got a broom in his hand, making motions of sweeping the floor haphazardly in the path towards Kyungsoo. When he arrives at the point across from him at the counter, he picks up his mumbling and immediately responds. 

“You’re actually quite, dead on!” He laughs. The sound is nervous, and he’s not really sure why -- it’s not common to him. He looks for something to put blame on, “...it’s because of the time of the hour, you know.” and immediately pushes it off his psyche onto the time on the clock.

“I’ll uh, let you in on something.” He leans in a bit closer, his hand placed by his lips as if to protect the secret being told by his too-loud of a whisper. “We stop really ‘cooking’ anything past midnight. Unless you’re a real regular, as deemed by Joo, our manager over there.” As if on cue, the introduction elicits a wave then a double thumbs up from Minjoo. “It’s hard to run a diner in a time like this keeping the fry-fryer running all night and all morning, so. We tend to cut a few legal walls, and this is definitely one of them! No, wait. Legal ceilings? Legal floors. Huh.” 

“Corners.” He lights up, visibly. “Corners! Legal corners.” 

A big grin stretches onto his lips, toothy and teethy. Although he hasn’t been granted it, he takes another step forward, closing in the space between them. “But I know you’re a regular, so you’re a regular to me.” He places the broom to rest up against the wall, before pointing to his name tag. “I’m Lucas. Not sure how you’re going to feel with me telling you this, but I make all the sandwiches you order, when you do, anyway. This is the only time Minjoo ever lets me back there in the kitchen, so I kinda just go for it.” 

When he stops talking, there’s the faint sound of the neon sign buzzing right on their left. When he focuses, he thinks he can hear the muffled radio coming on from the kitchen, where Hyukjoo is tidying up the skillets. It’s only when he stops talking that he realizes the diner is dead quiet, except for him.

“Shoot, I’m sorry.” He fumbles his words, and the broom behind him falls to the ground, tumbling the same. “I just wanted to come over here to let you know that... since you’re a regular, lemme know if you want an extra cup of tea or a serving of lemon pie. Can’t guarantee it being any good, but it’s on the apartment! On the... on the building.” 

“House. Yeah!”