Chapter Text
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Day 1
“Who the fuck are you?”
It’s San’s first day on his new route.
He’s been driving public transportation in Seoul for the last two years, usually subbing in for hard-working constituents who call out sick or take a vacation, usually driving a bus. It’s enough to make ends meet and it affords him an intimate knowledge of the city he loves.
Plus, he enjoys learning more about Seoul’s inhabitants.
Fingers floating mid-air, San looks through the threshold. There’s a man standing on the curb just outside the open doors, purple hair, oversized clothes, freshfaced and scowling.
Pretty, San thinks dimly.
“I said, who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the bus driver.”
“No shit, Sherlock. But where’s the real one?”
San frowns. His first stop and he’s already about to be behind schedule. “The usual bus driver had a knee replacement surgery and will be in recovery for a while. I’m filling in.”
The man’s jaw drops open with a sharp gasp. “What? He didn’t tell me about it. Are you lying?”
“I’m not, but we’re on a schedule, so you can either get on or wait to catch the next bus in six minutes.” San tries to control the pinch in his tone, smoothing it out to professional and curt.
“Excuse me?” The man scoffs, stepping onto the raised platform. “Clearly no one gave you the low down on this route, gisa-nim,” he bristles. “You might have the privilege of driving vehicle 2469, but I own this bus.” He steps closer, close enough to feed his T-money pass into the scanner, close enough for San to notice smudges of brown eyeliner, dangling hoop earrings. “My name is Jung Wooyoung, and from now on you will answer to me.”
His card pops back out of the machine, the digital counter granting access. The man snatches it between two fingers, presses it to his lips, then uses it to blow San a kiss as he angles away.
San’s stuck gazing through the open door, the few people gathering under the roof of the small stop waiting for other routes, drinking coffees, reading papers. He’s frozen, fingers still hovering above the commands.
“Better keep driving, gisa-nim. We’re on a tight schedule.”
Snapping out of it, San finally hits the controls, shifts into drive, and pulls away.
It’s 7:04 AM. He’s been on the job for 19 minutes. 15 driving the bus from the depot, 4 getting properly introduced to passenger number one.
It’s just him and Jung Wooyoung while they travel to station number two a few minutes away. He hears a small ‘pop’, more like a click, and glances in his fish eye mirror just to make sense of the noise, just to see where his passenger decided to sit.
But San doesn’t find him.
A click again. San checks the road, checks his mirror. He jumps when movement catches at the corner of his eye. Almost imperceptibly, he turns. There - the first seat, closest to the front, facing the interior of the bus. The best place to keep an eye on the driver.
“Don’t worry, I’m right here. If you have any questions just ask.”
San huffs internally. This guy.
As they pull up to the next stop San glances at Wooyoung. He’s holding the plastic lid of a take-out coffee in one hand, the other set in a wide grip around a square carton of 2% milk, the kind you buy for a won at 7-11 or get along with your primary school breakfast. The styrofoam cup itself is held precariously between his knees. As they come to a soft halt Wooyoung pours as much of the milk into the container as will fit, folding its spout closed and setting it aside. He grabs the red swizzle stick held between his teeth to give it a stir.
Two people rise from the metal bench. A line forms at the door.
“You shouldn’t have open beverages on a moving vehicle.”
“As long as you drive as well as your predecessor we aren’t going to have a problem.”
San opens the door. A young man boards, headphones draped around his neck, followed by an older woman with stockings and loafers and a beaded purse clutched to her chest. They nod at San. San nods back. But it’s cursory, because the moment their cards return out of the machine they turn and nod at Wooyoung, too.
“Good morning Wooyoung-ssi,” then, “Hello there Wooyoung-ah.”
Wooyoung smiles brilliantly at passenger number two, still swirling his plastic stick into the fawn-brown brew. “Morning Jongho-yah.” He offers passenger three a sweet grin and a nod. “What a lovely dress you have on today, Mrs. Park. Blue is certainly your color.”
Hmm.
They make it through a few more stops, Wooyoung recapping his coffee, placing the half-empty milk carton next to a backpack on the adjacent seat. San hadn’t noticed Wooyoung wearing a backpack.
More people board. More acknowledgements of San.
More formal, informal, reverent, friendly, consistent greetings to the man in the first seat.
More curbs, more hellos. Wooyoung lights a cigarette.
“You can’t smoke on the bus.”
“Try to stop me.”
San cringes. He had a feeling that trying to correct this apparent local celebrity wasn’t going to go over well.
Heat catches the end of the cig. A sizzle fraternizes with the hum of oversized automobile.
“It’s against the law, and it’s rude to the other passengers.”
Wooyoung inhales, standing to pop open the thin, horizontal window above his seat. He keeps the smoke between his cheeks until he can exhale into the now-open glass. He sits again, watches San’s gaze flicker between the road and the corner of his eye, expectant. This time Wooyoung juts his lower lip out to send the haze directly up into the air, where it gets caught and cast out by the warm city breeze.
“Listen. Your respect for the job is cute, but I run this show. I've occupied this seat on this route for the last three years.”
“That doesn’t-”
“Everyone already knows that I keep the peace while you're locked up in that dingy plastic castle with a bucket seat molded into the shape of someone else's ass, eagerly awaiting your too-short lunch break so you can finally unwrap that soggy tuna sandwich smelling up the inside of your hand-me-down lunch pail.”
San’s shocked. This is the first time someone’s ever treated him quite like this.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. San parts his lips to form an argument. Too slow.
“So, no, I will not stop smoking on this bus."
San shuts his mouth again, unable to control the glare he sends in Wooyoung’s direction. Wooyoung holds eye contact the next time he exhales.
“Just drive.”
From start to finish, bus route 421 lasts 66 minutes. And for 66 minutes, bus driver Choi San has been convinced that passenger number one has to get off at the next stop. Or the next one. Or the next. Or even the one after that. But he doesn’t. Others come and go, Wooyoung finishes his coffee, drinks the rest of his milk, stubs out his cigarette, but he doesn’t leave.
As they glide up to the final curb on the route, close to the Han river, Wooyoung’s the only one left. San pulls behind a different 421, turning the vehicle off for his first break of the day. Drivers always have the ability to step out and stretch their legs at the end where the route starts over from back to front, depending on how you look at it. There’s always at least one or two other busses, other drivers, at different stages of relaxing or setting off again. There’s usually a convenience mart or a hotel lobby or a church or something else with a bathroom, and it’s not too bad. Sitting all day isn’t the worst when there are enough opportunities to break it up.
“This is the last stop.”
Crossing one leg over the other, Wooyoung nods, leaning back. “Yes it is. Honestly, for your very first drive, I’m impressed you didn’t mess up. Good job.”
San blinks at the unexpected compliment. “Thanks. But that means you have to get off.”
Wooyoung’s slight smile turns into a frown. “No. This isn’t my stop.”
“But this is the end. Then we backtrack -”
“I understand how busses work, gisa-nim. In 15 minutes you’ll be starting back up and driving with the traffic on the other side of the road. I’ll be joining you, so there’s no need to exit.”
San unbuckles his seatbelt, then stands. “You have to leave. I need to stretch and stop in that CU over there,” he points, “and that means I have to lock the bus. You can’t stay on without the driver.”
Wooyoung’s frown deepens. His tongue pokes into his cheek. “My seat will get cold.”
Unbelievable.
“Then you should have brought a heating pad, Jung Wooyoung-ssi, because I happen to know the security guard well enough to understand that he isn’t afraid to manhandle someone giving a hard-working civil-servant trouble on their first day.”
It’s a staredown. San standing behind his wall of protective glass, Wooyoung sitting in his chosen place. Finally, Wooyoung snaps his tongue.
“How long do you plan on being our substitute driver?”
“Until your regular driver recovers from surgery.”
“Then what you need to know is that I’m also well acquainted with our apparent mutual friend who hangs out in that booth over there,” Wooyoung gestures with his hands, eyes never leaving San’s, “and that he’s well aware of bus 2469’s amicable Jung Wooyoung and all the services he provides for this city’s transportation system.” He stands, walks up to the glass until his breath turns the pane foggy against the early air of a new September morning. They’re close, a foot away. Maybe more. Feels like less. “Perhaps you should spend some time learning just what kind of route you’re filling in for, asshole, before someone else has to teach you.” He retreats to sling his backpack over his shoulder, the too-big sweatshirt bunching up around the strap. “We will revisit this conversation. Go take a piss or eat an egg or whatever the fuck you need to do. I’ll be right here when you get back.” He slips through the front door, pulling the box of cigarettes from his pocket as he goes.
San watches Wooyoung wave at the security guard as he passes by, lifting the stick to his lips. When the guard actually returns the motion, San can’t help but blanch in surprise.
And when San exits the CU with a sealed shot of convenience espresso and a mostly-eaten banana, he continues to be surprised. He recognizes his passenger leaning up against that security box, eyes crinkling, peals of throaty laughter echoing as he and the guard giggle at something shared, something that’s theirs. Abruptly, they notice him and glance in his direction. San tosses the peel in the trash and carries the espresso on board, noticing when Wooyoung whispers up at the man and then saunters away, a smirk on his lips, a hand running through his lavender hair.
He really wasn’t bluffing.
Wooyoung waits patiently to the side as the bus is unlocked, a ghost of a smile playing along his features when San glances his way. He doesn’t need to say anything. That look is enough. He knows San’s impressed.
There’s no one else waiting when they start off again, both back in their respective seats. They ride in silence for a while, and when no one gets on at the second stop, or the third, San decides to speak.
“Which stop will you be getting off at, then?”
He doesn’t have to check to know that Wooyoung’s looking at him. He can feel his gaze burning through his cheek. He’s felt it this whole time.
“The one where we started.”
“That’s another hour away.”
“Gisa-nim. Haven’t you learned by now? I know.”
San pulls up to another curb, waiting a few seconds before deciding no one is boarding, making a motion to close the doors and move on.
“Wait!” Wooyoung shouts, San’s hand pauses in air. “Hongjoong-ah gets on here. You can’t leave yet or he’ll be late to school.”
San glances out his side mirrors, sees no one approaching. “There’s no one coming.”
“Just give him a second, sometimes he gets held up-”
“This isn’t a taxi service and I’m not waiting around-”
“There he is!” Wooyoung’s turned around, leaning over the back of his bench seat and pointing. San can’t see from his angle, the rear of the bus blocking the way.
“If I can’t see him he’s not close enough, this is just-”
In the distance, a voice cries, “Wooyoung-ah!”
San tries again. “This is ridiculous, we’re leaving, there’s another bus a few minutes-”
Wooyoung whips around and bites him off. “No. You’ll make up time between stops 34 and 35 - the southbound traffic is good at this hour - and no one gets on between stops 42 and 44 until after 10:00AM, so shut up and hold the door open.”
Speechless, San holds. A moment later a petite man with chunky glasses leaps on board, panting, hands on his knees in front of the card reader. Red faced and huffing he turns to Wooyoung and gifts him the sweetest smile San has ever seen on another human being.
“Wooyoung-ah! Thank you! Ah-” he exhales, shuddering, pressing a hand to his heaving chest, “You literally always save me.”
“Of course, hyung. That’s what I’m here for,” he beams.
For the first time today, another passenger speaks directly to San. “Hi, new bus driver. Do you know Wooyoung yet?”
“I’m getting to know him.”
“Ah,” the man smiles. “He’s so great. We’re all really lucky he’s here. I don’t know how I’d survive without him, honestly.” Growing tired of Wooyoung’s smug look, San glances down at the ticket in Hongjoong’s hand. “Oh! Sorry,” he says as the payment processes. “My name is Kim Hongjoong, gisa-nim, and I also ride this bus every day. I have to make this time or I’ll be in trouble at work. I’m so glad you waited for me.” He smiles, big, before reclaiming his card and finding a seat in the middle, placing his heavy messenger bag on the open space next to him. As they drive, San notes the pad of paper, the pen, the way Hongjoong places the cap behind his ear and nibbles on the end.
Passengers come and go; they make small talk with Wooyoung, they generally ignore San. Doors open, close. Enter, exit. Sounds of pavement, hinges creaking, leather shifting, pages turning, Wooyoung lighting another cigarette.
The roads aren’t new to San, especially not the well-travelled streets around busy Seoul Station, through expat-friendly Itaewon, back alongside bougie Gangnam.
Kim Hongjoong gets off at the Sookmyung Women’s University station, calling goodbye to both Wooyoung and San and tittering “Have a good day” at the other passengers.
And then they’re on the southbound Wooyoung mentioned, and the traffic is good. And if San notices that Wooyoung’s right again when no one boards between 42 and 44, he doesn’t mention it.
They end the route at Wooyoung’s stop, the very first, or last, a full 2 minutes ahead of schedule.
Wooyoung’s leaning his chin on his palms, elbows resting on his knees. He’s watching him. When San turns in confrontation, Wooyoung smirks. “See? You had nothing to worry about. You did great - we’re even early.”
San stands, getting ready to disembark and stretch again, maybe grab a mid-morning muffin, some tea. He’s usually not afraid to admit defeat, or to praise someone for doing well. He can admit when he’s wrong. But, with this guy, it’s really freaking hard. “Thank you.”
It’s Jung Wooyoung’s attitude. It’s his, 'I own this bus, I know these people,' better-than-you attitude that San’s struggling to handle. Sure, he’s just filling in temporarily. Sure, someone who rides this bus every day is definitely going to know the route better than him. Sure, the original driver and the passengers might have formed good relationships. Sure. That’s all fine. But waving one’s perceived superiority does not jive with San.
“It’s my civic duty,” Wooyoung winks.
San waits for Wooyoung to leave.
He doesn’t.
San taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “So-”
“Ah,” Wooyoung stands, “You’re right. 15 minute break. Got it. I’m gonna stop in that cafe - they’ve got good coffee. Want anything?”
San’s jaw drops. He can only ask, voice quiet, “You’re staying on?”
Wooyoung looks mildly exasperated. “Yes, yes. How many times do I have to say it?”
“Oh.”
----
15 minutes later, the whole thing begins again.
----
They’re somewhere between hours seven and eight, on the final trip south. It’s been a long first day.
Patience and benign courtesy will get you places in a job like this. Apparently, Wooyoung witnessed that, too.
“I’m afraid we didn’t get off on the right foot this morning, gisa-nim.” San invokes the right to remain silent. “You see, I don’t take kindly to change, so when I saw your face behind the wheel, I didn’t like that. Not because it isn’t attractive or anything - oh no, gisa-nim, that’s not the problem. But, actually, maybe it is a problem, because every time you took a sip of convenience store espresso when we hit a bump in the pavement and those droplets rolled out the corner of your mouth and down your chin and along your neck until you finally had a chance to take your hand off the wheel to catch them, it was a problem. And, since it’s coffee after all, I’m sure your skin was still a little sticky, no?” Wooyoung pulls the packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, tapping the box to get one free. He places it between his teeth and fishes a lighter out of his pants. It’s blue. “I just think it’s a damn shame that you have to wait so long to clean it off in some public bathroom, don’t you?” The lighter clicks a few times, and San knows it’s caught when he hears the sizzle. “So,” Wooyoung takes a drag, “I guess it is a problem.”
Apparently, Wooyoung witnessed more than just San’s benevolence.
He doesn’t realize how hard he’s clutching the steering wheel until his fingers seize up from the strain. It makes turning corners difficult.
“But the real problem is that I don’t like change, and I don’t like liars either.”
San waits, knowing what Wooyoung wants. They turn a few more corners, then he takes the bait.
“When did I lie, Jung Wooyoung-ssi?”
Wooyoung laughs dryly. “Oh no, not you gisa-nim. I think you’re too righteous for that. Shownu lied.”
“Shownu?”
“Mm. The real bus driver.” Ah.
“Because he didn’t tell you he was going to be out for recovery?”
“Because he said, ‘See you tomorrow.’”
Wooyoung lets off a drag as they pull into the last stop where people actually get off.
He wonders if now that they’re alone Wooyoung will say more.
He doesn’t. When the time comes, he just stands and walks away.
-----
Day 2
“Good morning, gisa-nim.”
Wooyoung boards. He’s wearing baggy clothes again. Another pair of pants, different t-shirt, same hoodie. San notices the backpack this time. The card gets swiped through the reader. Wooyoung smiles to himself before flinging his backpack down on the bench of seats. San hopes there isn’t a full coffee in there this time. Automatically upon sitting Wooyoung leans back and crosses an ankle over a knee, his arms spread eagle across the top of the bench like he’s about to put his elbow around someone at the movie theatre. San feels a gaze on his cheek as he quietly closes the doors and pulls away.
It’s silent until there’s a soft sigh.
He notices a rustle of movement out of the corner of his eye, catching the glint of metal in the light when Wooyoung pulls out a thermos, and by the smell when he pops off the lid, it’s coffee again. Looks like it’s already made up, no add-ins waiting on standby this time. He slips in a metal straw, twirls it, then slides it through the lid. Rather sustainable for someone who used styrofoam and plastic sticks the day before.
Wooyoung catches him looking.
“It’s hazelnut today.” He takes a sip, recrosses his legs.
San doesn’t respond. Maybe if he plays dead, Wooyoung won’t pay him any more attention.
It’s not that he doesn’t like Wooyoung. Actually, after their conversation yesterday afternoon, San feels like he might be catching on. Even so, it’s only his second day and there’s too much to learn to be on edge from the get go.
Fortunately, Wooyoung spends the majority of their round trip talking to passengers, sharing fruit snacks with children and young parents, pretending to mix up Hongjoong’s papers when he sets them out. He talks to them about the weather, about the best baseball players in Korea, about which dog has to go to the vet for a tooth cleaning and why dental care for animals is so damn expensive. It’s mostly them sharing, Wooyoung asking follow-ups to keep the conversation flowing. San finds that surprising. But what he does learn about Jung Wooyoung is that he lives in a one-bedroom apartment, probably alone, with a few plants that he claims reflect his own being: when they’re sick, he’s sick, when he’s sunburned, they’re sunburned. He also gives advice about rotating peaches on the counter so they don’t get bad on one side, about putting salt in coffee grounds to cut the bitter taste, about which store has the best rubber stamps for wedding invitations with customizable font but the place is all the way in Sinchon-dong and to get there you take Line 2, the green train, but get your cardstock somewhere else because it’s overpriced.
San wonders how he knows all this.
When they near the end of day two, back at Wooyoung’s stop, San decides to risk it and ask. He doesn’t want Wooyoung to know he’s interested, but he’s about to get off anyways so if things get weird he won’t have to see him until tomorrow.
“...Jung Wooyoung-ssi?”
Wooyoung’s been laying down across the seat bench, bunched up backpack as his pillow, thermos still lodged in between two yellow bars as a makeshift cup holder. He’s been tapping his foot to a beat. There’s no music.
At San’s call, he stirs.
“Gisa-nim?” San hears him shift like he’s sitting up, scooting closer. “You called me, gisa-nim?”
“...Isn’t sleeping on the bench uncomfortable?”
“I wasn’t sleeping. I don’t sleep on moving vehicles.”
“Okay. But didn’t anyone ever tell you bus seats are rife with bacteria and public transportation is a hotbed of viral spread?”
Wooyoung blinks. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“You should know better than most, gisa-nim, that the Seoul metropolitan system is very diligent about cleaning, and that every night all surfaces within reach are sanitized to an inch of their life. You pick the bus up and drop it off every day - don’t you know this?”
He had, but that wasn’t the point.
They’re quiet while San tries to figure out where he went wrong.
He glances over, but Wooyoung’s not looking. He’s staring out the window at the slow line of gray buildings, their yellow and red and blue neon signs creeping by.
“I stay awake so others can sleep.”
San doesn’t know how to respond.
“Was there something else you wanted to ask me, gisa-nim? As much as I appreciate your concern for my health, sweetheart, I don’t think that’s what you really intended to say.”
They make the final turn of the route, back on a main street. The last few stops. There’s no one else onboard.
The moment feels raw, like tender needlepoint in a busted oak frame.
It’s raw enough San finds the courage to ask.
“What do you do for a living?”
A flash of teeth. Wooyoung’s smiling. Or smirking. “Aww! Gisa-nim! You like me?”
A little too raw, perhaps.
San blanches. “That’s not what I said, I simply asked- “
“Aaawww, gisa-nim. I called you out and now you’re flustered? So sweet.”
San sputters for a minute, hands torn between gripping the wheel tighter or flinging through the air to fend off that baseless accusation.
Wooyoung laughs and cuts him short. “Don’t worry gisa-nim, I won’t tell anybody. You do a good job of seeming stoic in front of the other riders, but you can’t hide from me. I know everything about what happens here.” He pauses, looking out the window, but makes no move to collect his belongings. He’s still smiling when he says, “I’d tell you to take me out to dinner first but I like it when things are a little unorthodox. Besides, I know your hours, and brunch would be more appropriate, don’t you think? And,” he adds, “things in the daylight are a little less expectant.” He laughs again, eyeing the curb as they roll up. He stands in a flash, walking to the front door this time. Just when he’s about to descend, just when San thinks he can let out a breath, Wooyoung turns around. He walks up to the glass divider between them.
San’s caught. He can’t look away. A few strands of Wooyoung’s purple hair catch in the breeze through the open door, whisping around the tops of his studded ears, across the pink of his cheeks. Wooyoung leans in, leans in more, leans in until San’s sure he’s going to kiss the glass and leave imprints of his lips in that off-white, only there in the right light, only there to impress you with their perfect shape and their full texture and that little space in between where if those lips had been on skin they would have sucked a patch into his mouth, to nip.
But they don’t. Instead, Wooyoung leans in until his nose grazes the surface and his lips leave warm, cloudy huffs against the barrier. San dumbly remembers it’s the beginning of fall. Wooyoung breathes until it’s opaque, until San can’t see anything but the crown of his head or the place on his chest where the zipper holds his sweatshirt together. Then, he starts to draw. He’s quick and San’s brain is feeling slow, watching that fingertip work until he realizes it’s writing. It’s writing numbers.
Wooyoung is writing his phone number in the fog on the glass.
He ducks to meet San’s eyes underneath it. He winks, standing to walk away. “Text if you need anything.”
Then, he disembarks. San sees him look over his shoulder, meet eyes, and wave.
Finally, San exhales.
----
He didn’t write it down, the number.
But when he deposited the bus at the depot that evening, he found himself breathing on the glass, too.
He didn’t write it down, but he remembered it.
----