LOST IN TRANSLATION - MIHUN ENG VER

1 - lost

She has a night shoot, and he is sick of fancy hotel wallpaper wherever his eyes lay on. God, in form of the old taxi driver with distinct Japanese accent, takes the wheel and leads him to that LED, unmistakable Hangul sign in middle of neon lights of Kanji.

"HONEYS PUB".

The pub is quiet and empty, but warm with yellow lightning and old-school SOUL music. The inside is tight and cozy even without a living creature in sight, as hinted by the narrow door and humble sign.

Not that he minds much. All he wants is some shots of really bitter and strong whisky, and, maybe if lucky enough, some hometown-like sounds. A hometown-like sound that is not hers: not like a multilayered, unreadable, spiceful, tear-jerking onion.

There seems to be no guests but a broad shoulder facing out from behind the stall with alcohol stacked up.

He is baffled for a moment between speaking Korean or trying to start up with his two-day-learnt Japanese. His Korean, though, unfilteredly spills out first.

"Hi."

The man behind the bar turns to face him with a brief confusion on his face, but quickly flashes a bright smile. A bit too bright to greet some random moron who goes drinking at two in the morning, even.

"Hello." The young man gestures him to sit by the bar, his blinding smile not dimming down for a second.

The guest settles himself down on the chair with hesitation.

The server or owner or who-the-hell-he-can-be reaches out with a worn-out menu. "My apology. It's rather late now, so the chef is not here. Can't order any foods, I guess." His awkward voice suggests long time of not speaking Korean on a regular basis, but still comprehensive. "I live alone, and therefore there's only packed sushi and instant noodle. Should have some still if you wanna have strong alcohol."

The enthusiasm flusters him.

"Ah, I've already eaten. Not gonna have sore stomach. I'll just have a bottle of Hibiki 21, please."

The taller man – he realizes now that they are standing near – nods with that stupid smile still (did he mention he is allergic to smiles?). The bottle is put down next to the signature short glass for whisky.

He pours himself a full glass, and the other is gone by the moment he looks up. Man, how weird of himself. Clearly in need of some company, yet he pushes the only potential companion of a fool away by appearing distant.

The forementioned "fool" must be determined to prove the opposite, footsteps soundly storming from behind as he takes second sip. There he is – how could his cheek muscles not be tired of smiling so widely all the time? – with boxes of must-be-sushi and packs of noddle stacked up on his very wide arms.

"I understand how you think you're full. Trust me, so does everyone before having alcohol torturing their empty stomach. Now, do you want sushi or ramyun as the treat from me?"

"... Ramyun."

That smirk. That damned, victorious smirk. He wishes he could explain it. He wishes he is not the only one who would wonder where the joy could be in force-feeding an out-of-mind midnight-drinker.

The drinker assumes the other would just disappear again to cook the noodle, but he pulls out a saucepan from beneath the counter and heats up some water right there, taking away the potential moment of privacy that his guest would like to pretend to need.