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Arthur doesn't notice him at first— the bloke is practically curled up in the tight space behind the wall of the driver’s cabin and the window. His feet are planted on the edge of his seat, knees up against his chest, and he’s looking down at his phone, thumb flicking up surprisingly quickly. His shock of black curly and ridiculously messy black hair all Arthur can see.
Arthur glances around the bus to see its other occupants. It’s pretty crowded, not a seat available, people bumping shoulders on the aisle. Mixed scents of cheap colognes, sweat, fast food and other unpleasant smells.
Arthur can’t help wrinkling his nose. Public transport is not his scene. It makes him feel out of place.
There’s a tired-looking middle-aged man rocking a babbling infant in his arms, a tall brown-skinned woman with coloured tattoos spreading across her neck and shoulders applying some more lipstick on, a young lad reading a book as he massages his thick beard in thought. A teen couple is kissing on and off, the girl sitting on the boy’s lap, attracting a few looks, among them the elderly woman’s beside them, who’s looking decidedly outraged.
The bus comes to a screeching halt. Arthur shifts on his feet, glances down at his wristwatch and purses his lips at the slowness of the bus before returning his gaze back to the front.
The head belonging to the bloke at the front flies up, and Arthur notices a straight and beautiful profile as the bloke stretches his neck to peek outside the window. His gaze slides over to Arthur for a brief moment and something flickers over his face before he shifts on his seat and produces a worn sketchbook from underneath his butt. The footprint of his trainer is stamped all over its black front page.
Arthur rolls his eyes at the bloke’s unpreoccupied attitude, the unkempt state of his clothes and his disheveled looks in general. Then, like a reflex, Arthur brushes off invisible lint from his suit and adjusts his tie. His mobile buzzes in his front trousers pocket and he fishes it out.
The meeting's just begun, you're late. Good luck explaining that to Father. From: Morgana.
Arthur hates his sister.
He’s never unpunctual, he doesn’t even know what being unpunctual means, but his skin itches at the mere thought of running behind schedule. This wouldn’t have happened had Gwaine not crashed Arthur’s car against a lamppost two nights prior, the fucking moron.
Arthur hates his stupid excuse for a friend, too.
He refrains from texting back anything other than ‘witch’, and pockets his phone again, ignoring whatever response Morgana's decided to annoy him with next.
He glowers at the bus door, at the outside, and then at the driver. And that’s when he notices the bloke staring straight at him through a pair of very blue eyes, his left hand moving over the sketchbook at a worrying speed, as if he were against the clock.
The bloke's eyes don't shy away from him once Arthur catches him looking, they only fleetingly flicker down to the sketchbook, poorly balanced over his knees, before shooting back up to watch Arthur from under the messy tufts of hair. He bites in lips in concentration while he assesses Arthur up and down.
Arthur scowls instinctively, defensively, and straightens. He hopes the bloke isn't— drawing him.
The guy’s lips curl up in response, and it’s impossible for Arthur’s not to notice the beautiful curvature of his smirk, the dimples and the flirtatious look.
Arthur's frown hardens. He narrows his eyes.
The— little shit. Hasn't he been taught any manners? Doesn't he know blatantly staring at a stranger is rude and a social norm no one should break ever under any circumstance? That he can't go around sketching people without their permission? That he can’t— flirt in a bus? That he’s not allowed to cause such a turmoil inside Arthur’s chest for no reason?
The bloke doesn’t break eye contact, barely blinks, hardly even glances down at his sketch. The nerve. But Arthur stands his ground, and even if his heart is inexplicably picking up speed, he makes an effort to maintain his scowl all the while as he stares right back.
“Merlin, mate,” a dim voice shatters the moment, followed by a stifled knock. The two of them snap out of their haze, and notice it’s the driver knocking on the glass. “Isn’t this your stop?”
The bloke’s head whips around and he takes a quick look outside. “Oh, fuck, yeah, just a sec,” he mumbles in a low, deep voice. Again, completely inappropriate language for a public environment, especially given how— filthy he makes the curse words sound.
He launches himself out of his seat in a hurry, grabbing a ratty rucksack from the floor Arthur hadn’t noticed was there and making for the door. Suddenly he stops short, turns around. He rips the sheet he must have been drawing on, and in a couple of strides reaches Arthur. He meets his eyes with a lopsided smile and some more irresistible dimples, and then shoves the sheet against Arthur's chest before dashing away.
“Cheers, Lance.” He raises his hand to the driver in farewell and stumbles outside.
When Arthur takes a look at the paper bunched up against his chest he sucks in a silent breath.
It is, indeed, a drawing of him. A stunning full body pencil sketch of Arthur, incredibly detailed considering the little amount of time the bloke’s had to do it.
There's a small message scribbled underneath Arthur’s feet in a messy handwriting: a smile looks better on you, mr. elegant suit.
Arthur looks at his own face in the drawing, sees the subtle smirk the bloke’s drawn on his lips, the way Arthur’s eyes are staring right back at him, all happy lines.
But then he sees there's something else, another word at the right bottom edge of the page: Merlin E.
A signature, Arthur realises. A name. A possibility.
The whole bus is looking at him, smiling amusedly, curiously, even gossiping.
When the bus engine roars, Arthur quickly looks outside the window at the bloke, who seems to have dropped his rucksack and a bunch of sketch sheets onto the wet pavement in a heap. His earphones are tangled around his arm and the rucksack strap, and he’s crouching down to retrieve the mess. His lips are moving, and Arthur can almost hear the cursed obscenities coming out from his mouth.
The last image Arthur has of him is of his skinny arse up in the air, before the bus pulls over and his figure disappears in the distance, most likely never to be seen again.
-fin.