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Chan has been suffering lately, no matter how bright-eyed and bushy-tailed he feels when he leaps out of bed in the morning. His entire day is ruined, sixty-eight minutes in every day. No amount of energy flow inducing yoga routines can prepare him for the day, not since the tunnel works on the subway system has had twice as many commuters as usual cramming themselves onto his 7:18 train.
In an attempt to remain as zen as possible at 7:23 on a Tuesday morning, Chan recalls the lengthening syllables from the yoga instructor on his YouTube video this morning. Long inhales into his belly through his nose, even longer exhales out to calm and ground him. It usually works when someone isn't stumbling into him, whacking him with their oversized handbag and driving the heel of their stiletto into the top of his foot.
Maybe this is a sign from the heavens that Chan should quit his job. Or invest in some steel toe-caps. Either way, he needs to do something to change the fact he can barely breathe whilst wedged between a cluster of shrieking pre-teens and whoever thinks it is appropriate to bring a tuba onto a subway during rush hour.
At the next station, there is a surge of commuters spilling out of the subway car. Finally, Chan can actually breathe as deeply as the online yoga instructor wants him to, relishing the strange chill of the stale underground air which replaces the heat of the bodies that vacated the space mere moments ago.
One deep breath in. Chan feels his lungs expand and his eyes fall closed as relaxation bleeds through his body. Except the tuba player is not there to support the shift in Chan's balance as he rocks back. This is not good. He topples over, arms windmilling and gracelessly as they always do when he can't find this elusive centre of balance the YouTube yoga community are always banging on about.
"Oof!"
As final as any Roblox character dismantled by their own petard, the poor fool Chan fell onto is flattened. Probably even dead if not simply crushed to smithereens by the impact. The backs of Chan's thighs ache though he landed on the firm seat of someone's lap. This is a disaster. Perhaps this is what the universe was telling him. His life would forever be changed because he would henceforth be known as the Subway Seat Killer. Middle-schoolers would whisper cautionary tales of a man so sinister he would crush passengers to death for daring to get a seat on the morning subway.
This is awful. How will he break the news to his mum that she birthed the Subway Seat Killer into the world? Maybe the police can take care of that for him. Not that it makes Chan's life any brighter.
"Are you alright?"
Hope! The metaphorical clouds of the subway ceiling part as more passengers fill in the vacant spaces and angels descend to earth to sing, though these angels sound a lot like the station announcements. Chan is saved. He isn't a murderer at all! He could weep into his lunchbox but first he must apologise to the person he didn't manage to crush under the weight of his clumsiness.
"You're not dead!" Chan cheers, probably too loudly considering the passengers either side of his seat-mate do their best to shuffle away from the — oh dear. Chan nearly killed a very beautiful person. If Chan had known that beautiful people with concern in their eyes and glinting piercings and noses which slope perfectly above full lips rode the subway at this time in the morning he would have been paying enough attention not to nearly kill them.
"I'm not dead."
"You're wearing makeup. It's really pretty. Are you one of those beauty guru YouTubers? What are you called? Let me subscribe. I will even tap the bell even though I don't know what that means," Chan says. As his mum always told him, actions speak louder than words, so there isn't any better way to apologise than to make a minor celebrity a bit more famous. For the algorithm, of course.
"I'm not a YouTuber," comes the response when Chan has managed to slide his phone out of his pocket. He doesn't actually have any phone signal down here but he has the notes app ready to take down all the information he needs to hop onto the office wifi connection when he arrives at work.
"You're not?" Chan asks. "You must be. Your makeup is so good. Then you must be some sort of celebrity."
"Nope. Just a normal guy. Sitting on the subway."
"I don't believe that for a second. You're famous, I'm sure of it. I bet someone on this train will know…"
Chan stops talking when he looks about to find someone to back him up. He is seeing a lot of belt-buckles, being waist-height as he is. Of course, he is sitting on the lap of this poor innocent celebrity and there isn't any room for him to get up and stop crushing this huge star.
"I am very sorry," Chan says sombrely. "I don't appear to have enough room to get up. Please forgive me and don't tell any gossip magazines about me."
A laugh. A truly seraphic sound and Chan hasn't even had to tell a joke. He supposes Seungwoo has been wrong all those times and he is actually hilarious. Not intentionally, but he will take it.
"You can stay," the gracious VIP tells Chan, a sparkle in those gorgeously smokey eyes making Chan wish he could smile like a normal person in this situation because that is what normal people do. Not Chan though. He catches sight of his reflection in the window behind the superstar's head and sees he is pulling the most tragic face known to humankind. Wonderful.
"Thank you," Chan says, oddly husky like one of those movie impersonations Seungwoo is certain isn't funny.
"We should at least know each other's names seeing as we are so close. I'm Do Hanse."
Chan nods. They're getting to know each other. Like friends, and not at all like the Subway Seat Killer and his innocent victim. Chan should probably say something.
"I'm Chan. Heo Chan. Or just Chan. You can probably just call me my name seeing as I am sitting on your lap. I wouldn't expect Father Christmas to full-name me, so I shouldn't expect it of you, should I? Should I? "
Chan isn't sure of anything right now. But Hanse, apparently just a normal guy, is laughing and not shoving Chan off his lap. So it could be worse, couldn't it?
"I love you," Chan says. He was right that it could be worse but it is unfortunate that he immediately made it worse himself for no reason. Why would he say that when he is stuck on Hanse's lap? His brain is eerily silent all of a sudden. How convenient as Hanse's eyes narrow and his tongue flicks idly at his lip ring. Maybe Chan really does love him.
"Thank you very much, Heo Chan, I love you too."
"What?" Chan asks weakly. He clutches his chest, very aware that he can feel absolutely no activity whatsoever in his chest cavity. "I'm having a heart attack. I am literally about to die. I can't believe I was so worried what people would think of me when you're the Subway Seat Killer."
The concern returns. "What are you talking about?"
"No idea," Chan says. "I'm dying, remember? Do you know CPR, or mouth-to-mouth?"
Hanse laughs, loud enough that the swat neighbours lean even further away, and swats Chan's arm. "You really worried me but you're just flirting with me."
"Am I flirting?" Chan asks. If that is what this counts as he will take it. Anything that isn't making a fool of himself.
"Are you not flirting with me?" Hanse asks. The uncertainty doesn't suit him. As endearing as Hanse looks as he bites at his lip ring and the lights glint off it dizzyingly, Chan decides right then and there that he hates seeing Hanse like this.
"If I admit that I am flirting with you will you kiss me?"
Hanse flushes with delight as he laughs this time, nearly tipping Chan right off his lap as he knocks his forehead against Chan's shoulder. His shampoo smells like coconut. Or his conditioner does. Whichever it is, Chan isn't going to forget this in a hurry. By the time Hanse sits up straight again, Chan thinks he might actually have fallen in love for real.
"I won't kiss you. Not now. But maybe we could go on a date?"
"We could?" Chan asks. Before he gets a negative answer he says, "We could! Where do you want to go? It is early for lunch though. I don't know if anywhere will be open."
Chan looks at his watch. It is 7:48. Too early for lunch but definitely late for something else. Late for getting off to make his connecting bus to get to work on time, for instance.
"I don't mean now. But maybe at the weekend? Or an evening this week if you really have that much time," Hanse chuckles, like Chan is silly. Chan is silly. So silly. A veritable idiot, that's for sure.
"I'm going to get fired!" Chan announces. Too loudly. He clears his throat. "I mean this weekend would be lovely, please do let me know your contact information."
He hands his phone over and grits his teeth as he watches the subway train doors close against the crush of passengers and the train starts moving towards the next stop, even further from his route to work.
Hanse passes Chan back his phone. His fingertips (nails painted a very sophisticated red) reach for his pocket but Chan just does not have the time. To make up for that, Chan leans forward and sweeps Hanse's wispy fringe aside to plant a kiss on his forehead.
"Well, darling husband Hanse. It was lovely meeting you. I shall give you a missed call, and then probably fifty others as I try to convince you to speak to me. Please anticipate that."
Using the core strength gained from weeks of YouTube yoga, Chan catapults himself out of Hanse's lap and squeezes through the passengers to make it to the door in time for the next stop. He bursts onto the subway platform, just in time, and turns to watch the confusion on Hanse's face as the subway separates them.
Chan is about to lose his job or something for his seventh lateness this month, but he has Hanse's number and perhaps he can subsist off his own feelings of adoration for the rest of his life. He will just have to work out how to convince his landlord to accept that as rent until the fateful day Chan can convince Hanse to let him move in.