Chapter Text
New York, he thinks, feels like a city of missed connections. That’s the whole point of it, after all - the sharp, sudden eye contact with strangers across the crowded subway, the equally quick glances away, too scared to see something you shouldn’t.
The sheer number of times you see something you shouldn’t, shouted breakups and quiet, wracking sobs against the neon orange seats. He didn’t stare, but he always listened - old habits from small towns, wondering if the name being whispered under an angry breath was going to be yours, next. He wondered why they made the seats orange, a color that seemed too bold and brash, somehow, for the quietness of the subway, even in its busiest hours. Not quiet like a corpse was quiet, quiet like an elevator full of people was, the second it started dropping.
Felt weirder, late at night.
When the trains were empty enough that you could spread over them, use newspapers as a pillow and fall asleep and figure that no one was really going to look at you - no one cared, not really, or cared too much. The weird, twisted politeness of it all, looking away when the person next to you sobbed into their shirt, passing a plastic bag in front of vomiting stranger without speaking a word.
He liked it.
It felt right, easy, that sort of distance.
So it’s fucking creepy that this guy is staring at him.
A violation of the basic rule, the social construct that keeps the City together, everyone humming on parallel tracks. I’m not here, I’m just a ghost moving around you, don’t mind me.
He considers it, for a moment. If he should make eye contact, call the fucker’s buff and see what he does, just for fun.
He looks normal enough. A young guy, too pretty, nails painted with clear nail polish and neatly manicured, dark hair falling across a model-sharp face. Could have been a model, would have thought he was, if it wasn’t for the scar at the corner of his eye, the barely concealed bruises under the makeup.
He tightens his hand into a fist, just in case.
“You good, man?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
The man smiles, licks the edge of lipsticked-teeth. “Yeah,” he says. “Just enjoying the view.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What, the fucking…” he glances up. “take out ad? That gets you going?”
The man snorts. “Not what I’m looking at.”
“Uh huh.”
He closes his eyes. Fuck him, let the man look if he wants - not sure what at, doesn’t seem to be much of a point in it.
He feels it, the sway of the subway car as it comes skidding into the station, the shifting weight by his side. He cracks an eyelid open.
This fucking guy.
“Whole train’s empty.”
Pretty much, at least. One girl sitting in the corner, playing music too loud on her headphones, enough that he can hear the 1980s synthpop blaring through her speakers, a bedraggled kid two rows down, eyes and nose puffy from crying.
“I like it here.”
He snorts. Considers the options, laid out neatly in front of him. Fight the guy, which he might win, might not. Either way, the cops would show - near enough to the end of the month that there’s no way he’d get out of a day in lockup, or maybe worse. They always overcharged, had to meet quota, he’d learned that one quick.
Could continue to ignore him.
That didn’t seem like it would work, either. Maybe he was one of those types, that mostly just needed attention, a little yowling cat that stopped as soon as you paid attention to them.
He turns, sighing, blinking his eyes open properly. “Okay,” he says, smiling slightly. “You can stay here, then.”
“Nice of you.” The man stretches his legs out, extends a hand.
He doesn’t take it.
The man shrugs. “I’m Kexing,” he says, letting his hand fall, brushing right against the fabric of his worn out jeans. Probably should get a new pair.
He pulls back, nearly falling off the edge of the seat, enough to keep an empty space between them.
Kexing moves closer.
Fuck this guy.
“Where are you going?”
"End of the line,” he says, letting his head fall back. It sort of hurts, the sudden jut of metal against the back of his neck, but he tries not to wince anyway. “And then back again, probably.”
“How convenient.” He smiles, knife-sharp. “So am I.”
Zishu laughs, the hints of exhaustion already in it, cracking at the edges. “Really?” he asks, looking at him, the too-expensive silk shirt, a small stain on the sleeve, the pretty watch lying heavy against his skin. “You don’t have anywhere else to be?”
Kexing cocks his head to the side, smiling slightly at the train skids to a stop.
The girl looks up at Kexing, clicks her phone off - too quiet, suddenly, without the weird tinny noise buzzing in the corner - and raises an eyebrow.
Kexing shakes his head, slowly.
Stand clear of the closing doors.
“No,” he says, speaking each word just a little too slow, “no, I really don’t.”