Work Text:
Johnny takes the same train every day. Steady clunk on the rails, the car leaning into the curves, the rustling of the morning papers, the bittersweet smell of coffee - they create an invariable hell to his mornings. There’s safety sliding into a new day, brain still muddled from sleep, surrounded by familiarity, routine. He used to hate routines. Now he embraces it, feeling tired to the bone, older but not wiser.
The ride takes 30 minutes. Every morning. Every afternoon. The passengers are unsurprisingly the same, too. A combination of faces, pieces sometimes in a different order, but the pieces consistently fit. One can spend an eternity in motion, an eternity in going to places. Sometimes Johnny wondered what would happen if someone pulled the emergency brake. See the faces topple over, eyes wide, hands losing their extensions of iPads and cellphones, skidding across the floor. He misses the boy who would have had the nerve to even consider that. His life has gotten stale, office job slowly draining him and he’s just hoping for something, hard to put into words or even dreams. Something to wake him the fuck up.
The man always sits across the aisle, facing Johnny. Every day for three months now.
The young man with faded pink hair, either tousled carefully with a product or unkempt, straight from the bed. It’s hard to tell these days. The long fingers cradle a Ghibli Thermo mug every morning, gingerly squeezing the hot surface. Johnny acknowledges the pretty man, every day. Slight tilt to his mouth, a gentle nod, eyes sweeping across his body - a soundless hello on his lips. Ever since that first day when he started to take the train to his new work downtown. The other man had scrambled to his seat that first morning, breathless like he’d been running - halting beside Johnny, sneakers squeaking across the floor. He’d looked mildly surprised before sitting down on the blue seat, facing him. Cheeks flushed from the cold air outside and running, eyes clear from excitement, body heaving steadily pulling air into his lungs - he had s t a r e d, quite unabashedly until the young man noticed, lifting his eyebrows in question. After that, he only looked in secret.
They never talk. Never say a word to each other. People seldom do, on the morning train, busily building barriers from books and music to keep reality away a bit longer. But he keeps saying his wordless hellos, sometimes looks at him across the narrow aisle, lifts his gaze from whatever book he’s reading at the moment.
Sometimes, most days, he feels the urge to say something. But he could never tell him what he’s really thinking, never be honest. There’s no point in another kind of, idle and meaningless, conversation. Not with him. So he keeps silent. What would he even say?
Hello?
He wants to tell the other man how he loves the way his long eyelashes create shadows across his cheeks. How he keeps checking what kind of weird socks he’s wearing today - purple dinosaurs or flying saucers. Should he tell him how his hopelessly sluggish morning brain halts imagining how those long slender fingers would feel against his back? Now that is a proper conversation for the morning train.
Johnny feels - not ashamed enough to stop staring. But embarrassed enough to stop himself from speaking. Speaking to Taeyong. Taeyong. Johnny learns the name when the pretty man answers his phone one morning. Johnny has sense enough to keep his eyes on the book on his lap, stealing glances across the aisle. Johnny can feel Taeyong's eyes on him sometimes, making his chest redden, hidden beneath the sensible button up. There’s no room for half-truths and train acquaintances in Johnny’s life. It’s become his mantra. He carries a calendar, the old kind with actual paper, with him every day in his backpack. He wishes he could jot down his name, to make room for Taeyong.
But spoken words lead to getting noticed more, getting put on a stage. Johnny likes the anonymity that the train full of people wrapped in themselves offers. As long as he can keep watching, without really being seen, he’s safe from making bad decisions.
7.30, another morning. People are boarding the train, finding seats, opening laptops, books, papers. A steady beat of the bass escapes through the earplugs somewhere near the door, adding a rhythm to the coughs, quiet hellos and shuffling of feet. It’s been raining all morning, making the car fill with droplets of moisture, umbrellas leaking puddles on the floor, polishing everything slippery. The air smells damp and earthy, the rising sun streaming through the windows makes the world blurry and soft, kinder. The pink-haired man drops down to his familiar seat, eyes glancing upwards, wide mouth forming the silent hello once again. Rain is sticking to Taeyong's hair, making the ends curl on his neck. Johnny’s fingers are itching to touch, to wipe the beads of water away. The air between them fills with soap and citrus, coffee curling warmly towards him. It’s nerve-racking and comforting at the same time, like most good things in life are.
“Do you like it?”
The voice is deeper, tone lower and warmer than the boyish looks from across the aisle give reason to, instantly calming Johnny’s surprised nerves. The voice doesn't fit the face. Taeyong nods toward the book in Johnny’s hands. One glimpse a day, during the whispered hellos is not enough time to understand his deep dark eyes. Johnny wonders if there’s ever enough time for that, can time be measured in heartbeats? He counts seven of them, taking full advantage of the situation, the tilt of his head, eyes finally staring straight into his. Maybe he forgets to answer. Maybe he forms a careful "yes, though I find it strange" in his mouth. Maybe he manages to push out the words slowly, tone even. The pretty man smiles, nodding, head still tilted, body leaning across the aisle.
Lean closer or shift back - Johnny feels the tearing mix of emotions that always comes from meeting someone special. He misses the feeling but wants to turn away. It’s a distraction.
The attention makes his body warm, shy enough to want to push himself deeper into his seat, expecting it to swallow him, desperate to come up with something clever to say. Something a young pretty man from another world would find interesting. A slow sip of coffee from his mug relaxes him back into the morning ritual. The moment is gone. Danger averted. Twirling the ring on his finger, trying to keep his hands calm on top of the book, he hopes.
Hope is a terrible thing but want will kill you. The grey trousers stick to his thighs, hiking upwards, the light jacket rigid on his back. He feels thin, seen and it’s making his suddenly shy character uncomfortable. 'This is really not me', Johnny wants to say. He wants to stare at the dark eyes again, touch the gentle curve of Taeyong's neck, scream, pull the emergency brake until his whole life stands still.