Work Text:
How does the saying go? You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.
With it, Arthur is not referring to the unpredictable rain showers, the jousting by aggressive umbrella wielders, or the subsequent coffee spills.
No, the occasions in which homesickness rears its ugly head usually involve his commute. In London, the distance between his cosy flat and his office had been relatively minimal, and most importantly, walkable. Of course, he knew such a phenomenon had been a rare gem of convenience - a stroke of luck when hunting for both a job and a flat some few years ago. But after moving out of London and into New York, Arthur realises he had definitely taken his former living/working situation for granted.
Currently, Arthur’s mornings were not spent peacefully meandering about with a freshly brewed cup of coffee to go. Instead, they were spent navigating the packed and often stifled subway cars, wedged uncomfortably between students and businessmen.
Only two thoughts kept him afloat amidst the overcrowded and smelly pilgrimage from his shabby American flat to his shabby American office.
One: this is temporary.
He’s only here for a year, of which he’s already sat out two months. In ten more months the programme he’s (willingly) entered will have ended and Arthur will be back in his cosy flat in his cosy English neighbourhood.
Two: the view isn’t so bad.
At least not during the morning and evening rush hours on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. During these twenty-minute rides, Arthur is at least able to escape the malaise of his commute by escaping into daydreams sparked by the sight of a certain handsome stranger who suffered the same fate as he did.
He’s perfectly discreet about it, of course.
Okay, there was that one slip wherein Arthur cunningly figured out which car the stranger usually travelled in, just so he could make sure to occupy the same car on every commute that followed.
But apart from that?
Perfectly discreet.
Shielded by the illusion of simply staring ahead of himself in lieu of spacing out (like any other commuter), Arthur’s already been able to commit most of the stranger’s handsome features to memory over the past few weeks.
The object of his daydreams is a young, adult man with a tanned complexion and blond hair. Said hair is styled messily, either on purpose or perhaps due to the sleep that often still tugs at the corners of his piercing blue eyes. Those same eyes are framed by thin glasses that give him an air of maturity, even if the boyishness of his smile (often directed at his phone or at babies in strollers) somewhat negates the effect.
More often than not, he wears jeans and a leather bomber jacket - and although the shirts and sweaters underneath the jacket vary daily, they usually carry colourful prints or letters on them. Arthur, usually dressed in slacks and a button down himself, suspects him of being a student - that, or perhaps he is employed at one of those hip companies.
That Monday morning, when Arthur enters the subway car, he’s pleased to find the stranger already standing amidst the crowd. The young man is holding onto one of the bars overhead and is looking down at his phone, thumb idly swiping over the screen which implies he is probably checking out his social media or playing a game.
Arthur takes advantage of the recently vacated seat in the man’s vicinity and sits down on it with an exhale of relief. He supposes the persistent pounding behind his eyes is karma for going out for drinks on a Sunday night with his German coworker, but it’s nothing a few aspirin and a quiet commute can’t fix.
He pops in his wireless earbuds and starts a playlist filled with slow and soft songs, chosen in particular for both hangovers and daydreams. The car jolts as the subway resumes its path, and Arthur spares only a brief, yet appreciative, glance at how the stranger’s arm strains to keep him from tripping.
And he settles in.
Arthur has always been prone to daydreaming and imagining himself in the plots of movies, books or made-up stories of his own. As a child, he was always called dreamy and distracted, often with amusement and sometimes with a sigh. Regardless of how it influenced his academic career, it’s a practice he kept up all the way to adulthood.
Those dreams offered him safety, comfort. It’s in those dreams he escaped to as a teenager, troubled by rediscovering his sexuality after having kissed a boy. He continued doing so in his adolescence, troubled by the anxiety left after failed friendships and relationships.
In those dreams, he’s not just Arthur, the corporate employee who comes home to an apartment empty due to Arthur’s reluctance to actually date, considering his last two failed attempts: one with a guy who decided he didn’t like men as much as he did after a few months of rawdogging him, followed by a guy who found his soulmate, and rather than telling Arthur he had so that they could break up peacefully, chose to cheat on Arthur with said soulmate instead until flaking out on him entirely.
No, in those dreams he has adventures and excitement and requited romance. With or without his own soulmate, Arthur’s not picky, has never been, he’s just lonely and not many people find their soulmate at a young age anyway so why not fill the time until then?
Anyway.
He’s developed a tendency of imagining himself living entire lifetimes with strangers; he conjures up stories and experiences for the duration of, for example, a commute. The fantasy disintegrates as soon as he arrives at his stop, but he admits he’s been stuck in this particular one for a while, probably because he keeps seeing the same, handsome stranger.
He’s caught the young man’s eye a few times. When one of them passes the other to enter or leave the subway, for example. Or when they happen to look past each other, out of the windows on either side of the car. On one notable occasion, they shared a look to express their amused disbelief at an argument happening a few seats down from them.
Arthur tilts his head to stare out of the window ahead of him and imagines what it would be like if their eye contact gave way to longer eye contact. If he worked up the courage to introduce himself, to say something other than ‘excuse me’ when passing each other.
While Arthur is not socially inept, he’s not much of a charmer either. But in his fantasy, he gleefully moulds himself into a true word’s smith. Something like, “You don’t know me, but would you like to?” combined with a sultry, playful grin. The stranger would direct his boyish smile at him and maybe his lovely face would be tinged red by a blush, why not, it’s Arthur’s fantasy after all.
The introduction would give way to further pleasantries and an exchange of numbers, considering the time limit of Arthur’s commute (and he does like to keep his daydreams somewhat realistic, he does not want to get fired in this fantasy).
Texts would follow - Arthur imagines the other man to be someone who shares funny videos and images, he simply seems like he would do so, and although Arthur does not really understand meme culture, he’ll indulge in it anyway.
Then, after a handful of days, a first date. A dinner in a setting where they would be able to have proper conversations without having to raise their voices due to the bustling of a busy restaurant. He does not actually know of such a place, considering the few times he has gone out to drink or eat with his American coworkers had been at bars and shoddy excuses for pubs.
Perhaps a home-cooked meal, at Arthur’s flat?
No, not at Arthur’s flat.
No amount of daydreaming is going to fool Arthur into thinking he’ll be able to whip up a romantic, proper dinner - unless he wants the night to end with firefighters dousing the fire he’ll inevitably cause in his kitchen.
Wait, firefighters…
The jolt of the subway car tears him from the sudden detour of his daydream and he smiles sparingly at the older lady next to him, who rises and vacates her spot, which is almost immediately occupied by the object of his most recurrent daydream.
Arthur pointedly ignores the tinge of nervous excitement; they have sat next to each other or opposite from each other before and it’s nothing consequential - apart from a polite nod, the stranger says nothing and instead resumes whatever he has been doing on his phone.
Right, where was he?
Ah, yes. The first date.
It would happen at the stranger’s apartment, Arthur decides, and he conjures up a random flat that vaguely looks like one of the flats Arthur has considered before he chose his current flat, with some modifications - the devil’s in the details after all.
There would be a home-cooked meal, maybe something Italian. You can never go wrong with Italian food, as long as the pasta is not too slippery and the sauce is not too watery. There would be wine, and with their inhibitions loosened by a glass (or two), they’d flirt harmlessly. Arthur imagines lingering touches when passing each other the salt; the soft pressure of a foot against his calf.
The night would end with a kiss upon departure; a little awkward perhaps, but oh so charming and adoring. Arthur would have to lean up a little, or perhaps the stranger would lean down a little, considering their height difference.
He pictures it disturbingly clear as the music playing in his ears transforms into something romantic and drowsy and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot.
Oh, what if he somehow got him to the doorframe pose that’s popular in romance novels?
Wait, no, he’ll save that for the third or fourth date.
His daydream is paused once more when the subway car slows to a stop and Arthur casts a brief, inquisitive glance at the new wave of people entering. None of them seem disabled, pregnant or elderly and so he does not stand up, although he does accommodate a new occupant of the bench he is on by shuffling a little closer to the stranger.
Once they are on their way once more, he’s somewhat uncomfortably wedged in his seat, his upper arms firmly pressed against those of his neighbours, but unfortunately, this too is nothing new - such is the joy of public transport.
He catches a whiff of the stranger’s pleasant cologne; it smells vaguely like autumn, like warm mulled cider and nutmeg and fallen leaves. The scent instantly catapults him back into his daydream - this time it instantly veers into something inappropriate, courtesy of the warmth Arthur now feels pressed against his side. It’s been a while, all right? Arthur hasn’t gotten laid in months and he does not doubt his libido would be through the roof when dating an attractive guy such as the one next to him.
And so he briefly indulges in the thought. The bomber jacket the man wears does a splendid job of hiding the finer details of his physique, but it has to come off at one point, Arthur will just have to wait for summer to arrive in all its sweaty glory. Until then he will make do with the general estimation of the man’s height and width and the assumption that the other man is at least somewhat fit, definitely more so than Arthur himself.
Probably, the blue-eyed man exercises occasionally and without breaking much of a sweat. He’s probably in a good condition and he probably enjoys engaging in sports, but not so much that he makes it his entire identity. Arthur’s seen him snack on donuts and pizza slices, so he’s not a health nut, at least.
Staying well and thoroughly clear from any porn-induced visions of six-packs and bulging biceps, Arthur briefly entertains the idea of them getting up to no good, preferably in the bed sheets but on a couch or kitchen table will do too. He wonders if the other man tops or bottoms. He imagines the other tops but looks can be deceiving, and although Arthur has no problem with performing as either party, he thinks he would like to bottom at first; there’s something intoxicating about having someone else come undone on top of you, after all.
The man next to him shuffles in his seat and accidentally jostles Arthur’s shoulder as he pockets his phone. The mumbled apology is lost beneath the soft tunes of Arthur’s music, but the interruption in itself is not unwelcome - Arthur’s surroundings are far too public for him to take this heady daydream any further down that direction.
Back to the tame stuff, which is no less intoxicating, he knows.
He is a bit of a romantic after all. Nothing grand or spectacular, but he positively adores the smaller things in life. Such as shopping for groceries, perusing the aisles together and debating what to make for dinner, one which they would then cook together. Although Arthur would probably assist and not cook, considering his track record, but he could make up for it by brewing his infamous coffee in the morning.
And oh, how he has always loved spending the morning with someone he is infatuated with. Nothing beats waking up next to your beloved; stealing sleep-flavoured kisses and wandering touches, indulging in watching the other wake up or snuggling back into each other’s embrace for another nap. He entertains an image of the man next to him without his glasses, of his drowsy blue eyes and of sleep creases folded into his cheeks.
Inadvertently, the image bleeds into one more familiar; of himself, sleepy and smiling, and leaning over a kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in one hand, wearing a sweater Arthur remembers the other man having worn a few days back. He resists rolling his eyes, unsurprised at his overworked imagination’s attempt to catch a break and offer him an image of something familiar, instead of having to create something from scratch.
For his next act, they would move in together.
It would happen gradually. Their stuff would end up at each other’s flat more and more often, until it gets put in a drawer. Keys would be exchanged and then on one rainy morning, where one party dreads having to brave the weather to go home, the other proposes they stay indefinitely. It would only be convenient, what with how often they already sleep over at each other’s place - not to mention safer, saving them from the dangers a late-night walk back to the nearest subway station would pose.
Arthur likes to imagine the stranger moving in with him; Arthur’s pretty attached to his flat back home and it’s certainly big enough for two.
Even better, though: they would both move out of their flats and into a quaint little home of themselves, preferably with a garden. Unrealistic, he knows, but he’ll grant himself this leniency for the sake of the perfect daydream.
Images of himself tending to the garden seep into his consciousness and Arthur smiles, running with it, knowing that while he cannot cook to save his life, he does have an exquisite green thumb. A shed could be built by the man next to him; or perhaps a swinging bench for them to spend warm summer nights on.
Another image spontaneously pops up, teasing in its swift passing, of the other man with a tool belt on and no shirt. There’s an unrealistically defined six-pack on full display and Arthur purses his lip and resists the urge to smirk and take a peek at the man next to him - he could not pretend to be looking out of a window now, after all, and he would rather not come across as creepy.
For a minute or two, Arthur is distracted by the subway car stopping and people exiting and entering, his thoughts lingering on the baby in a stroller for a second longer than it usually would, but perhaps that’s simply due to the increasingly active daydream. Arthur’s not against children, that is, if his partner would like children he would be open to the idea, but he does not often entertain the thought himself.
The subway jolts back into motion and the handsome stranger next to him shifts somewhat, accidentally knocking their knees together. Arthur tries to accommodate him a little more and smiles apologetically when he is unable to do so, considering how wedged in he is himself. Curiously enough, the stranger only smiles a small, bashful smile, but Arthur chalks it up to discomfort and turns back to pretending he is anywhere but here.
Once living together, their nights would be more relaxed. They would stay in more often, probably, relaxing on the couch together with a movie or a book. Or a game, he thinks with uncommon excitement, and he frowns momentarily before shrugging figuratively; Arthur is not a big fan of video games but he would not mind his partner being so, and thus he imagines himself reading a book of his own while his feet are tucked under the other’s legs, which will bounce every now and then as a reaction to the game being played.
Oh, and road trips, he loves road trips. They would explore the States together, bickering about the choice of music or radio channel, but doing so with their free hands loosely entangled as they drive down long highways and stop at cheesy tourist attractions.
Wait, the States? Arthur would rather explore the Scottish Highlands.
And hey, eventually they might go to the shelter and adopt a dog - a cat, Arthur would prefer - a cat and a dog, a large one, one they would walk to the park.
Why Central Park, though? No, Hyde Park would be a better fit, because hello, this is his fantasy. Arthur sucks on his teeth with some annoyance and hopes this is not a sign that he is slowly being Americanized. Imagine that! He’s not sticking around in the States, love or no love, Arthur is an Englishman through and through.
Reluctance pulls at his subconscious and Arthur relents, imagining they could switch it up a little; a few months here, a few months here.
One of his earpods beeps and tears him out of his thoughts, the shrill noise uncomfortable compared to the gentle melodies it had been playing prior to that. Arthur frowns and takes it out, seeing the tiny red light blinking as an indicator of a low battery. It seems he forgot to charge them over the weekend, and now he’ll have to suffer the consequences.
No matter, it’s only five more minutes before he reaches his stop - less so for the man next to him, he remembers. He always gets out two stops before Arthur does after all.
It’s a little tougher to retreat into his daydream without the comfort of his music, as he is now distracted more often by the conversations, both hushed and not, happening around him. The baby catches his attention once more and it smiles toothily in his direction, upon which he feels a stab of affection Arthur does not normally feel - he hopes this is not a sign of some proverbial biological clock.
It takes him half a minute, but eventually, he finds himself slipping back into a daydream. Another road trip enfolds before his eyes, one in which he and the man next to him travel across the country until they reach a ranch of some sort, and although Arthur is not the farming kind, he admits he’s charmed by the idea of riding horseback and of picking his own vegetables to eat that night and of watching himself playing with Alfred’s baby niece before going up to sleep together in Alfred’s childhood bedroom -
Wait a minute.
This particular fantasy feels both too realistic and too unreal. Arthur does not have any nieces or nephews, nor does he know anyone with a baby resembling the curly-haired one he just imagined. And why does he look… not-right in his own daydream? His eyebrows are not that dark; and his eyes are definitely not that green and he’s definitely a little pudgier around the waist, no shame in it. And why on earth would he give the man of his daydreams a name like Alfred, I mean, come on, it’s not exactly a sexy name -
“Hey, rude!”
Time seems to stop as Arthur realises the words are spoken to him, and not only that, but are also spoken by the man next to him.
He turns his head so quickly he swears he hears it crack and stares, wide-eyed, at the blond man next to him. Said man is now blushing slightly, looking both embarrassed and a little excited, and Arthur’s thoughts are far too scrambled due to his hangover and his daydream to connect the dots - that is, until the man hesitantly reaches out to grab his hand (as if that was not rude).
The first thing Arthur notices is that the man’s hand is clammy, which is a little gross. But then he’s hit with an electric charge that seems to jolt his entire being; thoughts and emotions flash between them, an overwhelming rush that leaves Arthur gasping for air. He barely registers the subway’s gradual screech to a halt, so engrossed in the sudden flood of foreign yet oddly intimate emotions.
It hits him that this moment is supposed to be the seismic shift he had daydreamed about in a hundred idle moments, each more fanciful than the last. This was the once-in-a-lifetime experience, the moment of truth. In his fantasies, finding his soulmate would have been a moment of joy, of instant mutual recognition and adoration.
But the reality was nothing like the elegant narratives he'd spun in his mind. There was no scripted dialogue, no perfect lighting and no soothing background music. This wasn't the storybook ending (or beginning) he had imagined. Instead, there was just a man—flustered and hurried, thrown together by chance with Arthur in the cramped confines of a subway car.
And most of all, Arthur is feeling horrified that his soulmate had been privy to such an excruciatingly detailed daydream.
"What the fuck?" Arthur manages to choke out, both awed and confused. His words echoed faintly in the crowded space of the subway car.
The other man - Alfred recoils slightly, his eyes wide as if he has only just realised the magnitude of what has happened. "Shit, I didn't mean to—"
Multiple things happen, then.
As Arthur’s mind races to piece together his shock with the fragments of Alfred’s own thoughts still echoing in his own head, a woman steps forward, her expression stern. “Is he bothering you?” She asks, misreading Arthur’s shock for distress.
Arthur’s doing a solid job of imitating a gaping fish as he struggles to come up with a proper response, and through the press of their arms Arthur feels Alfred’s panic, though it is dimmed by their clothing.
“It’s not like that!” Alfred hurries to explain, probably pressured by the accusing eyes now turned in his direction. “He’s - he’s my - ”
Soulmate. Arthur thinks, but the word feels foreign on his tongue, as if it’s too sacred, too surreal to voice aloud in such a chaotic and sudden moment. And so he says the next best thing: “Wait, this is your stop.”
And great, now he not only outed himself as a creep daydreaming about a total stranger, but also as a stalker who memorised Alfred’s stop and bloody hell, could this be any worse? Fortunately, Alfred does not catch on to this revelation and he instead hurriedly looks up to confirm their location for himself.
“Oh, shit!” He says, and Arthur can’t even really enjoy the timber of his voice, as he had not yet been properly exposed to it yet. “I can’t be late, I have a meeting with my boss! Listen lady, I’m sorry, but he’s my soulmate - we’re fine, really!”
Arthur’s pretty sure he’s as red as a tomato right now and he helplessly stares up at Alfred, who has jumped to his feet and is now staring down at him with a hopeful shimmer in his eyes, and Arthur desperately wants to reach out and touch him and feel what he’s feeling but he’s unable to move even an inch.
“Good, yeah, uh,” He babbles, hurriedly eyeing the opening doors before looking back down at Arthur. “Alfred F. Jones, pleasure to meet you, please be here tonight like usual and if not, please find me on Instagram and DM me, my handle’s alfredfjones, no spaces, okay, bye!”
And then he’s out of the subway, only just managing to squeeze through the doors before they close. Arthur ignores the sputters of the woman who had been kind enough to jump to his aid and instead jumps up from his seat as well, squeezing past other commuters to reach the door and look through its windows. Alfred is still standing on the other side of the door, looking positively ruffled but smiling delightedly when he sees Arthur.
Arthur wonders if his heart skips a beat out of joy or if he’s heading towards cardiac arrest, but as he feels the engines of the subway kicking back into gear, he allows his natural instincts to take over. Without thinking too much about it, he hurriedly gestures at his watch-less wrist before signalling the number six with his fingers.
Recognition flashes across Alfred’s face and he nods quickly, flashing him that boyish smile Arthur’s daydreamed about countless of times before. They stupidly smile at each other until they can see each other no more and as the subway enters another tunnel, Arthur leans forward slightly, only just managing not to bang his forehead on the germ-ridden window as he laments the fact that Alfred - his soulmate - had been on a front-row seat to his self-indulgent daydream.
Then again… Alfred had participated, with some gusto, had he not?
Arthur grabs his phone and reluctantly opens up his Instagram, grumbling when he discovers he needs to update it after not having used it in weeks. His memory unrelentingly chants Alfred’s Instagram handle, it taking up the same rhythm as his returning headache.
As he waits for the update’s completion, Arthur mentally starts preparing himself for what will undoubtedly be the most agonising eight hours of his life - comforted only slightly by the knowledge that whatever would come next, he would wholeheartedly embrace.