Chapter Text
Brian's gaze drifted away from the Astrophysical Journal, 1919-04: Vol. 49 he'd pulled from the farthest corner of the library shelf and landed, almost unintentionally, on the man sitting beside him. It lingered there, as though tethered by something unseen.
His eyes traced the soft slope of the man's cheek, following it down to the honey-tinted waves of blond hair that fell lightly against his shoulders. A few stray locks rested across his forehead, like accidental patches of sunlight—lazy and unbidden. The contours of his face weren’t particularly angular, yet they possessed a comforting balance that drew Brian’s attention, a quiet allure that was almost meditative. Brian’s gaze wandered further, sliding along the line of his neck and pausing at the sharp curve of his collarbone, where the edge of his shirt teasingly revealed a sliver of skin—a fleeting glimpse of something soft, something secret.
Soft...
But it was his hands that captivated Brian the most. They were clean, slender, with faint veins rippling just beneath the surface as they moved. Brian could almost imagine their warmth, the firm gentleness of their grasp—how they might feel if they held something close, something alive. His attention drifted upward again, settling on the subtle curve of the man’s mouth. It wasn’t exactly a smile, more like the beginning of one—a suggestion, like the opening line of an unread novel. The shape of his lips was almost too refined, and anything he said would be worth listening to.
Brian thought to himself that if he smiled fully, it would be like sunlight breaking through the clouds, the kind of moment that takes you by surprise and leaves you wanting to see it again.
Realizing he’d been staring far too long, Brian quickly looked away, his focus snapping to the scenery rushing past the train window. But even there, the glass reflected a faint silhouette of the man’s profile, and Brian found himself replaying it all in his mind—the hair, the collarbone, the hands, and that air of serenity laced with something just out of reach. Brian sighed quietly, shaking his head as if to dismiss his own thoughts, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving upward despite himself.
Roger leaned back in his seat, his gaze seemingly aimless as it swept across the train carriage, but in reality, his attention had already been drawn—several times—to the man sitting beside him. He wouldn’t say he completely understood why. There was just something about this person that felt... opaque.
The guy had his head bowed, a book resting in his hands as he sat quietly. That focused expression stirred a strange imbalance in Roger. What could possibly be so engrossing? His eyes lingered on the man’s long, slender fingers, imagining for a brief moment that they weren’t holding a book but something else—something like wind,or a whisper.
Roger felt a pang of irritation, coupled with a faint trace of amusement.What was wrong with him? He’d just encountered a stranger on a train, and here he was, letting his thoughts spiral into all kinds of nonsense. What baffled him even more was his complete lack of effort to stop himself. The man didn’t even look all that extraordinary—A shirt, a sweater, and a head of black hair with wild curls, which, okay, were probably the only standout feature.
Roger felt uneasy, like someone had whispered a half-formed sentence into his ear and then walked away.
He stole another glance, feigning a shift in posture as his eyes darted toward the aisle. Outside, the scenery blurred past the train windows, but his thoughts moved at no such speed. The guy still sat there, calm and detached, as if Roger’s internal chaos had absolutely nothing to do with him.Roger let out a soft huff, a mix of exasperation and disbelief. He felt strangely affronted by his own reaction yet couldn’t shake the faint thrill of it.
“What’s his deal?” Roger wondered, pretending to focus on the brown-haired man across the aisle holding what looked like a boring engineering journal. His elbow rested against the seat, his posture casual, but his peripheral vision was locked on the stranger beside him. His profile was all quiet features, but there was an undeniable pull to them, a kind of gravity Roger found impossible to resist.What would his smile look like? Would it be as understated as his presence now, the kind of smile you’d want to interrupt just to see it happen again?
Roger jerked his head back to his book, heat suddenly rising to his ears. He was not the kind of person who spaced out over strangers. This bizarre, unfamiliar feeling left him both confused and slightly restless.A bold thought crossed his mind: maybe he should say something.
Even something dumb like, “What book is that?” or “Why are you on this train?” Anything, really.
Yeah, right, Roger Meddows Taylor. The best you can do is “Hi handsome, nice hair,” and even that’s pushing it.
Or worse: “Hi the book you’re holding is incomprehensible to me but I’m not really interested in the book—I’m interested in you so how about we chat, or you give me your number?”
Why couldn’t he think of anything normal to say?
So, he didn’t move. He just sat there, pretending to read Henderson the Rain King, a book about death, jungles, and middle-aged existential crises. Roger didn’t like it much, but it was the only thing on hand. What else was he supposed to do—keep gawking at the poor guy next to him?His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest, as though trying to work out a deal with himself. Maybe one more stop. Or maybe just one more minute. Surely, eventually, one of them would say something.
For now, though, Roger just wanted to take another look.
Just one more look.