Chapter Text
Wylan could feel his thoughts rattling off the slick black and white coating the ‘iconic’ tiles of most London Underground stations, the entire stretch nearing empty and neglecting the bustling chatter he was now so used to. He almost instantly decided he didn’t like it. On a normal day, he’d have been stuck halfway down a faulty escalator with his headphones over his ears and minding his own business, but since most of the line drivers were on strike, some of them even blocking the tracks, and he’d forgotten his one source of auditory comfort after waking up late and rushing out of the house this morning, he was stuck with this.
It wasn’t the situation Wylan liked – it was the routine. He’d spent every day of the past four years doing this, completing the same walk to and from his now fully flourishing gallery in the same amount of time and conditions, and he was used to it by now. Which meant this threw him immediately off-kilter.
He looked up at the LED sign indicating when his train would be, and whoop de fucking do it was delayed by half an hour. Fucking fantastic.
Wylan sighed and made his way down the walkway to a small bench–thing (he wasn’t sure what they were called exactly, and he didn’t really care) located right beneath the station’s red tube sign (again, semantics). Pulling out his phone will the full intent of scrolling mindlessly through Pinterest, bound to search for inspiration for his next project since he was finally done with his cottagegore collection, he didn’t at all notice the slightly swaying figure clambering toward him until he tripped and fell face-first into Wylan’s lap.
Wylan’s clutch on his phone was tight, every inch of his body tensing at the abrupt contact. The stranger didn’t even try picking himself back up, either, sort of just sagged further, deeper into Wylan’s bundle of jackets, his knit sweater and cotton trousers. Wylan had absolutely no fucking clue on what to do – he couldn’t back away, couldn’t get up or move even a fraction due to the weight pinning him down. The metal armrests dug into his side and back, and he tried to breathe. In through his mouth, out through his nose.
A plan of action which was aborted almost the moment that the stranger lifted his head and brought a hand to rub his face, smearing it white. He groaned – a long, quite frankly pitiful thing.
“I’m so sorry. But at the same time, I’m also really not.”
Wylan began to nod, each shake of his head turning more frantic than the last.
“Yeah, um . . .”
The words came too soft, spluttering. The stranger chuckled, before his head plummeted back down.
“Saints, this is embarrassing.”
Wylan cleared his throat.
“Sorry, are you . . . are you alright?”
“Does it look like I’m alright?”
Wylan winced. “Yeah, I’m not sure why I asked that.”
“Cool. I’m Jesper, by the way.”
“Wylan.”
“Nice to meet you, Wylan. You wear incredibly comfortable clothes.”
“Thanks.”
What the hell was going on, Wylan had absolutely no clue. But he had started to relax, his shoulders unwinding and the straight set of his mouth curving upward. The conversation between him and Jesper wasn’t awkward, and Wylan had a feeling that he wouldn’t go home overthinking every single second of this . . . interaction, which was always a win in his book, and which led to him taking his chances.
Alright second chances, then.
“So . . . are you okay?”
Jesper chuckled, and raised himself up. Thanks to it, Wylan was able to get a clearer picture of this man, disheveled and apparently exhausted, his face covered in white makeup and an obnoxious amount of lipstick, yet smiled so brightly and was so dashingly beautiful it balanced it all out perfectly. He wore a purple suit with a green tie and Wylan noticed his hair was the same tint.
“Yes. No. Sort of.” He paused. “I actually really don’t know. But some company would be nice whilst I figure it out, if you don’t mind. And yes, I am fully aware I just crashed into you out of the blue but I mean . . .”
Jesper trailed off, gesturing between them and then all around before slamming down onto the bench beside Wylan. Wylan righted himself, his attention drawn to this man.
“Right.”
“Right.”
“Left.”
“Start talking.”
“Yes, boss." Jesper sighed. "Right, so where to begin?”
Jesper told him that he was supposed to be attending some sort of obscure costume party hosted by a friend and that he’d been notified about three weeks ago and had somehow entirely forgotten about it until he received a text message asking when he was planning on showing up because he was forty minutes late. Of course, however, there was another issue at play – he’d spent his night downing half a big bottle of brandy and couldn’t exactly show up somewhat drunk and so thought he could even it out by drinking three bottles of water in quick succession which simply made him sick. He’d brushed his teeth, hastily gotten whatever his attire was in order, sprayed his hair lightly in fucking spray paint he had lying around, and the next thing he knew he was here.
“And that’s where you come in.”
Wylan was speechless. Well, except for–
“Fucking hell.”
“Yep,” Jesper said, popping the ‘P’.
“I wouldn’t be able to gauge what planet I was on after that.”
“Meaning you understand why I . . .”
Why he invaded Wylan’s little personal bubble of peace and just about died on his lap. Of course, Wylan was still processing how that whole incident made him feel – he wasn’t very good with his feelings, identifying them, and he didn’t get mad or upset just . . . shocked and confused and afraid whenever something hit him – literally or metaphorically. But now that he had a better idea of the accident behind it, he doesn’t think he minds as much as he likely would have, the rage that might have festered inside of him ebbing away gently.
“Yeah.”
“It’s all good then, yeah?”
“Sure.”
Jesper frowned.
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s okay.”
“Okay,” Jesper breathed.
Wylan turned a little more toward him.
“Who are you meant to be dressed as, by the way? You said it was a costume party, so . . .”
“Oh, the Joker. Kid’s really into Batman meaning my psychic abilities were running a mile and I thought it’d make up for the whole, you know.”
Something warm bloomed in Wylan’s chest and he giggled, soft and breathless.
“That’s sweet.”
“Isn’t it just?”
There was a cocky quality to Jesper that drew Wylan in, as muted as the events of the past few hours had made it, but whenever he glanced over Wylan’s way it seemed to dim like pub lamps and seep into something entirely different.
Just then, a train went whooshing past the two of them, and the noise was so sudden and sharp that Wylan had to clasp his hands over his ears, pressing hard and tight. Jesper had leaned into him, one hand gripping his left arm, and the moment it was over they slouched in relief.
Jesper didn’t let go, either.
Wylan’s eyes met his, and they both broke out into hysterics.
“Sweet fucking Jesus, I am not sober enough for this.”
It only made Wylan laugh harder.
“Oh–oh my God.”
“The looks on our faces,” Jesper breathed, “absolute pictures, they must have been.”
Jesper stilled. Wylan recognised that sort of stilling – he had an idea.
That couldn't be good.
“Pictures.”
Wylan looked at him dumbly, until it hit him.
“Of all the possible things to cross your mind–”
“Shut up, we have time to kill. And sitting here is beginning to hurt my back.”
“What are you, fifty?”
“I might as well be,” Jesper muttered under his breath.
They must have taken millions, with the way Wylan scrolled through Jesper’s and his camera rolls after and saw nothing but utter mugshots of each other filling their phone screens. They’d run up and down the platform, posing in all different psychologically disturbing manners. Wylan was surprised a line officer or manager hadn’t come down and shouted at them, but it was so funny that he wouldn’t have been surprised if they were watching through the cameras and laughing along.
There was one of Jesper with his leg halfway in the air that made Wylan smile brighter than he’d ever thought possible, and he added it to his favourites. Just for himself. Just because this man, who he had met in the most bizarre manner, had made the painful wait for his train worthwhile. He’d given Wylan something to hold on to, he’d done far more. And Wylan wanted more, too.
“You look so pretty in that one it hurts,” Jesper moaned.
Wylan arched his brow. “Do you say that to everyone you flirt with?”
“Me? A flirt? Scandalous accusation, Wy.”
“Perhaps. And you're not so bad yourself, Jes.”
A beat.
“Sorry, was that–?”
Jesper laughed, sudden and bright and bold. Wylan let it sink into the pit of his stomach and grow like a rose with thorns that cut deep and tender into his heart, let his anxiety be torn to shreds.
“Now what?”
Jesper waggled his brows.
“Now the real fun begins.”
Wylan choked on a breath.
“What, like this wasn’t real enough?”
“Never is, sweetheart!”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Jesper’s expression lit up tenfold.
“Come on.”
Jesper then went and stood at one end of the platform and made Wylan stand at the other and shout a discussion. Add more fuel to the fire, have more fun. What stopped them, other than Wylan’s crippling anxiety and hoarse voice which was easily forgotten about as they lost themselves in chatter about art and theatre and things they both loved.
Wylan told Jesper about the gallery, his determination in making it something after he’d been kicked out at sixteen by his father and it was the only place he had to go thanks to it still being in his mother’s name and not sold off to the highest bidder, choosing not to elaborate further. Jesper confessed that he was going to be involved in an Off West End production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which Wylan made a mental note to look at tickets for later. They rambled on and on, and it felt like eternity.
But, ultimately, it wasn’t. Wylan’s train was due any minute now, and both of them looked up at the LED sign with disdain for ruining their fun.
Their eyes met, and Wylan took the opportunity to note the steel grey, the oncoming storm born to cloud over quiet blue skies. His gaze dropped to Jesper’s lips, and it startled him how perfectly shaped they were, as if Jesper were a sculpture brought to life.
Now that he’d appreciated Jesper’s features, he was a moth drawn to a flame. Everything was still bar Icarus and his Sun. Sinking into his very fibres, Wylan felt warm to his core.
Jesper cleared his throat, but the moment didn’t move. He smiled, getting closer to Wylan.
“I know this is a bit impromptu, but–”
“Yes you can get my number.”
Jesper smiled, and though there was shock on Wylan’s expression, it vanished as though it was never there in the first place.
Numbers were easily exchanged, pictures selected easily from the load they’d taken earlier as their contact profile pictures. Wylan put the black joker emoji as Jesper’s contact name, and didn’t let him see.
Not yet.
“Text me when you get home?”
Wylan gave a wry huff. He wasn’t getting out of this, was he.
“I’m better with calls, if that’s okay.”
Jesper nodded.
“Entirely fine by me. Whatever works best for you. How about I ring you the second I get back to my apartment, hm? Promise.”
Buzzing thrummed in Wylan’s chest. Or perhaps he was. It was as easy as that.
“We’re on promising terms now?”
“Indeed we are.”
“And is this one you’re going to be able to keep?”
“If I broke it, I fear I’d break my heart.”
Wylan came to life.
“Perfect.”
The train barrelled in, poetically timed.
“Have fun, Jes.”
“You too, Wy. Or, as much fun as you can.”
Wylan stepped on his train sure that, if Jesper called him tonight as he promised, he would.