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Obi-wan slumps into the seat, shoulders curled forwards, and takes a slow steady breath. He's not going to cry on the train. He's not going to cry at all. That stupid meddling toad is not worth his tears.
Something is placed in front of him on the little plastic table. It's a cup. Cardboard. From the station cafe. The unmistakable scent of tea rises from the little hole in the lid.
Christ he really must look miserable.
He looks up to try and find his saviour, but the man has disappeared down the carriage. It's no matter. He recognised the hand that placed the cup down. The cuff of a familiar jacket. Has spent enough time idly watching those fingers curled around the support bars, or cradling a phone as he texts. Had once fantasised about them curling around the back of his neck, broad and safe and warm, before he'd caught himself and stopped.
It's the hand of the handsome commuter. The one with the scar around his eye. The one who holds himself with a calm, solid confidence that sends warmth squirming through Obi-wan's stomach.
They've shared this commuter route for years now. A familiar face in the crowd. They nod at each other in greeting, although they've never exchanged a word.
And once, on a particularly busy day, they'd both been standing. Too far from the support poles to grab them. But there weren't quite enough people for the press of bodies to hold them up.
Obi-wan hadn't needed the support bar, his balance is excellent, thank you. And neither had the handsome man. He'd been stood, hands clasped behind his back, gaze lost in the middle distance, weight shifting to compensate for the movement of the train without conscious thought. It was a beautiful thing to watch. His eyes had met Obi-wan's, and they'd shared a conspiratorial look that was half eye roll, half indulgent smile, as the train rocked and everyone else stumbled. It was a look that had made Obi-wan's stomach swoop and tumble.
So. He may be harbouring a small, long-term crush on the handsome commuter. The handsome commuter who had noticed Obi-wan was upset and bought him tea. Deliberately. Obi-wan has never seen him drink anything but coffee.
Fuck. Obi-wan isn't going to cry on the train.
He's going to focus on his tea, which he has a suspicion - he prises off the lid, watches the liquid, the perfect colour, shift slightly in the cup with the movement of the train. Then he lifts it to his lips, his eyes closing as he inhales the steam, and takes a sip.
Perfect.
Which could be chance. Or the handsome commuter knows his tea order. Which might be a little unsettling, except for the fact that Obi-wan knows how he takes his coffee. Has stood in line behind him as he's ordered a handful of times. And he's not likely to forget the sound of his rather lovely voice.
He should do something. Something to say thank you. Returning the gesture doesn't seem right, insufficient somehow, but he doesn't know what his handsome commuter would like. Obi-wan stares into his tea, the beginning of a smile just hovering, and starts to plot.
---
Cody looks up from the tupperware that had just been nudged into his hands, up into pretty grey-blue eyes that are so much more familiar than they probably should be. They're crinkled around the corners, amused, and one winks at him before they disappear into the press of bodies.
His stomach swoops and boils.
The unbelievably pretty ginger had winked at him.
Cody had just wanted him to not be sad, and now... this. Now he was being handed tupperware and winked at. He focuses on the tupperware in question. Cracks it open. Inside is a slice of cake. Chocolate cake. Dark and sticky.
The heat pooling in his stomach grows.
He'll have to return the tupperware. And he has no intention of returning it empty. His mind replays that wink.
Fuck.
Because this isn't an equivalent cup of coffee. This isn't a treat picked up from the coffee shop at the station on the way past. This is home made. Meaningful.
And if the meaning was purely gratitude, it wouldn't have been accompanied by the wink.
Cody starts to plot. Something light, he thinks. Lemon cake. Lemon shortbread? Light and fruity. And a little sharp. Something with berries and meringue? Or maybe cheesecake?
---
Obi-wan stares down at the box in his hands with wide, delighted, eyes. He feels a grin creep over his face and doesn't even try to stop it. Because the handsome commuter had smirked at him when he returned the tupperware. Knowing. And Obi-wan had spent far too much time admiring the way his shirt shifted across the back of his shoulders as he walked away down the aisle of the carriage.
The tupperware isn't light enough to be empty.
There's a weight to it. A weight that promises baked goodness and an ongoing exchange. They've still never spoken, he doesn't even know the handsome commuter's name, but he knows that this is going to be fun.