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Clouds burble across his waist. His hand passes through; it is mist – the air fades into streams, and he settles his hand down. Looking up, he hears the roar of the whistle. He has mere slippers on. The train moves without stopping. He spots the hobo on the train waving at him. He waves back. Then, as quick as it came, it left into the darkness, leaving him alone.
The fog lifts. He looks up to see a man with glasses. The man’s eyes widen. “It’s you!” His legs kick up the snow as he rushes forward, practically leaping over the train’s rails to meet up with him. His feet trip over them in the process and he falls face-first into the snow. He quickly gets up and stops by his feet not even a few feet away before keeling over. His hands are braced on his knees as he pants heavily. “Sorry–” he wheezes, “just give me a sec.” He waits; he certainly did not have anything to lose being here. He was in a dream, after all.
“Do you…need any help?” He did not know whether to place his hand on the man’s back, or his head, or leav it be. His hand was left to hover in the air.
“Y-yeah, just another moment – whew, my head’s hurting.” Even a few moments later, he’s still bent over at the knee.
He does not think; he simply offers his wrist. “Here.”
The bespectled man looks up with his with sharp blue eyes. "Hah…don’t pity me. I don’t need another guy breathing down my back.” He pauses. “But I’ll take it anyway.” The man holds onto his wrist, letting himself be adjusted over his shoulder. “Thanks.” A short period of silence follows. “Sorry about that. My mind runs off without me sometimes– ouch .”
“You okay?”
“Of course I’m not okay–I’m clearly in pain and, shit, please ignore me I’m talking too much again–”
He lets go of his wrist, sending him tipping to the floor. He lands on top of him.
“Shit, I’m sorry–are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He easily manages to push himself up. “But you don’t look so good. Here, I’ll carry you over.”
“Ah…you don’t need to–that’s embarrassing and I don’t think you should be letting anyone know you’re carrying a man in the streets.”
“Relax. No one’s here.” His mouth purses, terse. “But we gotta look at your injury, anyway. I don’t want to leave you leaving with an injury, after you ran out to me like that. I’m sorry for that, by the way, even though I’m not sure what made you rush over?” His statement ended in a question.
“Ah! It’s nothing.” He glances behind him. “Things aren’t making sense here.”
His eyes follow his direction. “Huh. Yeah, let’s just get you inside. We can wait out the cold and figure it out from there.”
They tredge through the snow. “I don’t have much. Just a small apartment and my belongings.”
“Well, that’s alright–my place’s about the same as yours, although it’s smaller and probably more uncomfortable.”
“Wait until you see the inside.” He reaches into his pocket for his wallet, pulling it open to reveal a card. He slides it into the door, revealing a bare hallway. At his curious look, he responded: “Rented out a place here. There’s a few tenants–should be all asleep by now.”
They make it up the elevator to the third floor, walking down the hallway to his room. He pulls the keys from his pockets, wrenching it into the door until it twists open with a click. The door goes in. He leaves his keyset by a small table in the middle of the hallway. “Welcome to my humble abode. Want anything? Coffee, hot chocolate–I’ve got it all here.” He gestures to a small boiler by the back of the kitchen. “This baby’ll treat you right. Saves me a bunch of money, too, while I’m living out here.”
“Huh.” The man walks around, seemingly restless. His eyes swipe through the rooms he’s able to see. He hums a lone note, which gets the host to look back at his guest.
“What?” he asks.
“Oh, nothing,” he replies. “It’s great.” But he pauses, and for a moment he makes the other man uneasy. The unease increases as he continues to speak. “I didn’t expect that you’d settle for a place like this. If I remember correct–surely it’s been a while, but you had taste. You were the scrooge of our group, until you decided to believe anyway, but now you’ve settled, for better or for worse.”
“What does that mean?” He feels his blood boil for some reason. Taking a deep breath, he proposes a question of his own. “And…how do you know me? I don’t recall meeting you before tonight.”
“Hah?” The bespectacled guy replies back. “You don’t know? I’m pretty sure you’re the kid who was on that train with me a while back. Same brown hair, blue eyes…you even have the same outfit! And don’t you recognize me ? Hey, don’t give me that look! I remember you, clear as day – and I remember you, you surely have to remember me, too?” He continued on, but at this point he wasn’t listening.
“Huh…” he’s dumbfounded. He hardly remembers the event, and this bozo expects him to remember the people he met that fateful day? He grips one of his arms tight as he tersely replies, “Now wait a second. You expect me to remember a memory from over a decade ago?”
“...Yeah? Aren’t you a figment of my imagination, or whatever?”
“What? No, what are you talking about – I thought you were the one whose a figment – forget about it.” He throws his hands up in the air before marching deeper into his apartment. Reluctantly, he turns around and gestures to the other man. “Alright, yeah, you can still go in. Just…be less annoying, please? And don’t mess with my stuff.”
He throws up his own arms in surrender. “Okay, okay! Sorry about that.” There’s a brief period of silence, where the only sounds are footsteps as they make their way deeper inside. The blond guy and him both settle by the kitchen, where the other man starts up the boiler.
Another moment passes, then, “You know, I’ve been still working on that, the whole talking-out-of-my-ass thing.” He doesn’t reply back, but he turns to look at him, and the blond guy takes that as a cue to continue. “Yeah, apparently my psychiatrist’s been telling me how it’s a whole issue. I’ve been working on it for a while now, but he’s saying no real progress has been happening.”
“A psychiatrist, you say?” he find himself saying.
“Yeah. My parents got me one after they divorced. Said it was character building, or something–hey, you mind fixing me up here?” He makes a sudden gesture at his wrist, before wincing in pain. “Ow. Yeah, I think the railroad did a number on me.”
“Huh? Uh, yeah–sure, give me a minute here. I’m making you something.” The indicator of the boiler lights up, prompting him to grab a cup from the cabinet. “Coffee, hot chocolate, or anything else? I think I can make up something if you’re in the mood for it.” He moves to open the other cabinet, which holds a plethora of ingredients.
“Hmm…” he gives the items a quick glance. “Yeah, hot chocolate’s fine.”
He nods, grabbing a packet. The packet’s contents go in, before he pours the boiling water down. The contents fill to the brim – unmixed powder and tiny marshmellows bobbling at the surface – before he places the kettle back down. He gingerly lifts the cup’s handle before placing it on the counter near the bespectacled guy. “Here you go.” It takes a moment for him to actually look at the cup.
His voice is subdued as he says “Thank you.” The mug goes up to his lips, and he takes a faint sip before gingerly placing it back down onto the counter. The other man raises an eyebrow. “Impressed with my hot chocolate-making skills?”
“Hahaha, no,” he replies back smoothly, “I just…lost all my energy, that’s all.”
“...Out of energy, you say.” He looks out the window, lets out a low whistle. “Well, damn. Guess it’s been a long night, after all.” He takes another look at the man leaned over the counter–his green sweater awkwardly bunched at the elbows as his gangly hands wrap around the small mug–before he claps his own hands together. “I guess that means it’s time to wrap things up–Hasta la vista, Sayonara, etc.–see you whenever, dream boy.”
“...What?” A moment passes. The words process. “Wait a minute…hey!” He almost spills the mug over as his spine unpeels from the kitchen counter. “N-not so fast!” the other man cries out. One arm grips the counter edge, the other raised towards him. He hisses a moment later, dropping his hand in the process. The other hand, now shaking, takes to giving it the proper support it deserves. “My wrist??”
He pauses. “Sorry about that.” One of his hands move to rub at the back of his neck, “...Yeah, I guess I’m just talking out of my ass.”
The man deflates like a balloon. “Ah…yeah, no worries. Just…just get me some bandages alright?”
“I’m on it.” He makes a little salute with his hand as he makes his way to the other room. As he ducks under the frame, he hears the other man speak.
“...And thanks again for the hot chocolate.”
“Happy to help.” He disappears completely into the other room. There’s the sound of a few drawers being drawn open and shut, before the sounds stop all together. A few seconds later, there’s rustling sounds and, soon after that, he comes out with a first-aid kit.
He places it onto the table, opens it up and takes out some bandages. His eyebrows furrow as he takes out the bandages. “...I don’t think I know what I’m doing.”
The other man lays his injured arm on the table, palm open. “...Well, I trust you, I guess.” He briefly squeezes his hand, causing him to wince again.
The man, now unraveling some of the bandages, scowled. “Don’t do that.”
“Sorry,” he says. A moment later, he mutters to himself: “Yeah, I don’t know why I did that.”
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly into a smile, before it straightened out again. “Alright. I’m going to get started on your hand. Don’t make me laugh, or you’ll regret it.”
He does a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I mean it.” The blond quiets at that. He sighs as he supports the man’s wrist with one hand, bandages in the other. His hand brushes against the other’s fingers. He pauses, briefly, before seeking the area underneath his knuckles, wrapping figures eights over the fingers’ metacarpals and around the thumb’s. A few more rounds, then he moves to the wrist, before gradually moving down the arm.
“...Concentrated, huh?”
He doesn’t respond, simply makes his slow wraps in silence.
The blond sighs. His eyes begin to roam, flickering around the kitchen and the living room before eventually settling on the man’s face. He takes in his features–the soft curve of his nose, the furrow of his brow…his hands get clammy. The slant of his eyelashes as they curl from the edge of his downturned eyes, nearly fluttered shut from concentration…he releases the grip he held over the table. Then his eyes roam to his mouth. His lips are downturned, parted slightly.
He glances back up to the eyes–he’s still focused–then back down towards the lips.
There’s a sensation he barely registers throughout it all within his arm – namely, the soft touch of his fingers, which slide all over the curves of his upper arm. The layers add on as the man continues with the bandages, slowly.
He takes in a breath. His skin prickles against the quiet air. Two of the man’s fingers graze over a part of his arm left unwrapped, and it just about twitches in the man’s grasp.
He’s stiff as a board when he dares look into the other’s eyes. One of his eyebrows are raised; he manages a minute shake of the head. He lets it go, dropping his gaze back to the arm.
A breath is released. Only then does he avert his eyes from the man’s face completely.
“ ...I think it’s done.” He tapes up the last of the bandages before placing the leftover materials into the kit.
“Oh, nice!” His head swivels over to survey his work. He’s silent for a minute.
After a while, the other man speaks up. “...Is it that bad–”
“Huh?” he says, almost too loudly. He snaps his head up to look at him, his gaze fervent. Their eyes meet for a second before he looks away, breaking the contact as quickly as it came.
Another moment passes. “Oh!” he says, finally. “No, it’s ah–it’s good.”He takes his free hand and grazes the binding, tracing lightly over it with his fingers. “Oh wait,” his voice is hush, “it’s actually good.”
His eyebrows furrow together. “...Hey now, what does that mean?” He pauses. “Oh wait, really?”
He releases a deep breath before giving an affirmative nod. “Yeah,” the word comes out breathless. He clears his throat. “Yeah! Give yourself some credit. Everything looks tight, the application is pretty even, and–let me test this for a second.” He glances up at him, clears his throat again, “...Not like I think your application is off, or anything like that, but…” He clenches his fist, fingers pressing into his palm. “Yep, feels good! Just as I thought.”
He meets his eyes again, but this time he just nods in affirmation. “No pain,” he simply says, before doing a thumbs-up gesture with his unwrapped hand. “Feeling great.” The hands falls down, limp, after a few seconds, leaving the only sound between them be the quiet hiss of the kettle.
“...Well thanks, then,” He finally says. His hands move to put away the last remaining items.
He looks at him, eyes narrowed. “ Hey now, don’t let me forget what you did before, dude,” he huffs. “I am not letting you off the hook for nearly ditching me earlier.”
He snorts. “That’s fair, I guess.” He closes the kit and presses it in with a final clack, and he moves to stand up. “...Alright, I’m going to put this back. Give me a second; I’ll be back shortly.” His footsteps fade as he moves back into the unseen room.
The other man drums his fingers against the countertop, taking another look at his surroundings. A faint pulse is drumming in his ears. His eyes dart between the cabinets, scanning the individual cutlery hanging over the stop before walking, idly, to the fridge.
His eyes are still roaming the living as his fingers slide across its surface–a bumpy texture, cold to the touch–before his nails scrape cold rubber.
The magnet flings under the crevice of the dishwasher; the item it was holding glides gently to the ground beside him. He bends down, grabbing the corner of it with his thumb and forefinger before hurrying over to the washer.
As he stands up again, he brings the item he just picked up to his eyes: a brightly colored magnet. He glances at the paper grasped in his other hand and lifts it to spares it a quick look. He blinks his eyes.
A winter scene. A family of four stood in front of brick house. Two parents–a man with a faintly curly locks, a woman with shoulder-length–and their kids. On the left is a young girl with a green smock, brown hair tucked behind the ears. Beside her, a young boy, adorned in a blue robe and yellow pajamas. He stares, determined, at the camera, a faint smile on his face. It is winter. It is a happy family, posed together on Christmas morning.
He strokes a finger over the edge of the photo, thumbing over the groove of an old fold. It is quiet. Then he suppresses a scream. He turns around. The man lifts his hand from his shoulder.
“Sorry about that.” A second later, “Did something happen?”
“No!” He looks at him, looks at the frame, then looks back at him again. He looks away from the man, away from the eyes that matched the boy in the photo. “...Well yes, actually. It’s–”
“Wait,” he interrupts, “is that…?”
“I-I can explain…” The words do not come out. “It’s…it’s uh–”
“Then, please, do explain.” The tone of his voice was not judgmental, but rather suffocatingly silent. It’s quiet. Reluctantly, the other looks again in his general direction, only to be struck by his gaze–unreadable.
Explain , he says. His mind’s ringing a mile a minute, clamoring for any available customer with an urgent brrrrr. No words aren’t coming, though. It’s all silence.
A slow static had begun reverberating in his head, leaving him breathless. It’s getting cold , he idly thinks, really, really, cold. His arms reach out for his sleeves, as he thinks nothing but of the draft which had suddenly arose in the room, but then his sight, which remained at the other man’s gaze, caught attention to the minute dilation of his eyes. He’s watching him regard his sleeves like they were venom, and now he’s begun shaking, thinking to himself Why is it so cold . He nearly curses himself, but there’s something in the odd stillness of the other man’s regard of him that forces his own attention to himself.
He forcibly shakes his head, and the thoughts of snow and stares ebb away. Swallow, he thinks, and he manages to swallow. Well that’s weird, he lightly notes with another shake of the head, I can’t seem to do it..? He coughs. Then he’s sent to a choking fit.
The chills abruptly vanished; it’s only the blood rushing in his face that’s coming in, now.
“W-wait a minute, are you okay?”
There’s a pause. He’s still choking.
“...Do you need any help?” There’s possibly a footstep that makes way in his general direction, but it stops, leaving the sound to linger. Or, at least, it would linger had he not have been coughing his lungs out. He manages to swat a hand over in his general direction, attempting to make vague gestures while his other hand harbors over his chest. He murmurs to himself. It’s silent, he’s too quiet , but he manages to pick up on a few words. “...what am I doing?” he registers the trail end of a sentence. The rest of his words are too quiet to hear. But it doesn’t matter now, because the air in his lungs isn’t airing, and hell appears all the more closer now.
Abruptly, he registers that a hand is tucked under his arm–another that’s pressed to his chest. …Gyuh? He pauses, briefly, as he chastistes to himself. Oh my God, stop it, you sound like a total doofus. He tries swallowing his breath and almost swears, as he resumes coughing. Holy shit why am I still dying?
As if in response, the other man pauses from his manuever. “...I’m making this worse, aren’t I?” he doesn’t wait for a response–not like he would receive any. “I’m sorry, I’ll let go now.” His heart rate, having skyrocketed upon receiving his touch, abruptly drops as he loses bearing. He swings towards the ground. He manages to close one of his hands–they’ve somehow tensed up from his sides, with all of his choking–around the other’s wrist. The man staggers forward, and, for a moment, it seems like they would both hurl towards the ground. But the man keeps steady; he holds on for the both of them. One of his shoes keeps steady on the floor. A hand grabs onto his sleeve. He uses his free hand to hook him by the neck, and then he’s up and steady, finding himself within his embrace. He breathes, attempting to let his racing heart calm. It’s the adrenaline , he thinks. He releases a breath; it comes out as a shudder.
There’s a murmur in his ear. “...Sorry.”
He finds himself shaking his head. “I-it isn’t a problem!” The other man tenses at the sound of his voice. “My bad.” He attempts to mediate his volume, steps back, even, leaving a slight distance between them. Clearing his throat, he manages to speak at a normal volume. “ I should be the one to apologize.” He finds himself lifting a hand, and it hovers in the air for a second. He decides to let it remain awkwardly by his side. His hand lowers. Instead, he keeps his eyes level with the other’s. He only slightly hesitates at the intensity of his gaze. “ I shouldn’t be touching your stuff. I’m, uh,” He struggles to find any more words. “ Shit. Yeah. I was snooping around when I shouldn’t have been, and I’m…sorry.” He glances away for a second, fretful, before he looks back, steadying himself with a shaky breath. “...I understand if you’re going to kick me out after this.” He keeps in mind the other man’s reaction–an eyebrow furrow, his lips tugging slightly downwards–and it’s all…indecipherable. His words trail out from him, and he stops, and he ponders.
He finds himself thinking that he’d like to look into him–what kind of person he is, rather–if not just for a little bit.
As he thinks this, the moment passes, and, with it, his trail of thought. His eyes are drawn to his face, to his eyes which looked like they were activated by some sort of switch. His face wipes bare–a blank slate–and his intense eyes wash away into a gaze…more distant, somehow. He was looking at the eyes this whole time – his parents always told him to keep contact with the people he talked to – but, even so, the change was practically inperceptible. His mouth twitches up in a slight grin without him realizing it. The other man appears to startle at it. He reverts back into his own neutral expression, or as best as he can school it.
He remembers that he was supposed to be talking, and he startles. Right. “I won’t do it again,” he affirms, “it’s a promise.”
The other man looks at him for a long moment, before, slowly, he nods. “...Yeah. It’s fine.” . . . with minute motions of his head. The other regards the motion with a challenging tilt of the head, but he dismisses it, instead stretching out a hand.
“...Here. Give it to me.” He looks at the paper for a long time. “It’s alright. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He thumbs the same corner of the photo he had imprinted on earlier. “...Do you happen to have the magnet holding it, by any chance–thank you.” His fingers fumble with the small object briefly. Just as quickly, he sticks it back on the fridge. The photo is hung by the magnet, as if nobody had tampered with it.
“...There you have it. You have nothing to worry about.” He shoves a hand into one of his pockets.
They stand awkwardly by the fridge. “I’m sorry about that again,” the blond says.
“No, it’s alright.”
“Alright…”
“But you should get going now, yeah?”
“Y-yeah,” he coughs, “that’s right. I’ll just,” he takes a step to the side, “be on my way now.”
“No hard feelings?”
“I should be the one asking that,” he grumbles. “Quit acting so calm. You’re creeping me out.”
He raises his hands up in defense. “I’m just trying to be nice. Can’t a guy help another out—a guy, who, may I add, went snooping around my stuff?” He quirks an eyebrow at him.
He’s sweating. “Uh…”
The firm line of his mouth breaks into a relaxed smile. “I’m just joking.”
“Haha, right…”
He turns to the door. “Anyways, here. I’ll walk you out. I can deal with the mess.”
“You sure?”
“It’s fine.” He escorts him to the door.
He’s already halfway out before he knows it.
“Hey, listen…” his voice comes out, reluctant, but he presses on, determined to speak. “I don’t know if we’re really dreaming, y’know? Everything feels too real—it’s kinda creeping me out. But uh, if I do ever see you again, I promise I won’t touch your things.” His eyes flicker off to the side, suddenly abashed. “Sorry about that, by the way–”
“It’s no problem,” he brushes the statement off with a wave of his hand. He leans on the side of the door, as he pats his arm, chastizing, “That will be something that we can worry about next time you visit.”
He furrows his eyebrows at the response. “Hah…” His mouth struggles to communicate the right words, as he looks off to the side, thoroughly unimpressed. Then it’s like a lightbulb had struck him, the way the question spills from his lips, “H…how do you know? That I’ll come back, and this isn’t a one time thing?” He turns his head to the side and looks off to the forlorn snow, recently rustled by a winter storm.
He’s jostled to his attention by the placement of his arm on his shoulder. He meets his eyes. They’re warm. “It’s okay. I believe we’ll meet again.” He flashes a smile that seems distant, as if he were looking back into some far off place. “If we’re…dreaming, then anything’s possible. The mind can do funny things, and…I hope…” his voice falters, before it falls with the quirk of his lips. He stares at a point from somewhere behind him, eyes glazed over.
He wants to shake the man and demand for answers.
“What?” His voice releases with an aching bite, more venom than he had liked. The other man flinches, his gaze shocked alert.
“Nothing,” he says far too quickly. “I mean,” flustered, he grabs at his hair with one hand, brushes it off to the side. “I’ll tell you later. Much later, if not never. I just…” he pauses before the words spill out from him, each syllable slightly strained, as if forced out of unrelenting lungs, “...I have a feeling we’ll see each other again. So,” he clears his breath, “Until then…” his eyes widen, “—wait.” He ducks off to the side, just barely out of view. He grabs a hold of an item before bringing it just up above him. His lifts his head up, as he murmurs, “Take this.”
The beanie’s adorned over the other man’s head.
Sputtering, he says, “What are you—”
“Consider it a small gift. Make sure to wear it for me whenever you visit—my door will be open for you.” He winks.
His face is warm, suddenly. “Well, uh,” he swallows thickly, “thanks.” He forces a grin, while his heart stutters, hard. “I’ll be sure to give you a call.” He pauses. “Actually, scratch that, I don’t think that’s even possible here, so I’ll just…knock then? Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Y-yeah.”
He smiles back at him. “Then it’s settled, then. I’ll see you later. Take care.”
He lifts up a hand, waving a wobbly hand. “Bye.”
He manages to witness the other man’s smile grow warm as he closed the door shut.
He shudders at the myriad of emotions, all having aquiesced upon meeting him.
He doesn’t linger on those thoughts—he doesn’t have a choice. His legs move on their own volition, back towards the tracks. He’s across the rails when the roar of the train’s engine comes, suddenly, and fog rustles into view. His vision is smothered before it turns white completely, as the sound of the train grows louder, like thunder. Sights fade, but the roar of the whistle reverberates into his ears—as the wheels shift gears, generating sparks against well-worn tracks. As the train stops, so does he. And so he disappears into memory.
So it was, until Chris woke up to a haggard house, a mussed through first aid kit, and a missing beanie.