Archive of Our Own ^beta

Their hearts are synced to the rhythm of the trains coming and going through Krat. The turning of gears, smell of burning smoke, heated and passionate and yet driven on unyielding iron rails. Trains never meet but they do glance upon each other passing by empty platforms lit by oil lantern.

The Spirit of Krat only comes to the station every two weeks - while the Ergo Express comes every three. That means that though they use the same platform (in this case, platform number 9), their passengers will rarely share the same platform, their coal suppliers rarely vying for the same rail space, and the conductors will rarely be able to put a face to the voices heard on the radio, or the handwriting in the logs of stations along the route. To ride these rails is to commit to loneliness, of having people so far away but never connect with them.

And yet, once every few weeks, the trains do share the platform. Usually late at night when both are light with travellers. The trains are scheduled to come to a slow hissing stop at 11:53 p.m in the night and leave at 1:18 a.m the next day.  Once the trains have completely stopped, the passengers slough out of their cabins and shuffle out of the station to the wonders of Krat. The conductors exit their cabins, meet and catch up: discuss the length of one's beard, or the conditions driving over the mountains, or the other’s children, or the nice whisky picked up a few towns over, though they would never partake while on the job.

It is only after the passengers leave and the conductors are catching up, that Romeo on the Spirit of Krat and Carlo on the Ergo Express slip off their separate trains and behold each other for the first time in weeks.

They have twenty five minutes. Twenty five minutes to express what letters and pictures and broken long distance phone calls can never express. Within seconds they are embracing each other, smelling hair, feeling fabrics under fingers.

“You got a haircut," Romeo murmurs, his nose buried in Carlo’s black hair.

“Just a trim. How did you know?" asks Carlo, his fingers resting over the buttons of Romeo’s shirt in anticipation. They cannot stop being in each other’s world.

“Photographic memory, my sweet. To keep me warm on those cold nights at the orphanage." 

"You bless me with eternal life in your mind,” Carlo whispers reverently. He has a lightness to his voice, partially joking. The two men are young enough to believe they can never die, that this is a temporary situation. They will not be apart forever.

"In my mind and body and soul, for always.” Romeo holds Carlo tighter as a wind blows through the open walled platform. His warmth seems so potent they could melt together.

An uneasy laugh. “Don't talk like that," begs Carlo. As if they fear they will lose each other. They will, but not right now. Not for a few minutes, anyway.

“Enough talk, then…” Romeo lifts his head from Carlo’s hair and smiles. The train station, the city, the world is gone; it is just the two of them and their hearts beating together.

Carlo lets himself be pulled into Romeo’s train. They do not have long after all, it's best for the decisive Romeo to take the lead.

They are efficient and practiced in their coupling - hot and furious, they burn with desire, to go as far as they can in the little time they have. Clothes mingled in a pile on the train floor, they will smell like each other for weeks. (They wear the same clothes each time, as if they wouldn't know each other through their eyes). Each knows the best places to touch for the other. They write in their letters to each other about such fantasies, and practice in their dreams, so that in these moments there is perfection.

As much as Carlo tries, it is Romeo that makes Carlo come first – a service of love, a payer to his god. Every time, Carlo then speeds up, desperate to bring Romeo even a sliver of the ecstasy he does to Carlo. And then every time it’s Romeo that brushes his thumb along Carlo’s jaw and reaffirms:

“Slow down… shh … it's okay. We have time…”

And though time's winged chariot is surging closer and closer, and the trains that will yank them apart must keep on time, Carlo trusts Romeo, and slows down.  The boys look into each other's eyes and drink deeply of each other’s souls.

Romeo exhales, and comes with a few minutes to spare.

Sometimes they write in letters about using the time together to just cuddle, but they both forget their logic when in the presence of the other. The moment passes, and they dress each other. Buttons done, zippers zipped, collars adjusted, hair smoothed down. They fuss over each other’s appearance, partly to hide the effects from the world, but so they can touch each other for just a little longer.

With a minute to spare, they feel the carriages shift, hear doors open and close. Carlo and Romeo must go now, to their respective trains. They keep talking in low hushed tones, trying to be nonchalant.

“I will be by the ocean for a few weeks,” says Carlo. “Father is taking me on holiday. It might be harder to send a letter. We should be back before the next train, though.”

Romeo has an easy answer. “The hotel should be able to mail one for you. Just ask at the front desk.”

“And if not?” 

“...If not, then this is all I need of you.” He lifts up the necklace that Carlo gave him when they both graduated. Carlo cups Romeo’s hands in his, kissing both the metal pendant and his love’s fingertips. 

“I love –”

The two trains blow their whistles simultaneously. They have run out of time. Carlo tucks the necklace under Romeo’s shirt and gives him a quick hug and fierce kiss. Then Carlo lets go and rushes for the door. 

The conductors are making their final checks and closing doors, ready for departure. The steam engines start up, with gears turning and brakes releasing. A loud deafening noise fills the platform.

The two trains face opposite directions. They start to slowly roll their respective directions. Carlo and Romeo look at each other through dirty windows until the very last moment.

I love you, mouths Carlo.

Romeo does not mouth anything. He simply puts his hand over his necklace. His heart. Where Carlo belongs.

Right on schedule the trains chug away from each other, leaving the platform empty and cold as the mountain wind blows through, swinging the oil lanterns in the night.