Work Text:
💛
Oxford has finally committed to autumn, with a bright, thin layer of cloud cover, not yet heavy and dark and rain-laden. It’s a gorgeous day; there are leaves falling from trees lining the streets, and it’s just crisp enough for Charlie Spring to wear his favourite navy cardigan with the shawl collar but not yet need a coat.
He’s finally feeling settled into his new flat and new routine, and it feels so satisfying watching it fall into place as the seasons are changing. He hikes his laptop bag up higher on his shoulder and sets off to the cafe he recently discovered for a coffee before he catches the bus. Maybe he’ll even get a bite to eat while he’s there. There’s just something about Friday in particular that has him so buoyant. It’s definitely got nothing to do with the strawberry blonde guy, the buff one—strawberry buff guy?—who rides the bus on Fridays.
After three weeks of getting the S1, Charlie is certain that, yes, Strawberry Buff only catches it on Fridays. The man is tall and broad-shouldered and has a warm smile, and he typically sits near the back, close to Charlie. Last Friday had been especially serendipitous, as the woman in the aisle seat next to Charlie got off right as Strawberry was getting on. Charlie gave a shy but encouraging smile and it worked. The man took the seat beside him.
His cheeks grow ever-so-slightly pink as he remembers how his friend and coworker Isaac had teased him for his good mood last Friday, but he pushes that aside as he ducks into the cafe. Once he’s got a flat white in one hand and a bagel in the other, he picks up his pace, eager to get to the bus stop and not one bit embarrassed about it. He’s practically floating along as Fleetwood Mac’s Everywhere pours out of his headphones.
His good mood fades somewhat once he’s in his seat.
The businessman across the aisle from him seems to have no consideration for his fellow passengers or their personal space. He’s practically shouting into his bluetooth, carrying on an entire conversation about sales figures or some shit, and he gestures wildly even though the person on the other end can’t see him. The only effect his movements have are nearly smacking Charlie *several times* in a matter of minutes. As they pull up to the next stop, the man bends down to collect his briefcase and coat, his arse rising half out of the seat in Charlie's face.
Charlie finally unclenches his teeth when the man steps off the bus. "Wanker," he mutters under his breath.
Thankfully, a minute later, Strawberry is approaching him. Well, not him exactly, but the section where they always sit. He takes the recently-vacated seat and offers Charlie a nod of recognition as he settles in.
As the bus moves along, Charlie sits back contentedly and closes his eyes. He lets himself melt into the melody of Mystified as Fleetwood Mac continues to play in his ears. The haunting chorus washes over him like veiled sunlight through silvery clouds. He drums his fingers softly on his thighs to the slow, entrancing beat.
As the repeating refrain fades out and Little Lies begins, Charlie’s eyes open once more and he looks out the window and at his surroundings again.
He glances over as he sees Strawberry moving in his peripheral vision, and the man has pulled out an energy bar and—a blue fizzy drink? He can smell the cloying artificial bubblegum from here; it’s a crime. Just as the man tilts the bottle to his lips, the bus hits a bump, and sticky blue liquid sloshes out all over his pale grey button-up.
Over the music in his headphones, he hears Strawberry Buff whisper, “Shit!” The man digs frantically in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket, but doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Charlie quickly reaches into the pocket of his own laptop bag for the napkins he grabbed when he got his bagel, and passes the lot of them over. Strawberry pauses to look at Charlie’s hand and then up at his face. Charlie feels himself blush but gives a shy grin anyway. Strawberry’s grateful smile is brief but blinding as he quickly returns his focus to his shirt.
Once he’s done the best he can with dry napkins, he wads them up in his freckled hand and stuffs them in his pocket. He turns to look at Charlie again, who quickly looks out the window as if he hasn’t been staring, counting freckles and shades of blonde and ginger in the man’s hair.
The bus brakes squeal as it slows, and Charlie realises in a panic that they’re approaching his stop. He gathers his laptop bag and jumps up, gripping the seat back to stay steady on his feet as the bus jerks to a halt. He makes his way towards the exit, glancing back before the doors open. Strawberry Buff is already looking back, ruddy cheeks and cinnamon eyes. Charlie waves before stepping down onto pavement, not letting himself look to see if the man waves back.
He bites back a grin as he watches the bus pull away, replaying the scene in his head. He hopes his seatmate isn’t blue forever, although he giggles as that thought crosses his mind. Why he found spilling a drink so endearing, Charlie can’t really say, but he’s grateful for that brief moment of connection with Strawberry Buff. He starts heading in the direction of the library, humming to himself. Isaac is surely going to see right through him, but Charlie can’t bring himself to care.
💙
Nick anxiously bounces on the balls of his feet under the bus shelter’s awning. His knuckles are blanched from their too-tight grip on the handles of his laptop bag, the only area of exposed skin left without a slight flush from the chill autumn air. A quick glance at his phone tells him it’s 8:17, as it had been the past two times he’d obsessively checked. He quickly feels around in his jacket pocket to make sure he has his favourite energy bar tucked away—not that discovering its absence would make any sort of difference in consequence, as there’d be no time to go home and grab one now—and lets out a sigh of relief as he feels the reassuring brush of a familiar wrapper against his fingertips.
He doesn’t know—or rather, doesn’t want to acknowledge—why he’s been so frazzled and jittery on Fridays recently. Between his early morning trips to the gym and the extra structure from his once-weekly office day where he gets to interact with his coworkers in person, Friday has quickly become his favourite day of the week. But as of a few weeks ago, mixing in with his generally chipper mood has been an unfamiliar kind of excitement, along with a bit of anxiety—which coincidentally started around the time something new entered his orbit. Or someone, that is.
He’s crushing, and he knows it shows regardless of how hard he tries to cover it up. The thing is that he’s usually so well put together. Coming out and starting his transition a few years prior was liberating, empowering, and a major source of self confidence. It was a hard but necessary massive first step in the journey of becoming his best self. The process of turning his body and life into a place he feels comfortable in—into a home—is one that he’s continually working towards.
And with all these big changes he’d already made, so what if he happened to start taking a little extra time to comb through his hair, or do an extra rep of weights at the gym, or add an extra spritz of his favourite cologne in the mornings? It’s all still self-care anyway—that’s what he told Tara when she mentioned these latest developments. But she can see right through the cracks that are forming under the weight of his ginormous bus crush, and told him just the same. If he’s really being honest with himself, he knows it’s done in a sorry attempt to catch a certain someone’s attention. He had even broken his months-long tradition of listening to It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood! on the bus every morning in an attempt to seem more conversationally available to the man, for heaven’s sake! This fellow commuter is the arrow in his Achilles heel. So here he is again on another Friday morning, mentally spiralling as he waits for his bus. The time reads 8:19 now. It should be here any moment, then.
As if on cue, the deep rumble of a diesel engine grows in the distance and eventually crests as the bus slowly rounds the corner. Nick turns to greet the streak of gold and blue now creeping down the street towards him, but pauses when his eyes land on a small, almost indiscernible piece of graffiti. If he squints he can just make out ‘yer mum’s a bus wanker’ scrawled in red marker across the plexiglass panel. Takes one to know one, bus wanker. Nick scoffs at the vandalism, though his eyes crinkle ever so slightly as his annoyance is quickly replaced with fondness for the public display of juvenile humour.
The sound of brakes screeching in protest cuts through the air, signalling the stagecoach’s arrival as it lurches to a halt. It heaves out a sigh of exhaust before returning to its steady rhythmic guzzling, idling as the doors fly open to allow passengers to board and disembark. Nick's heart rate picks up as he readjusts his bag and turns towards the bus. It takes all his willpower not to flick his eyes along the row of windows, searching for a glimpse of his—stranger doesn’t feel quite right, anymore. Acquaintance? Friend?—through a mosaic of smudges left by countless games of noughts and crosses played in the condensation to pass the time.
Nick maintains that self control to not let his eyes wander as he patiently waits his turn to walk up to the door, step aboard, and pay his fare—though the whole time he’s secretly hoping, internally pleading with whatever deity may be listening, that his seat is still available.
His seat? Since when is any seat his? This is a busy public transportation service, not an event with assigned reservations. Regardless, it was privately his since day one. Nick had mentally asserted ownership of it when he’d first laid eyes on the new passenger all those weeks ago, the seat’s proximity to the beautiful stranger drawing him in. It’s similar to the innocent imagination that lets a child think that they have the power to name a puppy that isn’t theirs, despite it already having one. Sometimes the adults humour them, and let the child temporarily experience the magic of having named something so beautiful, only to return to its real name once they’ve gone. And like a puppy’s factitious name, the seat isn’t really Nick’s, but it belongs to him just the same.
That is, the seat wasn’t his—not until he boarded the week before last. Cuddly Curls had shot him a shy smile, a silent invitation for Nick to finally claim the seat as his own. Nick was all too eager to accept it, and from that moment on, the seat had truly become his rather than only belonging to him in his fantasies. So while Nick remains steadfast in his resolution to not seek out the man’s presence throughout the boarding process, he tries and fails to not get his hopes up. The electronic card reader beeps to acknowledge that his payment was successfully processed. Nick steels himself for the moment of truth, for the moment he looks up and foolishly realises that the last couple of weeks were only a cosmic fluke.
Now having to scrape up the courage to do something he was fighting to restrain himself from only moments before, Nick finally lets his eyes dart down the crowded aisle. His heart skips a beat and his breath hitches in his throat—his entire body seems to be going into emergency mode—as his gaze immediately lands on the one his heart has been longing for since the moment it had to say goodbye last week.
There, settled in his regular area near the back of the bus, is Cuddly Curls. Cuddly, with his thick mop of dark curly hair that Nick just knows would be so soft if he were to reach out and tangle his fingers in it. Curls, with his go-to deep-blue cardigan that Nick just knows would be so warm and comforting if he were to wrap him up in a tight squeeze. The human embodiment of everything sweet and welcoming, with his slender hands—so often occupied tapping out a silent drum solo—now patting the empty aisle seat next to him as he beams back at Nick.
The stress dissipates from his body almost instantly, and Nick heaves a sigh of relief and feels his shoulders relax as he begins shuffling past the rows of seats towards his own. Towards his beacon of guiding light, directing him safely through the dangerous sea of cramped strangers. Towards the angel-faced man who he fell so hard for that first day, and the following, and every Friday like clockwork.
He’s just finished storing his bag beneath the seat and settling in, and opens his mouth to perhaps talk with Cuddly—he has no idea what about—when a lurch of the departing bus wakes the baby in the row directly behind them. Its piercing wails cut through the air, and the shrill noise hinders any sort of conversation before it has even had a chance to begin. Cuddly quickly replaces his wireless headphones and shoots Nick a sympathetic grin, wordlessly passing over a pair of foam earplugs from his bag. Nick tries to return a grateful smile of his own, though he’s sure it comes across as a pained grimace. He’ll just have to try again another week, then.
He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the headrest of his seat, letting the deep rumble of the bus join the earplugs to muffle and drown out the crying infant. When Cuddly has to squeeze past him to dismount the bus at his stop, it’s too soon. Nick is already missing his presence before the doors close behind him, feeling a little more cold and lonesome from the empty spot next to him through the last few minutes of his noisy commute to work.
💛
Strawberry Buff seems to be a bit forgetful. Or maybe bad at time management. Or like he’s the kind of bachelor who is so bad at cooking that he manages to burn the water he boils for instant ramen. But, his shirts are always pressed and his hair always perfectly just-so, so at least it’s apparent that he possesses basic hygiene skills. However, that doesn’t negate how concerning Charlie finds the man’s morning energy bar habit.
It’s not like Charlie is some sort of foodie or anything. He usually just goes for a bagel from the cafe for his in-transit breakfast, or a yoghurt from home if he’s in a hurry. His favourite crisps are pickled onion Monster Munch for heaven’s sake! But to eat a glorified candy bar in mint chocolate flavour (or worse: Cherry Bakewell) at 8:20 in the morning? That is a crime. There is no reason that a grown man should resort to eating that every day, no matter how much he needs to bulk up his protein intake for his obviously rigorous gym regimen.
At least he eats breakfast, though. It shows a level of maturity that a lot of men don’t seem to possess. And with his hair so perfectly combed and swept, Charlie is willing to set aside this one shameful facet of the morning routine of this otherwise flawless man.
Until one drizzly Friday commute, Charlie’s heart ached with sympathy for Strawberry Buff. Charlie had watched passengers grumpily file onto the bus at the stop immediately following his own, disappointment slowly mounting as he realised that he probably wasn’t riding that day. Just as the bus was about to pull away, Charlie heard the blaring of car horns and a shout of “I’m late for the bus, wanker!” Charlie wiped the condensation on the window away with his sleeve just in time to see Strawberry nearly become the victim of a hit and run as he bolted across both lanes of traffic.
Luckily, the bus driver had listened to Charlie’s uncharacteristic plea for him to wait for the stranger he’d grown so accustomed to spending his Friday mornings with; Strawberry Buff boarded, gasping for air, shoes squelching and squeaking from clearly having found a puddle or two during his sprint to the bus stop. He scrambled for his payment and looked in total disarray: unpressed trousers, messy fringe, and a dejected look on his patchy, unshaven face. With barely a glance in Charlie’s direction, Strawberry had plopped down across the aisle from him, in the last available seat on that rainy day.
Willing himself to not stare at the poor man who’d clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed, Charlie had watched out of the corner of his eye as he rifled desperately through all the pockets in his Carhartt and on his laptop bag before abandoning the task and sinking back into his seat. The devastating realisation that he’d forgotten his energy bar made him look even sadder, and pricked a tear in Charlie’s eye as well. If only he were sitting closer, Charlie would’ve offered him the crisps from his lunch.
So on the following Friday, Charlie has a plan. He places his laptop bag on the empty seat beside him to discourage any other commuters from claiming it. The bag that also contains his lunch, which today includes two packets of Monster Munch, just in case. Even if he clams up and can’t get any actual sentences to come out of his mouth, shared food is worth a thousand words, right? Who needs amiable conversation when there are stinky-smelling puffed corn snacks to be eaten at half eight?
At the next stop, Charlie is relieved to spot an on-time Strawberry Buff waiting under the bus shelter, put-together and breathing normally. Once boarded, he gestures towards the seat next to Charlie with that crooked grin that makes Charlie’s belly swoop, so he quickly makes room for the beautiful stranger to settle in. Willing himself to come up with anything at all to say, Charlie toys with his zipper as the other man digs around for his breakfast. He checks his coat pockets when the energy bar can’t be found in his laptop bag. The letdown of having forgotten it for the second week in a row washes over him, and Strawberry lets out a frustrated sigh.
Completely tongue-tied, Charlie opts to instead nudge his seatmate gently with his elbow, setting his plan into motion. With a simple “uhm–” Charlie reveals the extra snack he may or may not have packed for this very eventuality. The man momentarily stares at it, then shifts his gaze to meet Charlie’s. A cosy smile to match his warm cinnamon eyes spreads across his face. Charlie pulses his eyebrows, indicating that his offer is genuine. Strawberry Buff sweeps his fringe back with his hand, then holds it out to sheepishly accept. Charlie pretends to not notice the flush that creeps across Strawberry’s pale, freckled cheeks as their fingertips accidentally brush when passing off the slightly offensive, but nevertheless enchanted pickled onion-flavoured breakfast item.
💙
And there they are again. The Friday flutters. As much as Nick might tell himself that it’s just because it’s ‘office day’ and he’s craving human interaction so he can’t wait to see his colleagues, he knows - really knows by now - that the kaleidoscope of butterflies that descends almost as soon as he wakes on Friday morning is caused by the anticipation of seeing one particular person. He leans into the good mood, strutting to the bus stop to a soundtrack of Kelly Rowland and The Saturdays; literally gearing up for Work.
The mornings have been crisper lately, and Nick can see as the S1 trundles into view that the windows are completely fogged up. He feels ridiculous as he notices the way his pulse quickens and his stomach clenches as the bus pulls up and the doors swish open. It seems to take forever for the three people in front of him to shuffle onto the low platform and tap the contactless pay point, and he feels an extra sting of embarrassment as he realises that the root of at least some of his impatience is a concern that one of these possible bus wankers might beat him to his seat.
His seat next to the gorgeous, curly-haired, cardigan-clad, blue-eyed vision who has occupied an embarrassing amount of Nick’s brainspace since they first shared a seat on the bus so many Fridays ago. As Nick steps on to the bus he’s pretty sure he’s still flushing at the memory of their hands touching slightly the previous week, when Cuddly had rummaged in his bag and produced the emergency breakfast that Nick had needed so badly, handing it to him with sparkling eyes and the faintest brush of soft skin.
He dares to glance down the bus as he taps his card and thanks the driver. There’s someone just slightly taller a few passengers ahead and he can’t quite see. A wave of pure relief shivers through him as he realises that not only is the tall person heading up the stairs, but the seat next to Cuddly Curls is still mercifully empty. The only barrier between Nick and his spot now is the woman directly in front of him. From the view Nick has of the back of her hair he reckons she’s an older lady, and she’s wearing a padded lilac coat that screams M&S, but whether she considers herself worthy of the vacant priority seat is anyone’s guess.
A kind of unhinged commentary starts up in Nick’s head as he watches the movements of his new bus nemesis closely. At this point it could go either way, she’s clocked the priority seat but she’ll have to navigate a pram to get there, now she’s looking at the young man with the curls, she’s weighing it up carefully…what’s it gonna be…there’s a nod of the head…and…she goes for the priority seat! WHAT A RESULT.
With as much chill as he can muster, Nick risks a glance in Cuddly Curls’ direction. He’s looking out of the window, a patch of condensation cleared enough for him to peer out into the half-light of the autumn morning. Nick wonders if it’s a deliberate strategy to prevent Lilac Coat from making the kind of eye contact which could have enticed her to sit with him. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to make eye contact with Nick. Was last time…bad? He’d been so floored by the sweetness in the gesture that he hadn’t really managed to say anything in response. What if he isn’t happy to see him today?
Oh. And now Nick feels uncomfortable about the fact that the only remaining seat downstairs is next to him.
Nick is weighing up whether to bolt for the stairs or stick to his guns when the familiar head turns, and there’s a shy smile, and there are the dimples…Why do there have to be dimples? Nick’s sure he’s pinking up just at the sight of him; head still angled down slightly, looking up through thick lashes, a slight but definite upturn of his soft lips. Nick doesn’t know for a fact that they’re soft but they certainly look that way; plump, with a hint of a pout. He allows himself a moment to wonder what they would feel like, pressing gently up against his own.
The train of thought doesn’t bode well for today’s plan, which was to maybe try to actually say some words to Cuddly Curls. Heck, maybe even get a name because god knows he feels ridiculous thinking so much about someone whose name he doesn’t even know. He tries to return the smile as he pulls level with his spot.
Nick takes as deep a breath as his constrictive binder will allow and slides gingerly into the seat. He allows himself a moment to settle and centre, stashing his bag in between his legs before straightening up and relaxing back into the chair. He ventures a look across to his companion and feels a flush of adrenaline as he realises it’s finally happening; the curls turn towards him and the drawing of breath is evident in the almost imperceptible rise in Cuddly Curls’ chest, and the slight parting of his rounded lips. Nick’s pretty sure he hears the breathy start of a voiceless fricative, a little huff, not quite sounding from the throat yet…when a very different sound pierces the moment and the air around them.
“Oh it’s you, dears! I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but it’s the highlight of my week seeing the two of you.”
Nick curses himself as Lilac Coat addresses them. Cuddly Curls obviously had the right idea with the window stare, but not Nick; he has one of those faces that people not only decide they can trust, but that they feel is inviting them to start a discussion.
“Oh, we, uhhh…” Nick isn’t quite sure what it is he’s trying to say, but it doesn’t matter because the Lilac Coat has him covered.
“Oh, nobody minds about that sort of thing any more dear, I personally think it’s absolutely wonderful.”
Nick must be crimson at this point. Not only has he not said hello to Cuddly Curls or made any progress towards finding out his name, he’s now simultaneously managed to make no discernible words in response to this stranger’s incorrect assessment of their relationship and failed to cut off what is now a frankly embarrassing monologue about how accepting her church is of homosexuality. He doesn’t know what to do. His heart races as he balls up his fists on his knees and tries to breathe through the snippets of half-heard speech about the ‘guiding light of our lord and saviour’. If he keeps looking at Lilac Coat, she is definitely going to keep talking. If he looks over at Cuddly Curls then there is a ninety-eight percent chance he will melt through the floor of the bus, liquefied into a pool of his own acrid shame, and if he looks down he will most likely start to cry.
But then there are slim fingers wrapping around his forearm where it rests with a clenched fist on his leg. The light pressure of a tender squeeze sends a rush of tingles thrumming up his arm and a warmth spreads through his whole body. It’s grounding, and soothing, and Nick feels like he can breathe again. He looks over at Cuddly, catching the tail end of a smile as the curls turn towards Lilac Coat.
“Oh, how lovely,” Curls replies to whatever has just been said; truthfully Nick has no idea what, lost as he is in a haze of his own panic. “Where are you going today?”
A smile involuntarily tugs at Nick’s lips. The voice is a honeyed tenor, at once kind and firm in a way that settles Nick’s racing nerves. The question is perfectly chosen; Lilac Coat happily runs through her big plans for the morning in infinitesimal detail, keeping Cuddly on his toes with a range of tangents covering the names and ages of her grandchildren and their respective proficiency at various hobbies. The conversation doesn’t require much if any input from Nick or his hero. Just the occasional strategic ‘Oh!’ or ‘Really?!’ is sufficient to get by, and all the while Nick feels the comforting glow of the slender hand on his arm.
The minutes pass easily, until Cuddly Curls turns to Nick and it seems that they might finally talk, until Nick realises that they’re approaching the brunette’s stop. Nick gets up with an awkward “Ah,” and he shuffles to the side to make enough space to allow Cuddly to press the bell, and get up from his seat.
“Well it was lovely to meet you! Enjoy your day.” The words come in delicious tones as Cuddly gives a small wave goodbye to Lilac Coat, before turning to Nick and mouthing ‘sorry’ as he finally, painfully, lets go of his arm.
💛💙
Charlie leans his head against the cool window as the steady thrum of the bus engine sends jarring vibrations through his exhausted brain.
He’d run for the bus that morning, having pressed snooze too many times on his phone alarm before finally dragging himself out of bed, and by the time he’d managed to board the bus behind the gaggle of elderly blue-rinsed regulars, Charlie had lowered himself into a seat only to discover he’d forgotten to charge his wireless headphones.
Lamenting his lack of noise-cancelling technology, Charlie leans further against the clouded windows, condensation droplets chasing swiftly in narrow rivulets towards the damp sill below.
Charlie’s vaguely aware that the humid bus is packed nearly full of suited office workers, chatting pensioners, and young parents, but he’s once again decided to place his laptop bag on the empty aisle seat next to him in the hope that the tall blonde man who has become a recurring feature of his Friday morning commute will need to take a seat next to him for the remainder of his journey into town.
As the S1 pulls into Strawberry Buff’s usual stop, Charlie stealthily moves his laptop bag to the floor below the chair and then resumes his position staring at the condensation, albeit with his forehead now safely pulled back from the frizz-inducing dampness of the windows.
Charlie’s pulse hammers loudly in his ears as his memory filters back through the collection of almost intimate moments he’s shared with the tall stranger over the course of the past few weeks.
First were the shared napkins, then the proffered ear plugs to block out the god-awful sound of the screaming child. After that had been Charlie’s ridiculous decision to bring a second packet of Monster Munch with his lunch, and then hand it to Strawberry as some sort of gift offering… and then last week, when he’d felt the sudden urge to save his seat-fellow from the woman in the purple coat’s bizarre ramblings by reaching out and touching his strong arm. Was that weird? To lend earplugs to a complete stranger? To randomly buy them snacks and touch their arms? Charlie seems to have lost all grasp on social conventions, instead measuring interactions by how much his stomach fluttered or heart leapt. Honestly, Charlie’s surprised the handsome stranger hasn’t taken out a restraining order on him yet. But no, Charlie’s certain there was a kind smile when they last parted ways.
Charlie’s train of thought is interrupted by a velvety-soft voice.
“Hi, is this seat free?”
Charlie does his best impression of nonchalance, slowly turning towards the smooth voice with what he hopes is an air of calm collectedness. “Yeah. Sure.”
Strawberry Buff’s kind eyes crinkle as that cute lopsided grin spreads across his face. God, how Charlie wants to press soft kisses into those laughter lines and across the round apples of those cheeks.
The man’s large frame squeezes into the compact seat beside Charlie, and Strawberry utters a quiet ‘sorry’ as he leans to place his black work bag at his feet.
“We’ll have to stop meeting like this,” Charlie jokes, seizing the first conversation starter that pops into his head, desperate to not miss another chance to talk to his Friday bus crush.
The man grins again in that oh-so charming way and laughs, apparently appreciative of Charlie’s use of a hackneyed line. “But then who would save me from intense conversations with strange women in lilac coats?”
The brunette startles slightly, unprepared for the impromptu banter despite having started it, and he scrambles for a reply. “God yeah, she was a bit intense, wasn’t she?” Charlie tries to smile, but he feels like he manages more of an awkward grimace. God, pull it together, keep the conversation going. You started so well.
Strawberry’s sunny disposition doesn’t falter though, and he continues, unabashed, “Funny that she thought we were a couple though, right?”
Charlie turns back to face the stocky man, and glances up at entreating brown eyes. Charlie’s brain feels like it’s been replaced by molasses, and his usual quick wit has vanished into thin air. “Errr… yeah. Pretty funny.” The thought of being in a couple with the buff stranger crowds his brain until all rational thought is depleted.
“Ahhmm… uh—”
Charlie’s nerves can’t take much more of this, but the physical embodiment of a cinnamon bun in the seat next to him has started talking once more.
“—you got any weekend plans?” The man’s brown eyes sparkle with what looks like hope.
“Aside from dodging Bible-wielding pensioners and bus wankers on public transport, you mean? Not really, I’ll probably just chill at home.” Charlie doesn’t know where his renewed ability to banter came from, but he sure is glad that his conversation skills seem to have rallied somewhat. “How about you?”
Strawberry chuckles. “A chilled one for me too probably. I usually go and see my mum on Sundays for a catch up and a roast.”
As much as Charlie enjoys the cute ‘Strawberry Buff’ moniker that he’s thought up for the devastatingly attractive man, he can’t help but think it’s probably time to ask his real name, and to maybe even start trying to suss out if he'd be open to going on a date. Charlie’s pretty sure he’s not imagined the chemistry between them, and he really doesn’t want to wait another week before learning more about the man that he’s developed a huge, embarrassing crush on.
Steeling himself for the task ahead, Charlie takes a deep breath in and turns towards the blonde Adonis next to him.
“So—”
Charlie’s cut off by a muffled vibrating noise. The man fumbles in his pocket for his buzzing phone as he raises his eyebrows in the universal ‘sorry’ facial expression.
“Yeah, I’m on the bus now, I’m nearly there. It’s the Oxfordshire LEA account, yeah…”
The man’s work conversation fades into the background as Charlie wipes a woollen coat sleeve against the bus window and stares at the passing traffic, resigned to the fact that he’ll probably have to wait at least a week before speaking to the man again.
The bus approaches the public library, and Charlie leans clumsily across his attractive seat neighbour to press the bell. The taller man’s free hand is leaning against the pole just below the bell button, and their fingers not-quite-so-accidentally brush as Charlie pushes the button to signal he’d like to alight.
A rosy blush immediately blooms from beneath Strawberry Buff’s collar and rapidly spreads up his neck as he steps out into the aisle to allow Charlie to pass. He’s still busy on the phone talking about bulk orders and academies, but he fixes his deep brown eyes onto Charlie’s as Charlie grabs his laptop case and steps out of the shared seat. A small, almost flirty smile plays on Strawberry’s lips, and Charlie feels his own blush start to creep across his face as he makes his way towards the open bus door, shouting a hurried ‘thank you’ to the driver before jumping off.
Charlie's doing children’s story time this morning, and he’s downloaded picture slides of a particularly colourful pirate story that he can hook up to the library projector to provide the visuals for his personal brand of flamboyant storytelling that always goes down a treat with children and parents alike.
Pulling the laptop out of its case and placing it on the library counter, Charlie presses the power button and drums his fingers impatiently whilst it boots up. An unfamiliar login screen appears.
“Uhhh… Isaac?”
Isaac pops his head out of the back room, steaming mug of coffee in hand. “Yeah?”
“I’ve—I think I’ve picked up the wrong bloody laptop bag. On the bus, I’ve picked up the wrong one.”
Isaac walks over and peers at the screen. “Hmm, yeah. There aren’t any company logos or anything. Uh… do you remember who was sitting next to you? You could always try and catch them on Monday?”
Charlie groans, suddenly realising his predicament is even worse than he’d initially realised.
“Yeah, it was Strawberry Buff, you know, from my commute.” Isaac raises his eyebrows in recognition of the nickname, their shared source of gossip over the past few weeks.
“Urgh!” Charlie continues, “He only gets the bus on Fridays!”
“‘Argggh!’ said the pirate, ‘try yer best! But ye’ll neverrr find my treasure chest!’” Charlie leaps off his small storytelling stool and jumps around brandishing an imaginary sword as cross-legged children and their parents giggle and squeal around him.
It’s 10:40 and Charlie’s mid-story, having been calmed by Isaac’s reassurances that his creative storytelling is captivating enough without the visual aids that the library laptop usually provides.
Charlie is just retaking his seat, ready to change from his gruff pirate voice to the squeaky voice of a mouse character, when his attention falls on the unexpected sight of a large blonde man awkwardly squeezing himself into a cross-legged position on the brightly-coloured carpet. Charlie smiles and continues on with the story, perhaps with even more vigour than before.
After the last children have waved their goodbyes, Charlie saunters over to the familiar figure now standing at the library counter.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“I… er, I think you’ve got my laptop,” the taller man begins, “I turned yours on when I got to the office and noticed the library logo in the corner.”
Charlie laughs, amazed at the sudden reversal of fortune, and reaches under the counter for the man’s work bag. Their fingers brush once more as they exchange cases, and this time the sparks are unmistakable.
Strawberry takes a sharp breath in, and Charlie takes it as his cue to shoot his shot.
“How would you feel about maybe meeting up some time not on a bus? Maybe for a drink?”
The man’s handsome mouth spreads into a sexy, quirked smile and his eyes crinkle again as he replies, “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Oh, I’m Charlie by the way.”
“Nick.”
💛💙
