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Simon
I hurry down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, using the railing as support. There’s one thought on replay in my head-
Can’t be late can’t be late can’t be late…
I fling myself down the last couple of stairs, blushing apologetically as people grumble in my wake. It takes me a painstaking three tries to swipe my Oyster card- an Adventure Time one I got last week (it must be at least my twentieth- I don’t get why they’re so small and easy to lose).
I finally arrive on platform nine, breathless and doubled over. I shuffle my way through the crowd, muttering ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘sorrys’ at every turn. Finally, I reach the edge of the platform- peak position, if I do say so myself, when the three dings signalling an announcement fill the air.
There’s a static crackling, and I swear the whole station is waiting with bated breath- whose train is running late? (stupid Underground- it’s never anything else).
“Attention passengers. The train from Piccadilly Circus to Manchester via Convent has had a delay- that is, all those on platform nine. The delay may take from twenty minutes to an hour.” It takes a few seconds to sink in, and the platform groans in unison- everyone knows twenty minutes equals an hour for the Underground.
“Thank you for choosing London Underground,” the nasally voice finishes, the three chimes drawing it to a close.
People start to jostle suddenly, and I get pushed into another guy beside me.
“Watch it,” he hisses menacingly. I don’t respond, I’m too busy glaring after the prick who pushed me into this oh-so-happy ball of sunshine.
“So-rry.” I drawl, earning a full-fledged glare. Instinctively I duck my head- this guy means business.
“I was pushed! Not like I’d fall on you on purpose. What is everyone moving for, anyways?” I mutter the last part to myself, and watch as the black-haired man stands on his toes (I couldn’t see, even on tip-toes- he’s got three inches on me).
“Ah,” he exclaims, coming back down with a smirk.
“Benches.” He says, and I curse myself for not realising sooner. While I was conversing with Mr Pale-As-Snow over here, everyone else was fighting for the two benches at the edge of the room.
“Right.” I say, and debate sitting on the floor.
“Don’t you even think about it.” He says, narrowing his eyes in my direction.
“As if I would.” I say, and after a beat furrow my eyebrows.
“How did you know?”
“Uh- you’ve got that look about you.”
“What?” I exclaim, and look down at my clothes. I’m wearing a washed-out red hoodie and ripped green skinny jeans, fake, scuffed black converse and taped-up headphones to top it all off.
I turn my attention (none too subtly) to his outfit. He has pristine black skinny jeans, a tight sweater that shows him off and real vans- and in that moment I want to step on them. I look back up at his sneering face, circled with loose chin length strands and a beanie.
I can’t think of a good comeback, and instead resort to my ultimate, wins-every-time one.
“Eff off,” I growl, which only draws a bigger smirk from him.
“No better ones?” I turn my back on him and stalk off into the crowd. Stupid rich boy, with his stupid ugly sweater and stupid beautiful face.
I wander around for somewhere near ten minutes, taking my turn to glare at those sitting on the benches and wandering over to the edge of the crowd, staring wistfully at children sitting at -or on- their parent’s feet.
“Pretzels! Come and get your fresh pretzels!” a man yells, and I move towards the cart. It’s sloppily painted, and the guy look like he hasn’t shaven in about a month- a sketchy look overall. I’m about to walk away when a scent enters my nostrils, curling about me- the salty baked goodness of a quality pretzel.
I’m walking forward before my brain even processes it, and my stomach rumbles in anticipation.
“One pretzel, please!” I say, smiling. He smiles back, and fetches one in a napkin from the cart.
“Three dollars, please.” I have a hard time managing a pretzel as big as my head and my tight-ass (excuse the pun) jeans pockets, but I get there eventually and hand it over. Just as I’m turning away, I’m met by an unexpected (and unwanted) sight- the guy from earlier, smirking as he leans up against the wall.
I feel my blood boiling and take a bite, attempting to look away. But he coughs pointedly and it’s all I can do to not run over there and throttle him.
Instead I march over, and try to make a smart remark- but all that comes out is moist pretzel crumbs, all over his stupid expensive sweater.
I struggle to swallow the remainders and my laughter, but manage only the former before I’m doubled over, tears streaming from my eyes at the expression of surprise and disgust on his face. Every time I think I’m calm, and look up at him trying to scrape it off, or just glaring at me, I go off again.
I’m not even finished when he yanks me upright by my collar- an effective method of shutting me up.
“Watch it,” I growl, and laugh internally at the wording from earlier.
“How about you watch it? This is worth more than your entire family,” he sneers, and let s go of my collar.
I refrain from telling him to go away again. Instead I pivot on my heel and turn to leave, when he grabs my sleeve.
“Not so fast.”
Baz
I don’t know what I’m thinking. I'm hungry, bored, lonely, and extremely late. I may as well torment this guy.
“You’re not getting off that easy.” I say, and he turns around. I’m forced to let go, and his hoodie, although ratty, is soft and comfortable, unlike mine.
“You’re gonna have to pay for this.”
“As you so eloquently put it,” (I blink back surprise- he doesn’t look like he’d know that word) “It’s worth ‘more than my entire family. Sorry, but I don’t have enough to reimburse you for what’s only gonna take a wash to come out. Heck, it’d probably go away if you poured water on it.” His reasoning is valid, but irrelevant to my case.
“You don’t understand,” I mutter under my breath, turning my head away.
“What? What don’t I understand?” I curse. He wasn’t meant to hear that.
“Sweaters like these don’t just wash with water. You have to wash them by hand, and plus, I’m not going to anywhere where I can wash it.”
“Pity, that,” he practically spits out (nearly more pretzel, as well).
I make a frustrated noise in response and go to walk away, shaking my head. As much as I enjoy arguing with him, I know when a battle’s lost.
“Wait!” the cry of his echoes through the room, just as the lights dim, and then go completely out.
For once, I’m so glad he grabbed my arm.
The station’s pitch black and I can’t even see the guy behind me. I walk back slowly, but he still doesn’t release me (I don’t blame him- I’m probably the only person he’s interacted with in here- I know I wouldn’t want to fall face-first into a faceless, annoyed crowd).
The space amplifies the few screams and shouts of frightened children, and then phone lights start to appear, glowing faces looking around here and there. I remove my own from where it rests in my jeans pocket. I illuminate my face, and squint before looking up at him, expecting to see him incredulous, annoyed, or heck, angry even.
Instead what stares back at me is the face of pure fear.
I’m at a loss for what to do. His pupils are blown; I can only see silvers of the (admittedly pretty) cerulean irises. His breathing is rapid and panty, and he seems like he doesn’t have enough air. I look down slightly to see his hand shaking by his side, the other still held on to my sweater arm in a vice-grip.
“Hey, hey, calm down.” I know what it’s like, to flashback to another time when everything was not okay. I’m standing on the precipice of my own panic attack, but try to back from the edge with statements about the moment, the void still sucking and pulling at my feet.
He needs me.
The thought rings and reverberates through my head like a bell, and I’m back at this s~y train station.
“It’s okay. You’re safe.” I can’t say or do much more- I don’t know his name, but I know his triggers. I lead him gently so he sits on the ground, and I rise, cupping my hands around my mouth.
“Hey! Can we get some light over here! Panic attack!” Those words work better than any service announcement and in half a minute Simon’s flooded with light. I remember something Penny told me- well, did to me once.
“Where’s the shower?” I ask the people standing around, but they all shrug. Something tugs at the hem of my sweater, and I look down to see a little girl, pointing into the distance.
“Come on, let’s get you back here, with me.” I whisper, and help Simon up. He’s shaking his head back and forth like an animal and leaning mostly on me. I manage to drag him, still cocooned in light from various phones, until we reach the bathrooms. I’m about to clear my throat and call for movement, but the men’s line parts and pushes out of the way. I debate stripping him, but it’s too awkward, he’s running out of time before he starts hallucinating, and it’s always weird when you wake up naked. I sit him down in the shower and turn on the water, his bronze-gold curls flattening to his head.
I can see it in his eyes the moment he’s back, it’s like someone flipped a switch and all the fear flees (probably back to the box in his head labelled ‘Do Not Open’).
“I-I’m sor- where am...?”
“Shh. Hey. It’s okay. You started having a panic attack when the lights went out. I had to get you to the showers.”
“I’m so-sorry-“
“Don’t. It’s not your fault.” I say sternly.
“Okay.”
“Do you want all the lights on, or is one phone light enough?”
“I-I think one is enough.” I nod and turn my head upwards to where about six people are leaning over the cubicle walls.
“Thank you so much.”
“Let us know if you need more light.” The one at the door says, and they all take their leave, giving small smiles and condolences to him. I keep my phone shining up on our faces.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to.” The guy looks unsure, and I disconnect one of our hands to hold it out between us.
“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Call me Baz.” I introduce, and he giggles.
“Simon Snow.” He offers, and we shake hands, sitting in the floor of a shower, both of us wet and giggling.
I lean back against one wall, and hesitantly draw Simon into my chest. There’s something about him… I don’t know. There’s something there, pressed between my chest and his back and in the diamonds in his eyes and the feeling in my fingertips.
And so I tell him my story, and he tells me his, and we wait until the lights flicker on to get up. We stay together on the train, squeezed into one and a half seats, and talk about pointless things. When we’re a minute or so away from Piccadilly, I ask for his phone.
He hands it over, warning me not to steal it (impossible when I’m wedged between him and the window) and I open the contacts, putting my name in as Platform Nine Guy. I hand it back and he smiles, adding a little something at the end. (The red heart makes my own skip a beat).
The train slows to a stop, and I stand up. Simon grabs my hand and I look into his eyes.
“It must have been fate,” Simon says as a way of goodbye, and I hug him before disembarking, waving as he zooms past.
I’m still smiling as I traipse the streets of Convent, lost in a world of my own.