A Train
Title: A Train.
Pairing: Brian Haner Jr. feat. Matt Sanders.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary: A perfect display of monosyllablism. Inspired by a scene in Kevin Brooke's The Road of the Dead.
Genre: Nothingness.
Dedications: Kevin for being a live changing author.
The floor starts to move beneath my feet as soon as the doors slide shut behind me with that low, familiar hiss of hydraulics. It's a smooth movement followed by a sharp jerk that has my hand grabbing for one of the vertical bars as the need to keep balanced becomes apparent.
With an absent glance to my right I watch the grey world slide passed in a haze of dreary misery. It's such a cliché, really, but it fits. England. Not the brightest place.
I guess that can't really be said, or thought... Some of it was beautiful, judging by the pictures I had seen. The shows of glossy over-dramatics on television. Sprawling fields, the legendary moors, bright beaches conjuring images of ice creams and striped deck chairs. Only this was London, and London was a world away from such delightful visuals.
Grey. Concrete. Rain. Wind. Cosmopolitan and multi-cultural it definitely was, but the exotic faces all carried that same look. That dead look. The look that mechanical monotony inevitably brought.
But I'm not here for pondering the depression of this tiny little isle. I'm here to ponder the depression of the man I had to start hunting for.
The train was long -- I hadn't been able to see either end of it from my spot on the platform -- so making my way from the centre to one end took a while, with hands jammed in my pockets, shrugging deeper into the black warmth of my jacket. But he wasn't there. Because this couldn't be easy, could it? No. I have to work my way up the other end, shuffling sideways through aisles, apologising half-heartedly under my breath as I crash into the dwindling few.
Passengers were hastily stuffing their over-sized luggage into over-head compartments. It wasn't busy, ergo it wasn't crowded, but it was tricky to find two seats in a row. Tricky to find a face in the midst.
Except his face I knew I could spot. I had watched it evolve, watched it leave teenage awkwardness, morph into the handsome male plastered across the walls of fans across the world. I had analysed strong features in their sleeping state, mirrored smirks from across a stage. So the only thing keeping me from finding my friend was the sheer length of the transportation.
And despite my intimate knowledge, if it wasn't for that damn hat he always insisted on wearing I probably wouldn't have noticed him. In the corner, head bowed, gaze so darkly fixed on the plastic table stretched between the seats. Synyster fuckin' Gates didn't sit like that, arms folded, chin tucked, attempting to hide from the bustling world. But Brian Haner Junior did... maybe that was what knocked me. Maybe.
The only thing that drew my attention to the frowning male was that the seats around him were empty despite people searching for a spot to park their smart behinds. Maybe they could sense what I could sense. Black suffocating the grey already surrounding, melting away at the generic world with something worse, something fiercely sad. So I was the only one to stop, watching him as a smile twitched at my lips. "Anyone sitting here?"
Brian just looked up.
He caught my gaze.
He didn't reply.
I take that as a no, of course, perfectly aware that his gaze was following me as I sat in the seat across from him, the only sound being the slight ruffling and rubbing of my clothes. His eyes were burning through me incredulously, and I knew what he felt. I generally wasn't good with the whole empathy thing, but with Brian it was simple. I read him like a book. It wasn't exactly empathy, though. I just knew him. Better than most, less than others. But it was enough.
I know he felt that frustration from when we were younger. When he was in a mood and everyone would avoid him like the plague, except me. I'd grin and stride after him, chiding him, coaxing out some sort of reaction just to stop the fucker brooding. He knew it was for his own good, but it didn't mean he had to like it.
He didn't like it now.
So I just flash him a grin. That trademark grin. All twinkling hazel and dimples before I look away, staring out of the window and wallowing in his silence, soaking up the black he was emitting.
"Shit," he said.
I couldn't help but snort, turning my head to simply look at him. He had unfolded, ever so slightly, but he was still guarded. So for the time being I broke the lock of eyes and busied myself with the broad buildings rolling by, towering above the people crawling, miniscule, below. This was what I hated about these trains. They always managed to be high up. Not that I had an exact fear of heights... it just irritated me. I wanted to see close up. I wanted to speed passed, watching others while they can't get the merest glimpse of me, aside from a frantically blurred blob of pink and black, perhaps. But my annoyance dies out when it all levels out, spilling brown into grey, people already folding their papers and pushing their selves to their feet as we reached the next stop, the train hissing to a shuddering halt.
"You can get off here."
It wasn't a question, not even a suggestion. He ordered me, and I had to smirk. He had said two things since I had been on this beast; a cuss and an order. Turns out the whole event hadn't changed him too much after all. Being so used to this behaviour prevented me from being offended, and absolutely stalled me from doing as he said.
I never obeyed him.
He never learnt.
The doors opened, people flooded on and out, a mass of dull shades. It started raining as soon as the train started moving again. Little flecks that transformed into sheets of steel causing the ground to reflect the meek light.
He liked to talk about the rain. I remember that much.
“It’s not God crying because of something bad we’ve done, Shads. It’s Him pissing on us because we’re all bastards.”
I remained exactly where I was, stubbornly seated, smiling at that little anecdote as I felt him sigh. Turning to him, I threw him a smile, knowing just how much it would annoy him. It had the intended effect, pierced nose wrinkling in distaste as he pulled his cigarettes from his pocket.
An incline of my head towards the black and white sign was all it took to have him glaring at me. "Can't do that. No smoking."
Avoiding my eyes, I watched him with vague amusement as the box of Marlboros were stuffed back into his pants, a lift of his hips in assistance before he slumped down once again, brow drawn. Brian shook his head before looking out of the window, soaked people merging into soaked homes.
"Shit," he said.
Pairing: Brian Haner Jr. feat. Matt Sanders.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary: A perfect display of monosyllablism. Inspired by a scene in Kevin Brooke's The Road of the Dead.
Genre: Nothingness.
Dedications: Kevin for being a live changing author.
The floor starts to move beneath my feet as soon as the doors slide shut behind me with that low, familiar hiss of hydraulics. It's a smooth movement followed by a sharp jerk that has my hand grabbing for one of the vertical bars as the need to keep balanced becomes apparent.
With an absent glance to my right I watch the grey world slide passed in a haze of dreary misery. It's such a cliché, really, but it fits. England. Not the brightest place.
I guess that can't really be said, or thought... Some of it was beautiful, judging by the pictures I had seen. The shows of glossy over-dramatics on television. Sprawling fields, the legendary moors, bright beaches conjuring images of ice creams and striped deck chairs. Only this was London, and London was a world away from such delightful visuals.
Grey. Concrete. Rain. Wind. Cosmopolitan and multi-cultural it definitely was, but the exotic faces all carried that same look. That dead look. The look that mechanical monotony inevitably brought.
But I'm not here for pondering the depression of this tiny little isle. I'm here to ponder the depression of the man I had to start hunting for.
The train was long -- I hadn't been able to see either end of it from my spot on the platform -- so making my way from the centre to one end took a while, with hands jammed in my pockets, shrugging deeper into the black warmth of my jacket. But he wasn't there. Because this couldn't be easy, could it? No. I have to work my way up the other end, shuffling sideways through aisles, apologising half-heartedly under my breath as I crash into the dwindling few.
Passengers were hastily stuffing their over-sized luggage into over-head compartments. It wasn't busy, ergo it wasn't crowded, but it was tricky to find two seats in a row. Tricky to find a face in the midst.
Except his face I knew I could spot. I had watched it evolve, watched it leave teenage awkwardness, morph into the handsome male plastered across the walls of fans across the world. I had analysed strong features in their sleeping state, mirrored smirks from across a stage. So the only thing keeping me from finding my friend was the sheer length of the transportation.
And despite my intimate knowledge, if it wasn't for that damn hat he always insisted on wearing I probably wouldn't have noticed him. In the corner, head bowed, gaze so darkly fixed on the plastic table stretched between the seats. Synyster fuckin' Gates didn't sit like that, arms folded, chin tucked, attempting to hide from the bustling world. But Brian Haner Junior did... maybe that was what knocked me. Maybe.
The only thing that drew my attention to the frowning male was that the seats around him were empty despite people searching for a spot to park their smart behinds. Maybe they could sense what I could sense. Black suffocating the grey already surrounding, melting away at the generic world with something worse, something fiercely sad. So I was the only one to stop, watching him as a smile twitched at my lips. "Anyone sitting here?"
Brian just looked up.
He caught my gaze.
He didn't reply.
I take that as a no, of course, perfectly aware that his gaze was following me as I sat in the seat across from him, the only sound being the slight ruffling and rubbing of my clothes. His eyes were burning through me incredulously, and I knew what he felt. I generally wasn't good with the whole empathy thing, but with Brian it was simple. I read him like a book. It wasn't exactly empathy, though. I just knew him. Better than most, less than others. But it was enough.
I know he felt that frustration from when we were younger. When he was in a mood and everyone would avoid him like the plague, except me. I'd grin and stride after him, chiding him, coaxing out some sort of reaction just to stop the fucker brooding. He knew it was for his own good, but it didn't mean he had to like it.
He didn't like it now.
So I just flash him a grin. That trademark grin. All twinkling hazel and dimples before I look away, staring out of the window and wallowing in his silence, soaking up the black he was emitting.
"Shit," he said.
I couldn't help but snort, turning my head to simply look at him. He had unfolded, ever so slightly, but he was still guarded. So for the time being I broke the lock of eyes and busied myself with the broad buildings rolling by, towering above the people crawling, miniscule, below. This was what I hated about these trains. They always managed to be high up. Not that I had an exact fear of heights... it just irritated me. I wanted to see close up. I wanted to speed passed, watching others while they can't get the merest glimpse of me, aside from a frantically blurred blob of pink and black, perhaps. But my annoyance dies out when it all levels out, spilling brown into grey, people already folding their papers and pushing their selves to their feet as we reached the next stop, the train hissing to a shuddering halt.
"You can get off here."
It wasn't a question, not even a suggestion. He ordered me, and I had to smirk. He had said two things since I had been on this beast; a cuss and an order. Turns out the whole event hadn't changed him too much after all. Being so used to this behaviour prevented me from being offended, and absolutely stalled me from doing as he said.
I never obeyed him.
He never learnt.
The doors opened, people flooded on and out, a mass of dull shades. It started raining as soon as the train started moving again. Little flecks that transformed into sheets of steel causing the ground to reflect the meek light.
He liked to talk about the rain. I remember that much.
“It’s not God crying because of something bad we’ve done, Shads. It’s Him pissing on us because we’re all bastards.”
I remained exactly where I was, stubbornly seated, smiling at that little anecdote as I felt him sigh. Turning to him, I threw him a smile, knowing just how much it would annoy him. It had the intended effect, pierced nose wrinkling in distaste as he pulled his cigarettes from his pocket.
An incline of my head towards the black and white sign was all it took to have him glaring at me. "Can't do that. No smoking."
Avoiding my eyes, I watched him with vague amusement as the box of Marlboros were stuffed back into his pants, a lift of his hips in assistance before he slumped down once again, brow drawn. Brian shook his head before looking out of the window, soaked people merging into soaked homes.
"Shit," he said.