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George always hated London traffic- especially when he was planning on commuting. Public transport had always been something he’d avoid, however, all feelings of loathsome distaste were trumped by the fact George hated driving himself around even less. He rather enjoyed being chauffeured around by his roommate, Karl, who was otherwise unavailable today.
“Yes, I know it’s going to rain,” He dismissed Karl’s motherly concern, “and yes, I have an umbrella,” He did not.
Despite all warnings, George hooked his fingers around the metal chain of his keys and hastily made his way out the door, wrapping himself up warmly with his thick, hoodless coat. Considering it was currently the off-season between winter and spring, the frost-biting winds and bipolar rays of sunshine were much more occurant than necessary.
He locked the door to hear an audible grumble from his flatmate, tucking the keys away in his pocket with a soft hum of amusement. George navigated through the winding staircases as he reached the main door, peering through the glass to see a dimming sky and amber hues of the sun shining through mobile clouds.
Pushing against the handlebars, his exposed skin was met flush with the feeling of cold winds, traces of sunshine, and warmth hiding behind the towering buildings. Sometimes he hated London- England entirely. Why show sunshine but in reality be cold? George just couldn’t comprehend it.
But that was early this afternoon.
George was hurriedly tapping his thumbs against his phone screen, attempting to send Karl an update on his location: i’m about to get off on the next stop… i’ll be back in like 20 mins max .
He was uncomfortably restricted to the bus’ window and the large man seated beside him. It wasn’t a particularly good use of space for his coat to be occupying more room than his petite body, however, he would rather be warm and squashed than being cold and pressed flush against the odorous stranger.
George didn’t wait much longer when the vibration of Karl’s response lit up his screen: okay, but make sure the donuts don’t get wet.
Wet? George glanced outside and noticed how the rain collected on the dotted glass beside him. He huffed in annoyance, believing this journey to the bakery could’ve been a quick, interference-free trip. But of course, Karl had to be right: it rained.
Beyond the rain-stained glass, the small brunette paid attention to his surroundings, noticing how his loathsome journey was almost at its end- thank god . He moved his fingertips to the vibrant red (or his otherwise identified grey) to press the white block capitals ‘STOP’ of the bell.
The audible ding of the vehicle and illuminating sign served as a warning for George who held the large box of donuts securely in his arms.
“Sorry,” He apologised pathetically to the plump stranger beside him in attempts to tiptoe past him. He thanked the driver before he was faced with the chilly London breeze and the unmistakable smell of rain.
It wasn’t until the view of the rusting red seats through the transparent plastic case of the bus stop was in his sights that he noticed the feeling of light precipitation freckle his pale cheeks. George’s cheeks were flushed red in the bitter chill of winter’s departure, but it was when he raised his fingertips from their warm home in his pockets to brush the water from his cheeks did he realise that the rain would only get heavier.
“Of course it's gonna get heavier,” He huffed in frustration to himself, picking up a quick jog to avoid the rain and take shelter under the dilapidated bus stop. He was going to wait this out, and whether it was a good idea or not, it was the only one he had.
His destination was a fifteen-minute walk from the bus stop, and for one: he’d rather endure when the skies weren’t crying storms. George also wanted to avoid potential sickness and- in understanding with Karl- soggy donuts.
There was always the possibility that he could reach the complex unscathed with a brisk jog. However, George was not a runner and he didn’t particularly care for his nice, new shoes to be completely ruined by the mixture of mud, rainwater, and London grime.
So, the boy put in some headphones, took a seat against the vibrant red, and looked at the enclosed donuts he secured to his lap. After remembering to send Karl an additional message to alert him of the donut delay and expectant message of complaint, he closed his eyes.
He sat impatiently waiting for the rain to cease.
-
Clay, on the other hand, had been on a quick detour to the local library to peacefully complete his university essay without the rampant yelling, screaming or audible gaming of his dorm-mate, Nick.
Despite how close and tight-knit the pair of young adults were, they still had moments of intolerance, and today was one of those days. Nick decided that today of all days was the best time to be playing counter strike at 3 am and occasionally game raging through their accommodation’s paper-thin walls.
So, in protest, Clay made sure to eat Nick’s leftover and unclaimed pizza in the fridge as a filling breakfast, before shutting the door particularly loudly. Clay concluded his bites as he wiped down his thick coat, the audible sound of the quilt bouncing against the corridor walls and settled against his eardrums.
He locked the door and tightened his grip on his backpack, internally memorising its contents before heading outside and locating the campus’ nearest bus stop. Upon arrival at the quaint little London library, Clay flattened down his lime-green, cotton hoodie and found himself a secluded corner for him to set up.
Strings of frustrated scribbles, flurries of stringed sentences, and incoherent mumbles of frustration later, Clay was pleased and rather content with the essay’s outcome. Upon completing his lengthy political science essay (a minor subject he had no interest in really taking but ultimately had a gap to fill), he found himself standing under the old stone archway entrance.
He watched as raindrops precipitated on the cold, bleak granite stairs. Clay huffed expectantly at the inconvenience, watching as the oncoming bystanders trudged through forming puddles under the safety of umbrellas or hoods of cotton and quilt.
Fortunately, the dirty blonde was prepared; he took out an enclosed lime green umbrella, which was safely tucked away in his backpack. Clay zipped and secured his bag back on his back, while also moving to bring up the cotton material of his hood to his skull. His hands then moved effortlessly to the latch of his umbrella, which outstretched the water repellent fabric to form a shelter.
He continues in a speeded walk through the forming puddles below his worn-in trainers. He claims that they were just well-loved, however, everyone (and even a part of himself) knew that replacing them was long overdue. Maybe the feeling of rain seeping through the material into his socks and meeting his toes in a bitter embrace could somehow be enough persuasion.
Despite the evident discomfort, Clay hastily navigated through the swarms of tourists, commuters, residents in attempts to reach his bus stop. With the tall red bus icon waving as a symbol of safety in the near distance, his pace quickened, relieved to be just a little bit closer to getting home.
The rain was evidently getting much heavier than he would’ve preferred to be outside in. It wouldn’t come as a surprise to the blonde if it even began to thunder.
His mediocre jog ceased once he reached the shelter of the dilapidated red bus stop. Not paying much attention to his surroundings, Clay shook the rain from the top of his umbrella from the corner of the plastic shelter before deciding to pull the fabric closed. His stance moved from his toes to the balls of his feet, rocking back and forth anxiously.
Clay was waiting impatiently for his bus to arrive.
-
Clay had even checked the time on his phone before deciding that the bus had reached some delay (not surprising to the tall man in the state of the current weather). So in defeat, he turned to take a seat on the hardly-accommodating, red plastic the dilapidated old bus stop wanted to pass off as a bench.
George noticed that his lonely bus shelter had been occupied by another: a tall man in a big hooded coat and yellow hoodie, holding an enclosed umbrella in his hand and a backpack situated firmly to his back. With the stranger’s back turned away from the brunette, he dismissed his presence and continued to watch the rain get heavier with a frown.
However, in the back of George’s mind, he wanted to meet his eyes- curious if he truly was a perfect stranger.
The blonde boy sighed miserably at the weather’s choice of action, fingers moving to relieve his disheveled dirty blonde hair from the cotton hood. His eyes remained downcast, watching as raindrops precipitated- clashing against the pavement in a symphony. He turned towards the bench, deciding it was probably easier if just sat down.
Clay noticed a patiently waiting brunette sat absentmindedly against the red plastic with a large box of donuts (?) in his grip. He noticed his dark brown hair and how a section laid slightly askew on his forehead, damp with rain.
Clay wanted to meet the boy’s eyes- to see if they, much like the shadow of his plump lips, were just as mesmerising.
However, it was their subconscious’ stroke of luck as an audible bolt of lightning echoed in the distance. The thundering clap visibly made George flinch, however, his eyes remained open and instinctively glanced to the dirty blonde, almost as if he relied on him to provide safety. But much like the small brunette, Clay’s eyes had instinctively moved to his.
And it was in that moment where their eyes met and their heartbeats stilled, that they realised although they were just strangers in passing, they could be so much more.
-
What if the petite brunette was Clay’s long-lost love story?
What if this was Clay’s soulmate- his fantasy love trope? What if this was the guy Clay would fall endlessly in love with; his forever?
Everyday Clay had returned to the same bus stop. Despite never really being a big public commuter or the fact he didn’t even need to visit the library, he kept coming back. It had gotten to the point that Nick had been relatively concerned that he was burning himself out from school.
However, upon every unnecessary visit, the same familiar face of his perfect stranger was always waiting under the same cylindrical roof, on the same red bench. Was it stalker-y? Not at all (right?).
Clay found something so homely at the sight of his deep auburn eyes and tidy brown hair. How could he not come back? Despite the efforts he exerts to ensure he's at the same bus stop every day at 5:30 pm, the most he’d ever receive was a passing smile at the familiar face and not much else.
It wasn’t like he was complaining; Any interaction, even a small smile of measly acknowledgment, was better than none at all, so Clay kept coming back.
However, today, Clay was adamant about breaking this cycle of wordless interactions and painful pining; he was going to finally talk to this intriguing stranger. So, the tall blonde boy sat straight against the bench at 5:28 pm on the all-too-familiar red bench, waiting for the brunette to finally reappear.
As their routine had predicted, the smiling petite boy crossed the road opposite, hand tucked snugly in his hoodless winter coat as he smiled at Clay with his perfect teeth and composure.
Clay had always wondered where the brunette walked from. His job? His apartment? His favourite bakery? There were still so many blanks for questions Clay pines to ask the stranger.
However, he hopes his answers won’t have to wait for much longer. All he needs to do is speak- speak up: ‘introduce yourself’, Clay instructs himself. Yet, no words fall from his lips. How was he ever going to fall in love if he can’t even gather enough courage just to-
“Hey,” The brunette did what he’d been training himself to do for the past three weeks.
Unbeknownst to him, the brunette had been training himself too. The mysterious brunette boy was also coming back- just for him. Because, he too, wanted more.
Clay liked the way his British accent accentuated and emphasised the ends of his words. His tone was honey, warm, and friendly- better than any sound Clay could ever have pictured or dreamt of.
The audible three-lettered word pulled on all of his nerves, forcing him to somehow respond in order to hear him say something else; Clay wanted more. He wanted to hear him call his name, to recite poetry or lull him to sleep- anything to keep the melodic sound of his voice close by.
“Hi,” It fell from Clay’s lips in a high croak. Embarrassed, he coughed as a subtle tinge of pink lingered on his cheeks as he tried again: “Hey,”
Clay’s voice sounded more assured- less spiked with nerves- as he noticed how the brunette chuckled softly. He liked the sound; he was desperate to hear it again.
“It's nice to finally meet you,” The brunette beamed relatively shyly, “I keep noticing you and you’ve become somewhat of a familiar face to me- kind of like a bus stop buddy… Sorry, I’m rambling... It’s just- it's nice to finally speak to you,”
The brunette chuckled nervously, sweeping his brown hair to the side, a nervous habit Clay had been able to pick up on. The flustered look on his face sat in a gallery within Clay’s mind, the feeling bringing heat to his cheeks and a quickening beat to his heart.
Clay chuckled in response, unable to look away. Something about the flustered state of the boy in front of him was alluring. “I’m Clay and it's nice to finally meet you… bus stop buddy,”
For once, Clay was relieved he was just as much of an interior rambling mess as the pretty boy in front of him. He took another moment to look into the boy’s hazel brown irises, admiring the shimmering quality before flashing him a bright smile.
And what if the tall dirty blonde was George’s storybook romance?
What if George could find safety, infinity, and security in this perfect stranger? What if he was his escape- George’s much-needed break from the constant droning and limbo of living?
“You’re my dream,” George comments offhand to his love, their bodies intertwined under the glow of starlight. The tall blonde boy just looks down at the brunette curled snugly against his torso with a blushing grin.
“And you’re mine, Georgie,” The boy replies, holding George’s petite body closer to his chest.
In a secluded field, in the dark of the night with their only audience being the glowing river of stars above, the couple truly felt infinite. Their entire world could’ve been caving in at that very moment but as long as they were holding each other, they would never have noticed.
“Dream,” George peeked at the boy through his eyelashes, calling his name softly as he earned a hum in response. Dream brushed his free hand through the smaller boy’s brown hair, admiring the way George’s smile grew wider at each stroke.
“Thanks for finding me,” George comments, reminiscing on how he exchanged his lime-green umbrella and even offered to walk him home- how this perfect stranger changed every fiber of his being to feel more than just existing.
Dream taught him how to feel alive .
He had lived his entire life by certainty, order, and absolute probability. The thought of conflict or disorder in his perfect little bubble he called life made the man uneasy and restless.
Despite all prior emotions of discomfort, he found himself opening up to a stranger in more ways George had ever thought possible and he didn’t regret a single moment.
He didn’t believe in fate, nor did he trust in the phrase ‘everything happens for a reason'. He believed in logic- in proven statistics and trusted sources. However, when the tall, perfect stranger became a friend, and (eventually) his love, he'd had to re-evaluate every moral principle he’d ever had.
He didn’t have time to deal with sugar-coated bullshit, he had a well-structured life to follow but was perfectly content with the thought of this perfect stranger wreaking havoc on his orderly routine.
“I love you, George,” The blonde sits up to face the boy, eyes just as perfectly stilled, longing and peaceful as their first encounter on the bench. George noted the sincerity behind the glisten of moonlight in Dream’s green eyes.
“You’re an idiot,” George’s cheeks blazed red but were thankfully hidden behind the sheen of midnight. His eyes instinctively grew an interest in the patterned stripes and plaid print of their picnic blanket.
Dream just focused on the evident grin spread on his distracted features with an equally wide smile, because both knew that he loved him too.
Or what if they were just a hurricane waiting to happen?
What if they’re a natural disaster brewing under the surface of an illusion labeled ‘love’? What if, like most modern romances, they end in heartache and suffering- a string of wasted time and non-refundable toxic moments?
“Leave me the fuck alone!” The hazel-eyed boy screamed, pounding the firm chest of the green-eyed boy. Each punch hitting at full capacity after each word, pained sobs laced between each venomous word.
“Calm down,” The blonde boy soothed, taking each jab, “It’s okay, just calm down,”
He attempted to pull him in, offering him a warm embrace they usually shared. Compassion, care and love all laced with each gesture and fluid movement. Now, it was as if every stride to hold each other was slowly piercing them through the fangs of a venomous serpent.
He didn’t calm down.
“Why?” The brunette whispered through his sobs, his energy all drained- leaving him an empty barrel of violent words and loveless thoughts. The taller of the pair was crying now too. They had sunken into each other’s impermanent embrace, knowing this was it. This was the last of it all.
In their bittersweet embrace, they mutually re-lived their love-filled memories, until all the love was drained and all that remained was the thought of their suffering. The only thought left was:
“Why wasn’t it love?”
-
As their thoughts of a potential forever dissipated before them, reality trickled back into their fields of vision and they realised the closest thing they had to their pictured fantasies were just the pair of beautiful eyes staring back at them.
George found the glisten of green staring back at him beautiful- he found it irresistible. He looked away before he would’ve lost all control and spent the rest of his existence staring at forest green.
Clay was the last to snap out of it. The view of the boy’s olive complexion made him realise he had been staring for what was clearly far too long. He let a cough slip his lips to break the knot of nervousness and awkwardness lodged in his throat.
In reality, they were a pair of hopeless romantics, both without the capacity of courage to move or even utter a word to each other. So instead, George grew an interest in the view of his box of resing donuts, and Clay’s mission of sitting on the bench disappeared from memory as he turned back to glance at the London traffic as the rain persisted.
Despite the always present curiosity for each other, the pair kept it suppressed and drowned the endless possibilities of their outcomes to leave themselves with a ‘what if’, instead of a ‘the end’. Because permanent, documented failure would hurt more than a string of happy (imagined) outcomes.
So, much like the end of happily ever after, the pair closed the book and continued on with their lives, waiting for a bus to arrive and the rain to cease with an immeasurable distance between them- from both their dreams and each other.