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The dregs of Nick’s cappuccino were ice cold by the time a train to London finally pulled into Birmingham New Street. The caffeine had done nothing to combat his bone-deep exhaustion, just made him jittery and nauseated. To be honest, he wasn't sure there was any substance that could fix him by that point except for a good, long sleep: he'd been up since five-thirty to get to Birmingham for the match and it had been a brutal game. Every inch of Nick’s body had been left bruised and battered. Someone had stamped on his foot in the ruck so hard that they’d embossed his flesh with the perfect imprint of their boot studs, and in the intervening hours, his ankle had swollen to twice its usual size. He couldn’t put any weight on it, and the walk (or, more accurately, the limp) from the pitch to New Street station had been excruciating. Thankfully, he’d thought to pack his crocs for after the match; he wasn’t sure he could have made it if he’d had to lace up his trainers.
What he wanted more than anything was just to get on this train and pass out for the duration of the journey, but the universe was conspiring against him. He’d arrived early for his original train. When that had been cancelled, he’d spent thirty minutes in the queue for the ticket office, where a woman who was completely uninterested in his plight had rebooked him on the next train.
“I had a seat booked on the last one,” he’d said to her.
She’d told him, “All seat reservations stand.”
“So… I’ll still have my seat?”
“All seat reservations still stand,” she'd repeated, slower the second time, as if she was talking to an exceptionally stupid infant. Nick had just blinked at her until she'd sighed and said, “Yes, coach 10, seat 6,” and shoved a ticket through the slot at the bottom of the window.
He'd thanked her and hobbled away, spending the next hour perched on a stool in Caffe Nero with his coffee and a view over the live departure boards. From his front-row seat, he’d watched his new train get steadily more delayed as the crowd watching the boards grew and grew, until finally a woman’s robotic voice, barely audible above the din, announced, “Platform one for the – delayed – five-fifteen service to: London Euston.”
With the impatience of horses released from the gates at the start of a race, the hordes waiting beneath the departure boards surged towards platform one. Nick gingerly stood, knowing the pain in his foot consigned him to the back of the pack like a wounded animal being abandoned by the herd for its weakness. He fumbled with his ticket as people sprinted past, getting halfway down the length of the train as he hobbled through the ticket gates, clearly hoping to find a less crowded carriage at the end of the platform.
The door to coach 10 was just as manic as every other. Nick swung his bag more securely over his shoulder and helped a man in front of him manoeuvre two suitcases and a folded buggy onto the train as his haggard-looking wife tried to herd the children further into the coach. Around him, other passengers took every opportunity to anxiously edge their way closer to the door, as if hoping their impatience would speed the family up.
They should have booked seats, Nick thought smugly as he hoisted himself up onto the train behind the father, ignoring the restless tuts that followed his slow progress.
Inside, the chaos continued. There were people everywhere: sitting on their suitcases, on the floor, on each other. There was even a guy who was using the toilet like his own office, sitting on the loo (lid closed), typing away on his laptop as he jabbered at someone through a bluetooth headset. Nick wondered vaguely what would happen when someone eventually needed to use the toilet, which would surely happen at least once on a three-hour train trip.
He shoved some backpacks together in the overhead racks, making just enough space for him to squeeze his bag there. Those who hadn’t found space in between carriages had crammed into the aisles, forcing Nick to edge by them, his eyes counting down the seat numbers.
12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7…
Seat 7 was the window seat, occupied by a teenage girl who’d been there long enough to make a pillow out of her scarf and fall asleep, her head pressed to the glass. His gaze travelled over to seat 6 and fell on a boy around his own age. His head was bent down over his phone as he ignored the general anarchy around him, so all Nick could really see was olive skin and dark, curly hair bisected by a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.
It didn’t surprise him to see his seat was occupied – anyone would want to try their luck, just in case – and he felt a bit bad for the disappointment he was about to bestow. Not that bad, though, not with his foot killing him, and his eyelids so heavy he was genuinely worried that he might pass out.
“Excuse me?”
The boy didn’t look up.
“Um. Excuse me,” Nick said again, louder, and still found himself ignored, so he tapped the boy on the shoulder.
He pulled one of his earphones away and looked up. His eyes were the prettiest blue Nick had ever seen, a shade he didn’t realise could exist outside of Hollywood, set under heavy brows that were furrowed in confusion.
On any other day, Nick’s first impression would probably be something along the lines of: oh, he’s cute. On that day, however, all he thought was: that’s my seat, bitch.
He phrased it more politely when he spoke. “Sorry, um, I think you’re in my seat?”
“Oh, really?” The guy pushed his headphones down around his neck and pulled his ticket from his pocket, frowning at it and then up at the numbers on the side of the luggage racks. “I don’t think so? This is seat 6, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but this is coach 10,” Nick said, helpfully.
“Yeah,” the boy agreed, holding up his ticket so Nick could see it. “Seat 6, coach 10 – that’s my seat.”
“No…” The denial died on his lips as he leaned forward, squinting at the ticket. Sure enough, it was stamped with Nick’s seat details. He frowned at it for a lot longer than anyone would need to read two words and two numbers and eventually said, “But the lady in the ticket office promised me that I had a seat reserved.”
It was only after the words left his mouth that he realised he sounded like a child about to throw a tantrum.
The boy looked along the aisle and explained gently, “I think they must have double-booked the seats.”
Nick followed his gaze: sure enough, up and down the carriage, the same conversation was playing out again and again as strangers brandished tickets at each other, some giving up on the fight while others got more belligerent. If there had ever been any unbooked seats on the train, the sensible people who’d legged it down the platform had snapped them up while Nick took his time.
“But– But she promised,” Nick whined.
“Sorry.” The apology sounded genuine, but he clearly wanted the interaction to end as soon as possible. Nick wondered whether it would help his case if he started crying. There was an increasing likelihood of it happening regardless: his foot felt like it was on fire.
“Why do you get it?” he asked, petulantly.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if we’re both booked in this seat, how come you get it?”
The boy blinked at him. “Um, because I got here first?”
“But that’s not fair.”
“I’m… Sorry?”
The boy, clearly at a loss for any other words, shrugged and reached for his headphones, like that was the end of the interaction. To anyone else, it would have been – there wasn’t anything else to say.
But.
But Nick’s foot hurt, and he was so, so tired, and there was a profound sense of betrayal suffocating him, clogging up his social skills and logical thought processes. His response took them both by surprise.
“What are you doing?!”
It was a reasonable question: what was he doing?
Losing his fucking mind, apparently.
“Sharing,” he said.
“You’re sitting on my lap,” the guy muttered, more to himself than to Nick, as if he needed to hear the words aloud to comprehend the situation.
“I’m sitting in our seat,” Nick corrected.
“You’re on my lap,” he repeated louder.
“Technically. Only because you’re in our seat.”
“So, you’re– you’re going to sit on me for the entire journey?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Okay. This is happening. Okay,” the boy squeaked. He was taking this much better than Nick probably would have if the roles were reversed.
He knew he should stand up, apologise profusely and then go to another carriage to give the poor boy some space – maybe even get off the train entirely and wait for the next one while reflecting on his actions. What he was currently doing was so far past inexcusably rude, it felt like it should be illegal. Maybe it was illegal. Maybe he was going to get arrested for anti-social behaviour at the other end of the line.
But if he spent the journey standing, he'd probably need an ambulance to meet him. So, he didn’t move, he just continued to sit there, on this random stranger’s lap, studiously avoiding eye-contact as the doors slid shut and the train shuddered into motion. Over the intercom, the driver apologised for the overcrowding.
Wanting to justify his insanity, he blurted, “It’s just because I’ve injured my foot and I can’t put any weight on it. I don’t think I could manage the whole journey standing up without fainting.”
The boy stared at him wordlessly, his mouth hanging open. He didn’t need to say that that wasn’t an acceptable reason for Nick’s behaviour: his dumbstruck expression did all the talking.
“I’m sure loads of people will get off at the next stop, then I’ll move right away,” he promised.
It wasn’t the most comfortable seating arrangement. He sat perpendicular to the other boy, his legs across the aisle and his back to the window seat. He was conscious of the fact he was a six-foot-two rugby player, so he sat bolt upright and stock still, trying to evenly distribute his height across the boy’s lap. His lower back soon started to ache, but the pain was more tolerable than his foot.
They sat in silence that got progressively more awkward the longer it went on for. Whenever he glanced out of the corner of his eye, the boy was looking straight down at his phone (which he held right against his chest, as far from Nick as he could), typing frantically. It was the closest Nick had ever been to a complete stranger.
“I’m Nick, by the way.”
The guy paused typing, his eyes flicking up to Nick, his expression indecipherable. “Charlie.”
Nick wondered if he was telling the truth. Probably not. God knows he didn’t owe the strange man sitting on him honesty.
They didn’t speak again for the next ten minutes, and Charlie put his headphones back on. It wasn’t until the train rolled into Birmingham International where (contrary to Nick’s confident assertion that people would get off) the platform was overrun with people, who swarmed around the doors before the train had even come to a complete halt. Not a single person moved from their seat, and the sheer volume of standing passengers meant people were surging down the aisle to find some breathing space.
He hadn’t noticed Charlie had pulled his headphones away until he sarcastically said, “Everyone’s going to get off here, huh?”
Nick looked at him guiltily. “I didn’t think we’d stop so soon.”
Thankfully, Charlie snorted at him rather than swore. He didn’t put his headphones on either, leaving them hanging around his neck as he looked up at Nick. He could just about hear his music – it sounded fast and angry – and he strained to listen in, see if he could recognise it.
“What happened to your foot?”
It took Nick a moment to realise the question was for him.
“Hm? Oh.” He looked at his foot sticking out in the aisle, his bright yellow crocs acting like a trip hazard warning for anyone trying to walk past. Since sitting down, the pain had subsided to the point it was almost entirely forgettable, other than the occasional throb. “I had a rugby match this morning and someone stamped on it.”
“You’re a rugby player,” Charlie said, nodding to himself like this explained something.
“Not professionally. I’m just on my uni team.”
"Oh, right."
Nick wasn't usually a nervous talker. When he was anxious, he withdrew, waiting until he had all the facts before he worked out how to deal with it. Suddenly, however, he couldn't keep his mouth closed.
“I’ve been playing since I could walk basically, my dad’s a big rugby fan and I always used to watch games with him growing up so he signed me up for lessons when I was in primary school and the rest was history, so to speak. And, you know, people think of rugby as a really violent sport, but this” – he waved at his foot – “is probably one of the worst injuries I’ve ever had from it. Other than a few bloody noses. And that one time I broke my wrist. But if I’ve been playing for nearly twenty years, that’s not bad!”
He could see Charlie’s eyes glaze over as he gawked at Nick with an expression of regret and he knew he should really shut up, but the words kept tumbling out of him. Was it the (self-imposed) social anxiety that had him veering off into concussion rates in professional rugby? Or was it the fact that Charlie’s eyes had a bewitching, intoxicating effect that had addled Nick’s brain until he was no longer in control of his basic faculties?
“Yeah, so,” he wrapped up, after describing Jonny Wilkinson’s 2003 World Cup winning drop goal, “I’m, um, a big rugby fan.”
Perhaps terrified by the threat of allowing Nick to continue to monologue, Charlie asked, “What uni do you go to?”
“Leeds,” he said, relieved that the conversation finally had two participants. “What about you? Are you a student?”
“Yeah, UCL,” Charlie said.
“How come you were in Birmingham?”
“A couple of my friends go there.”
It was a very standard, pleasant conversation, the kind of small-talk that Nick had had a million times with strangers in pubs. The fact he was sitting on Charlie’s lap, their faces separated by less than a foot, made the normality ludicrous.
But Nick was going to power through it.
Brightly, he asked, “So, what do you study?”
“Maths.”
Well, that was a swift end to that line of questioning – the only question Nick could think to ask about a Maths degree was: why?
“What about you?” Charlie asked.
“Sports science. I’m in my second year,” Nick said, and Charlie looked about as blank as Nick had about his course, so he changed the subject. “What are you listening to?”
“Er, I don’t know, it’s a playlist,” Charlie said, unlocking his phone to glance at an unfamiliar pastel purple album cover. “Paramore,” he read out.
He nodded, glad it was someone he’d heard of. “Oh, cool. Are you into…” He didn’t know exactly what genre of music Paramore was, so he doubtfully asked, “rock? Music?”
Charlie didn’t correct him. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll listen to anything, really, but I play the drums, so I like rock for that.”
“You play drums? That’s so cool!”
Charlie blinked and then smiled tentatively. “Thanks.”
So Charlie was cute, clever and interesting. Nick considered this new information with a new wave of regret that he’d made such a spectacularly bad first impression. There was no possible way he could see himself coming back from the lap-sitting. Especially because he was still sitting there.
“Can you move your legs?” a tired-looking businessman in a rumpled suit with a briefcase asked Nick sharply. He jerked his thumb down at the queue of people extending in both directions. “There are lots of people who need somewhere to stand.”
Nick blushed and he mumbled, “Sorry,” at the man as he tried to shuffle around so that he could tuck his legs out of the way under the chair. The problem was that Nick was tall enough that he struggled to fit his legs behind train seats when he was the only one sitting in the chair, and the only way he could engineer enough room while on Charlie’s lap was to scoot up, so he was practically sitting on his crotch, his back pressed up against Charlie’s chest.
If he’d thought the previous arrangement was too close for comfort, this was another level of wildly improper. They were so close Charlie’s breath tickled the hair on the nape of his neck, raising goosebumps that sent tingles down Nick’s spine.
He inhaled sharply and whipped his head round nearly a hundred and eighty degrees to stare at Charlie. Charlie looked back, his face entirely devoid of colour and his eyes wide as dinner plates, and every word Nick knew – in both English and French – deserted him.
“Uh,” he said eloquently.
Charlie swallowed and muttered, “Wanker,” which was a surprise, but probably a fair assessment of Nick’s behaviour.
“Is this too much?” he asked, then winced at the idiocy of the question. It had been too much since the very beginning, twat.
“What?” Charlie’s hand shot out and rested on Nick’s arm. “No, I was talking about him.” He jerked his head at the businessman.
“Him?” Nick glanced up at the guy, who’d turn his back on them. “Why?”
“He didn’t have to be a dick to you,” he muttered defensively.
The corner of Nick’s mouth twitched. Was Charlie defending him against a mildly rude person? “It’s alright, I think people go a little crazy when the trains are cancelled. It makes them do things they wouldn’t usually do.”
Charlie smirked back. “Like sitting on strangers’ laps?”
Seriously, Nick said, “Oh no, I actually do this every time I’m on a train. It’s a really good way of meeting new people.”
Charlie’s surprised laugh spluttered out of him like a coughing fit. Nick could feel each laugh bubble out of him. “Out of curiosity, how many restraining orders do you have against you?” he asked.
“Seven, but I don’t think that’s related.”
He couldn’t keep a straight face when Charlie laughed that time. His giggles were contagious.
“You can keep listening to your music. I’ll stop bothering you.”
“You aren’t bothering me,” Charlie lied, but pulled the earphones on before Nick could say anything else.
He started fidgeting when they were just outside of Coventry – around half an hour into the journey. Because he was hyper aware of Charlie’s every movement under him, Nick felt it when he began clenching and relaxing his thighs repetitively, as if he was trying to get the blood flowing, and shifting his weight from side to side.
Nick’s own lower back was aching in sharp pulses because of the upright posture he’d been maintaining since Birmingham International. He poked Charlie to get him to take his headphones off.
“We should swap,” he said.
“Oh, no, it’s really–” Charlie protested but it was too late, Nick was already on his feet (or, foot), holding onto the back of the headrest to keep his balance as the train rocked.
“Sorry, excuse us for a second,” he said to the suited man who’d claimed the aisle space next to their seat and had to step back to make room for him to stand. Charlie was still sitting in their seat, shaking his head. The man glared at them impatiently: clearly his mood hadn’t improved in the last fifteen minutes. “Come on,” Nick encouraged, “I weigh ninety kilograms, your legs need a break.”
Hesitantly, Charlie stood, allowing Nick to slide into the chair. The relief at having a backrest and the weight off his foot was so acute he nearly groaned aloud, but, mercifully, he managed to bite his lip in time.
He smiled up at Charlie and patted his lap, like he was tempting a cat to jump up. “Okay, ready for you.”
Charlie perched on Nick’s lap, his legs tucked under the seats, every muscle in his body tensed like prey ready to flee. He was so light, Nick barely felt him. His sports bag with his wet kit and deflated rugby ball probably weighed more than the boy in his lap and he felt even worse about the previous half an hour.
Keeping his voice reassuringly bright, he said, “Don’t worry, you can lean back if you want, I don’t mind.”
“No, I’m fine,” Charlie said. His voice was tight, but he stared at the back of the seat in front of them so Nick couldn’t guess what he was thinking.
“Seriously, Charlie, that looks really uncomfortable. You can relax.”
“I’m gay,” Charlie blurted.
Nick blinked at him – or, more accurately, at the back of his head because he was still facing away from Nick. “...O-kay? Congratulations?”
“I should have told you when you sat down, I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled from his mouth in such swift succession that it was difficult to hear exactly what he was saying. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable to have some gay boy in your lap, I’m so sorry–”
He rocked forward, about to stand up, but Nick put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip, holding him in place. His fingers dug into the crease of Charlie’s jeans and he could feel the jut of his pelvic bone beneath the denim.
“Charlie, Charlie! Why are you apologising? I’m the one who sat on your lap, remember? According to every single rule about how to behave in public, I’m definitely the one in the wrong here. Also, I’m bi, so I’m not going to turn around and call you a slur or something, don’t worry. Seriously, you can relax and we can have a totally non-weird journey to London.”
Charlie whipped around. “You’re bi?”
“Yeah.” He was, once again, painfully aware of Charlie sitting on his lap and if Charlie had been worried about being creepy, what did that make Nick? Anxiously, he asked, “Is that okay?”
“Yes! Of course! I mean– Sorry. Yes, I just… Didn’t expect that from you. You- you seem” – his eyes skittered up and down Nick’s chest and his cheeks flushed scarlet – “Um.”
Nick tried not to visibly preen like a peacock, but he couldn’t help himself from prompting, “I seem…?”
“Straight,” Charlie finished, bluntly.
Nick’s grin slid into a grimace. “Ouch.”
“Sorry.”
“I’d say you need to stop apologising for things that aren’t your fault, but learning that I apparently radiate heterosexual energy is a bit of a blow to my ego.”
“It’s only because you explained the rules of rugby in excruciating detail to me,” Charlie explained.
Nick supposed that made sense. “Right, yeah. I can see that.”
“And the crocs.”
He gasped, his offence only half-faked. “What’s wrong with my crocs?!”
“There's not enough time left on this journey to list everything that's wrong with them.”
“They’re comfy!”
Throughout the exchange, Charlie had gradually relaxed. He wasn’t leaning against Nick, but he was now slouched rather than tensed like he was about to shatter. He shifted over so that he was angled towards Nick rather than away from him, so Nick could watch him smile – which was worth the fact he accidentally knocked Nick’s bad ankle as he did so, causing him to wince and hiss.
Charlie froze. “What’s wrong?”
Through gritted teeth, he said, “Ankle.”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay,” Nick said, when the pain faded and he could speak in a somewhat normal voice.
“Sorry,” Charlie said again, his voice small.
“You’ve apologised more than the actual person who stood on my foot.”
“They maimed you and then didn't apologise?!”
“Oh no, he said sorry like a hundred times, but you’ve somehow said it more.”
“Alright, alright, I get it.” Charlie rolled his eyes fondly. Like Nick teasing him was something that he had to put up with every day. It made Nick feel warm and tingly.
They talked more as the train rolled through the English countryside; the setting sun turning the sky lavender over the rolling hills. Occasionally, the driver’s voice crackled over the intercom and apologised once again for the overcrowding and the delay, but Nick barely knew what he was talking about: his and Charlie’s little bubble felt completely secluded from the swirling bad tempers in the rest of the train.
As they arrived at Milton Keynes, Charlie’s phone rang – a photo of a girl with Charlie’s blue eyes and dark hair flashing up on the screen.
“Hey, Tori,” Charlie answered. Nick couldn’t hear what the girl said, but whatever it was made Charlie blush and throw a sidelong glance at Nick. “No, there’s no need for that. I’m fine, Tori. Yeah, it worked out. How are you?”
Nick sat back, trying to give him a semblance of privacy, watching the sky darken. He’d been awake since half five and the caffeine from his cappuccino at the station had long worn off, and Charlie’s weight felt like when he used to fall asleep with Nellie draped across his chest.
The lure of sleep was so seductive, Nick was powerless to resist. His eyelids fell shut, and he drifted off, the murmur of Charle’s voice like a lullaby.
-
When he woke an indeterminate amount of time later, the sun had set and the carriage felt like a liminal space with its plastic walls and white lighting. Nick turned his head to the side, squinting against the brightness. The dark, empty countryside had been replaced with blocky concrete buildings gilded with graffiti and smears of pigeon shit, lit by the glow from the hundreds of windows as Londoners went about their evenings.
He was uncomfortably hot, and there was something tickling the underside of his chin, like when he used to wake in the middle of the night because Nellie was nuzzling into him, searching for attention.
He turned his head from the window and peered down his nose.
Not fur. Hair.
Specifically, Charlie’s hair. He was fast asleep on Nick’s lap, curled up so his head resting on Nick’s collarbone, his head rising and falling along with Nick’s breaths. He had ridiculously long eyelashes, Nick noted, staring at the way they fanned across his cheeks when his eyes were closed. He was, somehow, possibly even prettier asleep than he was awake.
Nick’s neck was damp and sweaty, clammy from their trapped body heat. He tilted his head back to try to let the sweat evaporate, and his neck twinged in protest, the muscles sore from his head lolling against the seat. He hoped Charlie was having a more comfortable nap than he’d had.
He wanted to know what the time was, but his phone was trapped in his back pocket. His eyes fell on Charlie’s, resting on his lap, partially covered by his hand. Slowly, carefully, so as not to wake him, Nick tapped the screen. It lit up with the time (nearly seven o’clock) and a message from someone called Tao, which said: Charlie?? Are you still alive???
Nick was sure he was the source of Charlie’s friend’s worry, and he wondered how Charlie had described the situation to him. ‘SOS a huge strange man just sat on my lap on the train and won’t get off’?
In retrospect, he was incredibly lucky Charlie had been chill and hadn’t called the Transport Police.
Still, the text confirmed one thing: Charlie hadn’t been lying about his name.
He lowered his arm, but he suddenly couldn’t work out where he’d had his hand before. It seemed like the only place it would comfortably fall was around Charlie’s waist – which was, of course, highly inappropriate, so he wasn’t going to put it there. But then, where should he put it? Right now, it was hovering awkwardly in mid-air.
Where was his other hand? Maybe he could use that for inspiration.
He squeezed his left hand and found it on denim, which was worrying because Nick was wearing joggers. He swallowed and peered around Charlie’s head, to see his own hand on Charlie’s thigh, his fingers splayed wide, almost possessive.
When had he put it there? Dear God, please, please, please, let it have been after Charlie had fallen asleep.
He wrenched it away like Charlie’s leg was burning.
The sudden movement caused Charlie to stir, mumbling something in his sleep. Aware that he now had both of his arms hanging in midair like a braindead zombie, Nick hastily dropped them by his sides, his left arm dangling in the aisle while his right hand landed awkwardly in the disgusting gum-strewn crevice between the chairs. He shuddered, but kept it there as Charlie fidgeted into waking.
He could feel the exact moment he passed from dreaming to consciousness: his head turned into Nick’s chest, burying his face in Nick’s collarbone with a gentle huff, and then he tensed, his body frozen in perfect stillness for the briefest second before he sat bolt upright. His curls on one side of his head were mussed and frizzy from the friction of Nick’s t-shirt. The shadows under his eyes were more pronounced than they’d been earlier, even though his expression was painfully alert as he blinked at Nick.
Of course, the first thing that came out of his mouth was, “Sorry.”
Nick suspected half of everything Charlie said was an apology.
“It’s fine, where else were you supposed to sleep? Have a good nap?” he asked.
Charlie didn’t answer. He rubbed a hand over his face and leaned a little way out of the aisle to look at the display. “Where are we?”
“Just coming into Euston, I think.”
Sure enough, not a minute later, the train began to slow and the train guard announced their late arrival into London Euston, thanking everyone for their patience. In what felt like no time at all, they were pulling into their platform and the doors were opening with a hiss. Everyone else was rushing to pull their bags from the overhead racks, but Nick and Charlie didn’t move immediately.
It wasn’t until the girl in the window seat yawned and stretched that Charlie stood from Nick’s lap. It felt empty and cold without him there.
They were the last ones off their carriage, shuffling slowly down the empty aisle.
“I can carry that for you,” Charlie said, grabbing the strap of Nick’s bag before hopping easily down the steep steps to the platform edge. He waited there for Nick, holding a hand up to help him as he lifted himself down the precipitous ledge, one hand on the train’s railing and the other holding Charlie’s hand for support.
It was an icy evening, but Nick hardly felt the cold. He was thrumming with a giddy, pent-up energy after the train journey, and his whole body flushed with heat even as his breath puffed in the frigid air. Charlie shivered and pulled his coat
“Here, let me take that,” Nick said, trying to grab his bag back, but Charlie just hoisted it over his head and then held out an elbow. “What are you doing?”
“If you’re too injured to sit on the train floor for a couple of hours, you’re too injured to carry your own bag,” Charlie said, bobbing his elbow invitingly. “Come on, we can’t stand here forever, I’ve got another train to catch.”
Nick felt he should protest, but he didn’t want to turn down the invitation to hold onto Charlie.
“Very chivalrous of you,” he said as he looped his arm around Charlie’s and hobbled along beside him.
“Well, I couldn’t abandon you like that. Not after all we’ve been through today.”
They tottered down the platform like a strange galumphing creature, their steps in sync and their limbs twined around each other, only letting go when they got to the ticket barriers.
Euston was quieter than New Street, the rush hour crowds fleeing the city having already pushed their way onto trains. Those who were still waiting for their trains moved without urgency and didn’t mind walking around the pair of boys standing in the middle of the thoroughfare.
Charlie exhaled sharply through his nose as he handed Nick’s bag back to him.
“Thanks,” he said, slinging it over his shoulder.
“You’re welcome.”
“Well,” Nick started, then gave up.
“Well,” he replied.
They stood and stared at each other. Charlie peered up at Nick, the corner of his mouth turned up in a muted expression of… Nick didn’t know. Amusement? Boredom? Invitation?
“Um, thank you. For being unbelievably cool and not calling the police when I sat on your lap.”
Charlie laughed. “You’re welcome. It was definitely a memorable journey.”
Nick didn’t know how to reply. The silence between them hung heavy and pregnant with tension as he tried to figure out the best phrasing for the question: please can I have your number. He’d never had to do this before. Everyone had known everyone’s number in school, and at uni, he could just get wasted and find someone at a club. He’d never had to flirt sober.
“I was wondering if–”
“Do you think we could–”
They both stopped and laughed, at each other and themselves.
“You first,” Charlie said.
“No, you,” Nick insisted.
Charlie tilted his head to the side, a stray curl falling across his forehead: Nick longed to reach out and tuck it back into place. He balled his hands into fists in his hoodie pockets.
“Here. Give me your phone,” he said, holding out his palm. Nick couldn’t hand it over fast enough, his thumb missing the fingerprint sensor three times before his Face ID finally recognised him and unlocked itself. He watched eagerly as Charlie added his number, saving his contact as charlie s :)
“‘S’?” Nick asked, taking his phone back and typing out a message to him on WhatsApp.
“Spring. My surname. I didn’t know if you had any other Charlies in there to confuse you.”
“Oh, well, nice to meet you, Charlie Spring.”
Charlie looked down at his phone as it lit up with Nick’s text. “Nice to meet you, too, Nick Nelson,” he said with a grin.
“Platform sixteen for the seven thirty-three service to Rochester.” The announcement reverberated across the stone floors, bouncing around the large room.
“I should go, it’ll probably take me ten minutes just to limp over there and I’ve now learnt that my seat reservations definitely don’t stand so I might need to race someone,” Nick said, unwillingly.
Charlie frowned. “You’re going to Rochester?”
“Yeah?”
“But I thought you said you go to Leeds?”
“Yeah, I do, I’m going to visit my mum for Reading Week. Why would I go from Birmingham to London to then go back up to Leeds?”
“I don’t know, the trains are shit, I thought maybe that was just how you get to Leeds from Birmingham. You’re from Rochester?”
“Yeah! Why?”
“I’m from Rochester.”
Nick blinked at him. “No, you’re not,” he said, stupidly thinking, I would have noticed you.
“Yeah, I am. I’m going home tonight to see my brother.”
“Like. Home to Rochester?”
“Yep.”
“On the seven thirty-three train from platform sixteen?”
“Yep.”
Nick nodded, thinking this over as his heart did cartwheels against his ribcage. “Well, we should head over, then. I need to find a seat.”
“There’s no rush,” Charlie said, waving his ticket. “I’ve got a reservation. And I don’t mind sharing.”