Date: Mon, 19 Nov 2012 16:22:50 +0800 From: John Willers <darknight8951@gmail.com> Subject: Eternity Hello everyone! This story is one that I wrote for a competition; and yes, it's obviously gay-themed, and sadly, pure fiction. This is planned to be a one off story, however if you think you can give me some ideas for how to continue it, e-mail me. Please understand that by continuing from this point onwards that you are aged over the age of consent and that you are allowed to view this material as per your states, counties, boroughs or countries laws. Please drop me an e-mail if you would like to use any part of this story, to give me ideas for another story, or to just say hi! I can be contacted at: darknight8951@gmail.com Now on with the story. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Eternity by Darknight *This station is Bond Street. Change here for the Jubilee Line. This is a Central Line train to Epping via Newbury Park* I watch the interior burst into light as the train slowly curves into the platform. Could this be any more cramped? I'm already starting to sweat in my black jeans and jumper from the heat radiated by the mass of rush hour commuters. Hard to believe it's a 3 degree day outside; a relatively warmish day for a city that is enshrined by winter. I try to adjust my long black hair without elbowing the women next to me, while trying to ignore all the stares that I am receiving from failing in the process. I observe more people trying to squish into the already inconveniently packed tube carriage, despite the constant reminder by staff that 'there will be another train in 2 minutes Ladies and Gents'. I gaze at the new arrivals. Your normal mix of businessmen combined with those obsessive women who check their watched when the train rolls into every station, just to make sure that their morning commute is going to plan. I'm sure thats the 15th time she's looked at hers. However, the last figure that entered made me snap out of my slouched posture. A slim figure, dressed in a pair of dark jeans complimented by a grey hoodie and long blonde hair which created an almost angelic quality to him. He stepped on board just as Kylie began to sing 'It was love, at first sight'. My type of guy. The polite voice reminds us that the doors are closing, and the train, me and him, are consumed by darkness. I notice he's standing next to where I'm sitting. I consider eyeballing him. He's concentrating very intently on that article in the Metro magazine. My friend told me that when checking someone out you should only eyeball them for no more than 10 seconds. Anymore and 'you might lose your target'. We don't want that now don't we? I arrange my hair over my eyes to protect my quest from any inquisitive onlookers, and begin my examination. His face is oval-like with a pointy jaw, sporting tiny jewels of stubble, reflecting the dull fluorescent light bathing the interior of the carriage. His lips, each perfect as its counterpart, are bright red from the harsh cold morning. His eyes skimming what ever it was he is reading, with brows knitted in laborious throughout. *The next station is Oxford Circus* I sigh a little inside. I quickly halt and scan the carriage to make sure that I'm not receiving any stares of disapproval. All safe. The train breaks. The bodies sway. My stop. I stagger out of my seat, with a content and serene feeling; somewhat glassy eyed, and fight my way over to the unopened doors, pushing through the sea of bodies. I offer a small smile, praying that he would look up. Did he? Was that a small acknowledgement of me being? I swear it was. The doors open, and I, blushing, join the gaggle of commuters striding the platform to the exit. The rat race begins. *** The sun peeks over suburban houses as my feet clatter along the pavement. Today I feel different. Almost anxious. No, more jittery and uneasy. Who gets this keyed up over a tube ride? I enter the station, approaching the ticket counter, just managing to get my 'Oxford Circus please' line out without and hiccups. Ok now, grab the ticked, and walk. I feel me messenger bag slide down my shoulder... Don't that that bloody bag with you next time please! Before I'm aware of it, I'm staring down at the familiar yellow line with the stencilled words "Mind the Gap" on the madhouse of a platform. Train rolls in, and I fight through the mass of bodies, managing to frequent my normal seat next to the doors. Time flies. Eventually, the angel enters, with the golden locks radiantly swaying. I didn't know fluorescent light could bring out the highlights and lowlights of ones hair so effectively. My nervousness decreases.. I stop my shaking. I realise that I want to be with him. My heart freezes when I notice that he isn't reading his Metro magazine. This time he is reading me. Glancing, checking me out, making no attempt to hide it. Suddenly, I'm not so calm anymore; I'm hot. I want to move... I need to move... A hot feeling rises to my face. What is he looking at? My un-straightened hair? My face? More importantly, WHY??? The train pulls into a station. I rush to the doors, bumping into too many commuters as I do so. I don't care if this is or is not my station, I am getting off here. I rush onto the platform. 'Hey!' I hear a shout, and spin around. It's him. 'You've dropped your bag! It slipped of your shoulder when you rushed off the train' his deep, calming voice exclaimed. 'Oh, err th... thanks'. I place my hand out. Please don't stare into my eyes! Please please please! Oh shit.. I try to break the connection but it's too hard! His sapphire blue eyes are drawing me in! 'Is this your stop?' I quickly notice a roundel with "Oxford Circus". 'Yeah..' 'Cool! Mine too! Shall we head up?' But... WHAT? YOU DIDN'T GET OFF HERE YESTERDAY! Common sense tells me to agree with him. I notice a rather large crowd of people on both sides of us. Protests and shouts greet me from the small crowd. A flustered and irritable young women tell us that we are rude as she pushed past us. Some people need anger management. The angel shrugs his shoulders, rolls his eyes, and gestures for me to follow. That I do. We arrive at street level. Freezing air hits my face, making my cheeks go numb. A classic London winter. 'There's a nice cafe jut a few blocks down. How about a coffee to warm you? You do look cold!' he exclaims. I try not to express surprise. Why is he so forceful? We've only just met! 'Abuh.. no! No thanks... I netter get going. I'm in a hurry' I lied. He slouches. The smile and the twinkling eyes seem to have evaporated. I fight an urge to apologise. The spark of hope is gone. That's it. He's gone, he's not coming back. Well done. 'Oh! Right then..' His face screws in thought I notice the knitted brows making an appearance as he gathers his options. 'Well, heres my number, give me a call sometime.' 'Thanks' 'Oh, and the names Jason' he says, while extending his hand. 'And you are?' 'Chris. Nice to meet you.' No. It's not nice, it's fabulous! As our hands, I gasp. A volt of feeling, of recognition, harsh and sharp, jabs through my hand. His hands, soft and comforting, offer warm relief from the cold. The spark changes to a comforting flame. I never wanted to let go.