Prompt 8: GDmirluv18

Object/Word Prompt:

Place: train/outside

Action: Junhong gets on the train and sees a man-Yongguk- and he looks evil but Junhong can't help too stare, then the man catches him.

Dislike: angst (well angsty endings)

Other notes: The rating can be m or not, the characters should interact and have a conversation not just staring and thoughts.

Author: busan_brat               **Everyone, please remember to let the author know what you think, okay? Just click the link and leave a comment ^^

A/N: "Thank you for reading this and to the person who gave the prompt, I loved your prompt and I'm really sorry if this isn't what you expected. OTL"

Junhong is standing at the very end of the platform.

Faint colors are dancing on the exposed skin of his arms, carefully adjusting to every curve of the muscle or vein on his wrists, kissing pale skin and scars that have yet to fade. Rays of light painted blue, red and green pass through the vitrages on the wall of Central Station built of steel and glass upon glass.

When he was a little boy holding his mother’s hand tightly, afraid of being lost in the sea of people walking in different directions, waiting for trains to arrive, he thought that the station resembled a cathedral with its high ceiling and vintage clock ticking slowly above his head, rhythmically counting seconds, grains of sand disappearing for eternity. The building radiated cold and sent shivers down his spine. Maybe it was the magnificent yet cold vertical and horizontal lines that stretched in miles along it to no end - perhaps the station was a city inside a city, columns supporting iron construction from colliding on the innocent yet so insignificant human beings or maybe it was the scent of history that lingered in the air. Sometimes, he remembers, when he closed his eyes, the station reminded him of museums, dust particles dancing in the air, closed doors protecting secrets of humanity and air intoxicated with the heavy odour of paint.

The backpack on his shoulders is light, dead weight reduced to minimum. Bottle of water, change of clothes, a snack or two, thin empty wallet holding the photo of his mother smiling warmly while holding his 5-year-old self in her arms (his cheeks are chubby and pale pink, the color of first spring roses, her embrace protects him from the big bad world and mistakes that can cost more than life). The map is folded in two, then in three, too many times used, red marks signaling where to go next, blue stars marking places to return to.

He waits patiently, hands stuffed in the pockets of the light blue jeans torn here and there. A few drops of sweat that roll down his neck gather on his white oversized t-shirt with bold red words “BORN TO DIE” printed in capital letters –  the font strangely resembles drops of blood or dark paint slickened onto the pale walls.

The air is stale, air-conditioning broken. The stench of rust mixed with smoke fills his nostrils when the first train slows down to a stop. Metal doors slide open and the mass of people rushes forward, the crowd moving in the direction of escape from late afternoon hell after a stressed day at work. The mob crushes those on its path, humans are stepping on each other, pushing, pulling - forgetting manners just to avoid standing in the already crowded carriages. This isn’t Junhong’s train; small distances aren’t appealing to the young man, and so he moves aside, leaning on the wall. For a moment he can feel cold concrete under his touch before the crowd moves again and the railing near the edge of the platform is cutting into his back, few inches separating him and the steel beast that closes its jaws and with a roar starts moving again.

It’s easier to breathe after the mass has dissolved and turned to few strangers who may be waiting for the same train to take them far away, to the south coast filled with summer flavors and salt in the air. June is approaching and ocean is calling, waiting to embrace tired bodies and give them relaxation and lower levels of stress. Sadly, but that isn’t Junhong’s destination; he has no interest in beaches, sun and vanilla ice-cream. His stop is somewhere in between, a half-way distance from Seoul to Busan, a small town hidden in the mountains, keeping secrets, untold stories which might be real or just an illusion, fusion of imagination and reality, a step closer to dreams than to present.

Suddenly music reaches Junhong’s ears and he turns to its source. On the metal bench in the centre of the platform a young man is sitting, his headphones blaring, eyes closed, fingers tapping on the steel following the heavy beat and Junhong wonders if he feels the bass under his feet or maybe the train is approaching. The latter turns out to be the truth and the stranger stands up. The sports bag is hanging loosely on his shoulder and Junhong wonders if it is light as his backpack or it just seems that way.

When the black machine jerks to a stop, Junhong diverts his gaze from the stranger to the train. Its metal doors open and he steps inside because this train is the one he has been waiting for. The stranger does the same but using the different doors, ones closer to him, in the middle of the carriage. The inside is cold and Junhong shivers slightly. The difference in the temperature is more than 15 degrees and the platform seems hot, boiling lava in the heart of concrete jungle, steel melting on the floor, tropical hell for those used to chilly air. Strangely, the carriage is almost deserted, all passengers sitting alone, seats separating potential friends or foes, but Junhong doesn’t see it, he’s focused on finding his seat, the number on his ticket printed in black ink, a little smudged on the edges from where part of his fingerprint has been preserved for a lifetime. He finds it a moment before the doors close again, and after taking the backpack off his shoulders, light weight almost unnoticeable, he puts it on the still unoccupied seat next to him. He lifts his gaze only to meet distant brown eyes of the stranger he saw on the platform. Junhong can feel movement under his feet, a sign that the train has departed.

They leave the station, light reflecting off glass buildings blinding Junhong for a moment. The train is slowly picking up speed and the scenery starts to change - edges disappearing, colors melting, mixing and becoming one, light and dark shades of green; blue and white, colors of the sky. Soon, the world is moving in the speed of light. Junhong is just an innocent observer but after few moments he quits, the fusion of colors hurting his eyes, smudged edges giving him a headache and pain pulsing in his ears. He misses the days when trains were slower, landscape intact - concrete free, when his mother told him stories of Marco Polo and Magellan before he drifted to sleep if the journey was too long.

Junhong averts his gaze from the windows only to meet with the stranger’s eyes once again. The man sitting opposite him doesn’t break eye contact, his lips curling upwards. A small smile appears and Junhong remembers that talking to strangers isn’t allowed, but that doesn’t stop his lips to form a soft innocent smile, almost unnoticeable, but still there. The man takes off his headphones and puts them on the small plastic table that separates them. Music can be heard, heavy beats mixing with slight turbulations and wind hitting the windows. The man eyes Junhong’s backpack.

“Exiting on the next stop?” he asks and Junhong has to double check if the man addressed him or his imagination is messing around. The stranger’s voice is deep, filled with something uncertain reminding Junhong of all the decisions he doesn’t want to make.

“No, small distances aren’t my thing,” he answers honestly.

The stranger laughs, husky and low.

“They aren’t mine either,” he admits. “Heading to Busan?”

Junhong shakes his head and silence falls between them as the train reaches its first stop on the outskirts of Seoul, one of those neighborhoods where everybody knows everybody and their aunt. Steel doors open and close alone. Nobody exits; nobody enters. Just as usual. It seems as if no one understands why trains stop at this station when there are no passengers, but they still do. It’s a routine that’s hard to break. In few seconds they’re moving again, colors of the scenery molding together once more, a synthesis of light and dark shades of green.

Junhong taps his fingers on the plastic table – the stranger is silent and he wonders why. Then he remembers that he’s the one who stopped talking, a mistake he regrets maybe more than he should.

Being on the road has taught him a few things, one of them is not trusting strangers no matter how nice and willing to help they seem, the other is recognizing lost souls just like him and the stranger sitting a distance away.

He clears his throat deciding that company can’t be so bad since they have long way ahead and many hours to spare.

“My stop is somewhere in between. To be honest, I don’t know if it exists,” he says looking at his hands, pale skin covering bones and healed fractures. There’s a scar on his right thumb, pink half-crescent rising above the skin, sign of struggle and mischievous behavior. “I’ve heard a story about it,” he continues. “And I wanted to see if it’s true or just a legend,” he finishes with a small smile, embarrassed of his honesty. He expects the stranger to laugh or to ask him details about his final stop or to just look at him the way many people did in the past and still do in the present. Sometimes he wonders if those glares would stop because he’s already tired of explaining, of justifying himself for every move he makes because they all seem wrong on the eyes of passer-bys. He’s waiting for the man’s reaction, prepared for the usual.

“Mine is a little village 30 miles north of Daegu,” the stranger speaks. No questions, no obnoxious laughter, but Junhong still doesn’t look at him. Then the man continues. “And I’m not sure why it is my stop. I guess I just liked the name of it,” he laughs, dry and a bit melancholic. When Junhong finally looks up he sees that the stranger is gazing at the landscape, bleeding greens and permanent blue of the sky. His eyes are focused on something in the distance, something million miles away, invisible even when he squints his eyes. “Maybe I’ll change my destination. Who knows…? Just one thing in life is certain; everything else is prone to change.”

“And that thing is?” Junhong asks leaning forward a little, not aware of his movement.

“The end of the road is the same for all of us. Death is the last stop on the railway called life. That’s where we all get off,” he answers and Junhong wonders how old the stranger actually is, but he doesn’t dare to ask. Instead, he reaches for his backpack. He s it and after searching its content, he takes the chocolate bar from it.

“If that’s the case, we should enjoy our last ride,” he offers the candy to the stranger.

“You’re a weird kid,” the man chuckles.

“I’m not a kid.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Junhong mumbles with a piece of chocolate melting on his tongue. “And you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“I thought that you’re older.”

“Why?” the spark of curiosity lights up in stranger’s eyes.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s the way you talk.”

“The way I talk?” the stranger is amused, his lips fighting with laughter.

“Yeah,” Junhong admits. “What you said earlier was deep.”

“I read a lot.”

Junhong looks at him puzzled, maybe a little surprised.

“You know those square shaped things with pages filled with printed letters and covers with an illustration or a picture,” the older tries his best to explain.

“I know what books are,” Junhong pouts.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You don’t seem like somebody who reads, that’s all,” the younger admits sheepishly.

The man laughs, the sound of it resonating in Junhong’s ears.

“Well, I do. Do you want a proof?”

And before Junhong can answer, he pulls a book out of his sports bag. The colors on its cover have faded and the title is a mess of letters without a shape, illegible mix of horizontal and vertical lines. Junhong narrows his eyes trying to decode the title. Somehow he manages to decipher an F and C and maybe H or is it Q.

“It’s a good book, but it has a flaw,” the older says.

“Just one?”

“Yes, it kinda messes with your mind a little, teaches you how to see things a bit differently than what you’re used to.”

The train slows down to a stop, scenery regaining its shape and right color and Junhong can see passengers getting on. The number of empty seats decreases and carriage is almost full. Children’s laughter reaches his ears and he turns his head to its source. A few seats away, a mother with her son is sitting. The small boy is almost jumping on her lap, talking about presents and grandma and beach and… Junhong just smiles because once he was like that and once his mother took him to the beach and once he wasn’t alone in the world.

The steel beast starts moving, speeding up, miles passing under its wheels in the speed of light, landscape changing and greens turning to brown and gray, the mountain peaks in the distance, soaring to the sky with their edges still intact, sharp on the horizon.

It’s impossible to talk so the stranger opens the book in his hands and after flipping through pages settles on the particular chapter and starts reading. Junhong leans his head on the cold window. Listening to unfamiliar voices, he drifts to sleep.

He dreams of warm and gentle hands that hug him, holding him like precious drops of holly water on the palm, protecting him. He dreams of a tender voice that caresses his skin whispering “a soulmate has entered your life”, the voice surrounds him, blocking every sense except hearing. It’s hauntingly beautiful, fragile; it dissolves in thin air when somebody shakes his shoulders.

“Wake up,” new voice fills his ears, husky and low, rich in colors, warm shades of red and brown, melted dark chocolate. “We have arrived.”

Junhong blinks a few times, chasing dreams away. Somebody takes his hand and guides him to the open door. They get off and the doors close as soon as they step on the ground. When he realizes that he’s outside, the train has departed. Junhong looks around him, meadows, forests and open road ahead, green upon green. A gentle breeze caresses his skin, bringing with it the enticing aroma of freedom. There’s a man to his left who is holding his hand, the same man who helped him exit; the one reading, talking to him during the journey.

“Where are we?” Junhong asks, voice hoarse, lips dry.

“Somewhere in between. This is your stop.”

“But this isn’t yours. Why are you here?”

“Everything is prone to change,” he shrugs.

“And this road… ahead of us… where does it lead?”

“Unknown. It’s your path, you should be my guide, not me yours.”

“Who are you exactly?”

“My name is Yongguk and I’m your partner in crime.”