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Chenle hates when they miss the early train.
It’s frustrating, not because he cares about the possibility of being late to school, but the 8am train is the one all the stiff working adults take―all the office workers in their impractical heels and executives in freshly pressed suits invading his space is inconvenient at best and downright annoying at worst. And they’re always so pushy, like they don’t care that high schoolers have things to do and places to be, too. Entitled is the word that comes to mind.
Chenle is too busy glaring daggers at the back of some old businessman’s head to notice that the crowd is moving in their direction at an alarming pace, attempting to cram as many passengers on board as physically possible; he usually has enough presence of mind to brace for impact, but this time he needs Jisung’s soft voice to pull him out of his head and bring him back to reality.
“Lele, we better move,” he says, worrying his lip as he gently urges Chenle into action.
He’s already pressed up against the metal bars beside the nearest seating, but he shifts so his back is flush against the closed doors behind him instead, shuffling aside so Jisung can fill the space he’s vacated. Jisung’s broad shoulders shield Chenle from the worst of it, but they both get jostled every now and then by the ebb and flow of the crowd. Then the doors on the opposite side of the train finally slide closed, and Chenle says a silent prayer of thanks for small mercies. At least there’s only one more stop before theirs―Chenle’s not claustrophobic, but having a bunch of musty, self-important men in his immediate area might drive him to insanity anyway. Especially since the one closest to them is talking loudly and incessantly on some heated business call and it’s sort of headache-inducing combined with the fumes of his cologne.
Then again, it can always get worse. Chenle is so preoccupied with becoming prematurely jaded that he isn’t prepared when the train hits a bump; he isn’t holding onto anything, but at least he has the doors against his back to keep him steady. And he has Jisung in front of him. Unfortunately, Jisung isn’t holding onto anything, either.
Jisung stumbles forward, closing the already minuscule distance between them, and he would have landed quite literally on top of Chenle if he hadn’t reflexively caught himself before crushing his defenseless best friend. Jisung sticks his arms out, bracing his hands against the doors behind Chenle, and he’s lanky enough that the length of his arms stops him from actually crashing into Chenle, but just barely. When he finally steadies himself, he’s hovering over Chenle, who’s sandwiched between Jisung and the stupid doors, and the metal on his back should feel cooling through his school blazer but Chenle feels like he’s on fire.
Jisung’s eyes go wide the moment he realizes the position they’re in, and his face turns pink so fast Chenle would’ve missed it if he’d blinked. As it is, the rush of blood to Jisung’s cheeks is unfamiliar territory, and so is the way he scrambles to put some distance between them, pushing off the doors to stand as far back as possible in the cramped space. It doesn’t help all that much, considering there isn’t really anywhere for him to go―now they actually are touching, and it’s just a brush of their arms as Jisung nervously shifts his weight but it feels like a million volts running through Chenle’s veins. It’s disorienting. Chenle can’t tell if all the body heat in such a confined space is finally getting to him or if his ears are red for another reason entirely.
“Sorry,” Jisung says, dragging Chenle out of his head to look at his best friend.
Chenle wants to ask what Jisung’s apologizing for, exactly, but he’s a little afraid of the answer. “It’s okay, Sung,” he says instead, only sparing Jisung a glance before going back to staring blankly into the middle distance. There’s an ad for some burger place across the car, and it occurs to Chenle that he never ate breakfast. Maybe he’ll blame the weird feeling in his stomach on hunger―surely he’ll feel better once he eats.
Except even as he munches on some demolished chips he dug out of the bottom of his backpack, he gets the feeling that maybe it’s not that simple. For one thing, Jisung is still looking at him with an unreadable expression and stars in his eyes, all furtive glances and pink-dusted cheeks in a way Chenle’s never seen him before. For another, they’re still touching, and Chenle has never been more grateful to have something to do with his hands because otherwise the back of his left hand would definitely be brushing against Jisung’s wrist with every sway of the subway car. It’s bad enough that his shoulder is leaning against Jisung’s bicep. Chenle isn’t sure if the fizzy feeling in his chest―right behind his sternum where his heart lives―is acid reflux from the high sodium content of his impromptu breakfast or something much, much worse for his health.
Jisung says something else to him, but Chenle isn’t really listening, too involved in his own thoughts to pay much attention to anything but the possibility of seeing Jisung like that. But that would be ridiculous, right? Jisung would laugh at him if he even suggested it, right? Not that Jisung’s ever laughed at him for anything, but this is just crazy. They’ve been best friends since they were toddlers―plus they’re both boys. It’s impossible, right? Right?
The way Jisung looks at him as they arrive at their stop says otherwise. Chenle trips on the way off the train and pointedly ignores the way Jisung places a palm on the small of his back to steady him―and the way it puts that floaty feeling back in his chest.