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The train was full. Not commuter-full. Not morning-rush, headphones-and-coffee, stand-in-the-aisle full. It was midweek-outing, last-minute-booking, absolute-bloody-chaos full.
Carl hated it.
He sat there cursing everything and everyone. Fuck the unreliable piece of shit they called a car that had sputtered out in the carpark in Inverness. Fuck Moira for her budget cuts and refusal to give him a functional vehicle. Fuck scottish rail for their prehistoric train interiors. Safe to say, he was not happy.
The six-seater compartment was barely wide enough to breathe in. A woman with two carrier bags and a leaking sandwich was planted opposite. An older man in golf gear was next to her, knees so wide Carl had to fold himself at an awkward angle to avoid kicking his feet. And of course, because fate had a twisted sense of humour, Akram was at his side, shoulder pressed to his, their coats crushed together in the middle.
“Cosy,” Akram muttered, glancing around with a twitch of amusement.
Carl said nothing. Just exhaled through his nose and looked out the window, watching the blur of the outskirts slide past in grey strokes.
Akram shifted slightly, trying to make more space for both of them. It helped, but only marginally. His knee still pressed against Carl’s, and Carl was acutely aware of it. Not uncomfortable. Just… aware.
The woman opposite bit into her baguette with a wet crunch. Mayonnaise squelched out the side. Carl’s lip curled.
“You ever considered therapy,” he said flatly, “for the optimism problem?”
Akram turned his head toward him, just slightly. “Is that what this is? Optimism? I thought it was survival instinct. You get cranky in confined spaces.”
Carl didn’t bother denying it. He tapped his fingers on his knee, gaze fixed outside.
Akram leaned forward, rooting through his bag under the seat. “I think I have something for this,” he said.
“If it’s a tranquiliser, I’ll take two.”
“No,” Akram replied, with infuriating patience, “just headphones. But now I’m reconsidering.”
He offered one earbud. Carl stared at it like it was a trick.
“I’m not listening to your kitschy playlists.”
“It’s ambient stuff from when my daughters were young.”
Carl stared a moment longer, then muttered, “Fine,” and took it. He shoved it in his left ear, leaned just slightly further toward the window, and let the low tuneful drone fill the tension between his thoughts.
The student in the corner had TikTok on full volume. The older man was asleep already, snoring faintly.
Ten minutes in, he shifted his legs again and bumped Akram’s knee.
“Sorry,” he muttered, without thinking.
Akram didn’t move away. “It’s fine. Not exactly copious legroom here.”
Carl glanced over. Akram was reading some dog-eared copy of The Master and Margarita. He held it in one hand, thumb tucked around the spine, bookmark sticking out the top.
“Since when do you read Russian fiction?”
Akram raised an eyebrow. “Since I wanted to understand your sense of humour.”
Carl turned back to the window.
He didn’t smile. Not exactly.
But the tension in his shoulders shifted just slightly.
—------------------------------------------------------
Over the next hour, their fellow passengers began to disembark one by one. Eventually, only the teenage boy was left in the seat next to Akram before he too left the carriage, sliding the door shut behind him, leaving only a cloud of Lynx in his wake.
Suddenly the train lurched. Not enough to panic, but enough that the windows rattled and Carl’s hand braced instinctively against the table beside him, other arm drawn tight across his ribs.
Then the lights flickered.
Then the train stopped.
Complete, humming stillness.
He straightened slowly, glancing around the compartment like someone checking exits. Old habits. Akram had already pulled out his phone, checking for updates. A few groans rose from the other passengers beyond the corridor.
Carl ran a hand down his face.
“Brilliant,” he muttered.
“You alright?”
Carl didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Just love being trapped in a box”
Akram laughed, quiet but real. He leaned back in his seat, legs stretched out, knee brushing Carl’s again. This time, Carl didn’t move.
Overhead, the train announcer crackled to life: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re currently experiencing a technical fault. Engineers are en route. We apologise for the inconvenience.”
Carl sighed. Closed his eyes for a second.
When he opened them again, Akram was watching him, expression unreadable. Just watching.
“You know,” Akram said mildly, “if this is what it takes to make you sit still, I’m going to start tampering with trains.”
Carl leaned back in his seat, letting the faint sway of the stationary carriage press his shoulder into Akram’s. The overhead lights flickered once more, casting everything in a dull yellow that made the condensation on the windows look grimier.
Someone in the next carriage banged a door. Somewhere else, a kid laughed too loudly at a phone.
Akram shut his book with a quiet snap, slipping a receipt into the middle. “Looks like we’re not moving for a while.”
“Fantastic,” Carl muttered. “I was worried I might get home before dark.”
Akram’s mouth twitched. “You could take the opportunity to relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“That’s worrying,” Akram said, not unkindly.
Carl turned his head, just enough to glance at him. “You have a very loose definition of worrying.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you have a very narrow one.”
Carl huffed, leaning forward to stretch his legs under the table. His boot knocked Akram’s again. He didn’t move it.
They sat like that for a minute or so, Akram looking out the far window, Carl pretending he wasn’t looking at the reflection in the glass.
Finally Carl broke the quiet. “How’s the… whatever it is you’re reading.”
“Russian satire. About the devil visiting Moscow.”
“Sounds cheerful.”
“Depends on your sense of humour.” Akram turned a page with a thumb. “I like the way it notices things. Details other people skim over.”
Carl gave him a sidelong look. “You think I’d like it?”
Akram didn’t look up. “You’d pretend you didn’t, but yes.”
Carl made a noncommittal noise. His hand drummed lightly on his knee, then stopped.
The train gave a small groan in its bones, the type that makes you think something’s about to happen, but nothing did. The lights buzzed.
“You ever get sick of this?” Carl asked suddenly.
Akram tilted his head, perplexed. “Trains?”
“Work. Life. All of it in between.”
Akram was quiet for a moment before answering. “Occaisonally . But then I think about the alternative.”
Carl snorted. “You’re very good at making that sound profound without actually saying anything.”
“Part of the job,” Akram said, in a mild tone.
Carl looked back out the window, though his eyes weren’t following anything. The condensation blurred the grey sprawl outside into vague shapes. His reflection was faint beside Akram’s—shoulder to shoulder, both of them hunched in the cramped space.
The quiet settled again. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. But it wasn’t still, either.
After a while, Carl shifted. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s the alternative?”
Akram closed the book fully this time and set it on the little ledge by the window. “Quitting. Pretending none of it matters. Turning away from people when they need something.”
Carl scoffed faintly. “You think I’m the type to do that?”
“I think you’re the type to tell yourself you don’t care when you do. Besides, when it comes down to it, I can't quit. At the very least our job is a salary, I left Syria for the sake of my family, why ruin that now? ” Akram said, calm as if he were pointing out the weather.
Carl opened his mouth to something back, but it didn’t quite make it past the filter in his head. He shut it again.
“Shit Akram,” he muttered finally.
Carl shook his head, but the movement was more out of habit than real irritation. His eyes caught on Akram’s—steady, dark, without the faintest edge of challenge. Just there.
Something tightened in his throat, too quick and small to name.
And before he’d really thought it through, Carl leaned in. Just enough that his mouth brushed Akram’s. A short, firm press.
He pulled back immediately, sitting upright as if nothing had happened.
Akram blinked once, slow. “Well,” he said softly. “That’s one way to pass the time.”
Carl shot him a sideways look. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“Alright,” Akram said simply. And true to his word, he didn’t.
They sat there, the hum of the idle engine filling the space between them.
After a minute, Carl muttered, “It wasn’t—”
“I know,” Akram said.
Carl’s gaze flicked over. “Do you?”
Akram gave the faintest nod. “I’m not in a rush.”
Carl looked at him for a long moment, then back at the blurred glass, as if the landscape was still sliding by. His knee stayed pressed against Akram’s.
Akram’s hand slid up Carl's thigh, slow and certain, fingers tracing the line beneath the fabric of his trousers. The heat between them was immediate, and Carl shifted closer, letting out a low breath that hitched against Akram’s jaw.
Akram’s mouth followed, lips grazing down Carl’s neck, tasting the skin exposed beneath his collar. Carl’s fingers tangled in Akram’s hair, tugging gently, urging him on.
They didn’t need to speak. The world outside the train faded away, the hum of the stalled engine now just a backdrop to the sharp, charged rhythm building between them.
Akram’s other hand found Carl’s shirt, fingers pressing firmly against the fabric, the weight of the moment anchoring him. Carl’s pulse fluttered beneath his touch, quickening, matching his own.
Their bodies leaned into each other, the space between them shrinking, breath mixing in heavy pants and small groans. Carl’s lips moved back to Akram’s mouth, hungry, demanding, as if trying to swallow every hesitation whole.
Carl’s hands roamed over Akram’s back, sliding beneath his jacket, skin burning under his fingertips. The train carriage felt impossibly tight, the walls closing in, the risk only adding to the heat simmering between them.
Carl broke away just enough to drag in a ragged breath, chest rising and falling, eyes heavy-lidded as he rested his forehead against Akram’s.
“Fuck,” Akram murmured, voice thick.
Carl’s fingers tangled in Akram’s curls, thumb stroking his temple, the tension between them easing into something softer but no less intense.
They stayed like that, breaths mingling, hearts pounding, skin flushed and slick with sweat.
The train jerked, the rumble under them shifting.
Akram blinked up at Carl, a slow smile curving his lips. “Looks like we’re moving.”
Carl let out a shaky laugh, voice rough. “About time.”
They sank back into their seats, bodies still pressed close, fingers entwined, panting in sync as the train started moving again, the steady rhythm matching the rush still pounding between them.