brontide
the low rumble of distant thunder
|| your love for zhang yixing was like the inevitable thunder after lightning strikes ||
Mondays are dreadfully horrible, as Sunday blends in with the distant taste of alcohol and bad decisions. Your head throbs with the lack of sleep and that bottle of bourbon you took on impulse, and you utter a groan. The sun is beating down on you, golden on the stark white linen sheets, and your pillow has never looked so welcoming before. You sigh, because today is not a holiday, and you have work to do.
You step into the shower, the cold water snapping you out of your drunken state, as you recall the events of the day before. Your boss had called you, telling you that you were to be in Florence in two days, something about a rising star and an interview. You had refused, saying Paris was a fine place to stay and that you didn't have a train ticket to Florence. You could tell that your boss was getting frustrated, his too-tight shirt seemed to expand even more, as his breathing got heavier. His meaty fingers had gone to loosen his tie, and you could tell he was seconds away from combusting. So you agreed. To Florence you go.
The sunlight catches the mirror in front of you, illuminating the lilac walls and filling the room with a soft golden hue. Your unmade bed lay behind you, as you stand before the dressing table, like a sinful lure. You long to lie back on it, to close your eyes and drift back to your much deserved sleep.
"Well, I guess not everyone gets what they want," You sigh, as you apply a fresh coat of mascara, the black ink coating your eyelashes. Two tired eyes stare back at you, and you pause for a moment to let reality sink in. You're going to Florence.
The train station is bustling with people, filled with shouted names and announcements. You hate this place. You don't like the way everything was so disorganised, you hate the rush and the hurrying. But your boss wanted you in Florence, so you have no choice.
Smoke fills the air as the train hoots, signalling it's soon to be departure. You stumble in, being carried by the tide of the crowd, and you start to look for a seat.
Everyone seems to know someone, you observe, or they're just friendly.
But it was true, everyone seemed to have a friend, a companion, on this 6 hour ride. It seemed like it was just you, who didn't have a friend. Not that you minded.
So after what seems like ages, you find an empty compartment and settle yourself, resting your legs on the armrests. You take out a book, and immerse yourself in the wonders of Jane Austen.
A knock on the compartment door jolts you from your reading, and you close your book after placing a bookmark between the pages.
A head of raven peeks from the partly open door. "May I share this compartment with you? The others are all taken."
"Uh sure," You pause, scrambling to my feet and rushing to free the seat opposite you, where your bag resides. "Give me a second to clear these stuff."
When everything is settled and your face has went from a beet red to your normal colour, you take a good look at the boy sitting opposite you.
He has a head of messy black hair, with smiling brown eyes that showed nothing but kindness and hands and legs and arms that blended together in a flurry of lanky and wiry.
He's very cute, you think, and he seems to be my age.
You don't want to be the first to break the silence, and so does he. So the two of you sit in comfortable silence, with books for company.
It must be after the first hour when he finally cracks the silence. You can tell he is nervous, because his hands keep running through his hair and messing it up even more. It is endearing, you think, but you just met him not long ago.
"My name's Yixing. I'm from China, nice to meet you." His voice is shaky, and his nose crunches adorably. He nervously shakes his legs, averting his gaze every time it landed on you. You giggle on the inside, before sticking a hand out.
"I'm Christina, but call me Chris. I'm from Paris, born and bred. It's a pleasure to meet you."
He fumbles slightly, brushing his hands against his dark washed jeans before grasping your hand, shaking it and squeezing it a little too hard. Not that you minded.
Lay was just a hot mess of innocence and nervousness.
"So, what brings you to Paris? I mean, were you in Paris before deciding to go to Florence? Or just passing by?" Your question seems to wake Lay, because he composes himself and cleared his throat.
"This is my first time in Paris, I arrived last week. And no, I'm going to visit Milan. I heard the view is stunning there."
"Well, are you saying the view in Paris is not stunning enough?" You tease, watching his face turn a light shade of red, "I heard Paris is the city of love, is it not beautiful enough for you?"
You had leaned really close to Lay's face then, looking at him intently and whispering the last words.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," He trails off, looking intently back at you, as his voice lowers into a murmur, like he was whispering a secret. "Paris is gorgeous."
Your cheeks heat up slightly, and you realise with delight that Lay is far more interesting than you anticipated, and you lean back, not wanting to lose. You hope fervently that your cheeks would return to their normal colour, as you feel the all too familiar burn of shyness spread around your cheeks.
"So why don't you stay?"
"Why would I, when I know that after a while I will get used to it and will never be able to appreciate it just as much as I do now?"
His answer shocks you, and you realise that he is right. After living in Paris your whole entire life, you walk through the streets without even bothering to look because you have seen it so many times. While tourists stare and gape at the wonders of mankind you had rushed past in a hurry, coffee in hand, to work.
You lean back, crossing your arms. "I suppose you are right. I have never thought of it that way, but you're right. I barely see Paris now. The sunsets and the mornings and the bistros and the streets are no longer novel to me, so I guess I take those gifts for granted."
Lay smiles, the corner of his lips tilting up and a hint of his front teeth showing, "Well, now you know."
You smile back, wishing the train ride was longer. "Yeah, now I know."
The rest of the train ride is spent in laughter and talking, the joyful noises floating throughout the train. Hours and minutes seemed to bleed together, creating a bubble that shielded the two of you from the outside world, trapping you in the entirety of Lay. As you and Lay talked, colours seemed to monochrome and leave Lay as a bright yellow, the soft and vibrant colour that took your breath away and left you wanting more.
Everything stopped. The train jerks to a halt, and you and Lay look out the window to see what was wrong. The bright yellow that painted the sky with a gentle shade of blue was long gone, and now the sky is bruised, purple and grey mixed in a palette of shades and thunder and lightning. A streak of white flashes down, and claps of anguish echo in the distance. The train could no longer move forward, and is to be stopped for at least another hour or two.
You tilt your head, your breath fanning the window, creating mist on the wet glass, raindrops cascading down the wall that separated you and Yixing from the rest of the world.
"Looks like I'll be missing the next train the Florence. Guess I'll have to stay the night in Venice." You sigh, but you can't help but to let a hint of smile appear on your face. "I guess we're be stuck here for even longer."
"Yeah, but you don't seem so unhappy. I, on the other hand, can't help but to feel like this is fate. I guess Florence will have to wait."
You straighten, your face barely concealing your shock. Lay was heading to Florence? He had told you earlier that he was alighting at Milan, and you had thought you would never see him again. Your heart burns with something that tasted a little too much like hope.
"Florence? You're not going to Milan?"
"I'm not going to Milan, I might have lied a little." Lay's voice is tinged with amusement, his chocolate brown eyes glowing with something a little too familiar. He leans forward and rests his arms on his knees, his sleeves rolled up, and flashes you a lopsided grin. Lightning streaks in the distance, illuminating his ebony hair, making a halo of white around him. You think damn, he looks like an angel.
"Tell me Chris, what do you do for a living?"
"Why? What do you do for a living?"
"I'll tell you if you tell me! And I asked first!"
After the long hours the train finally pulls to a stop at Milan train station, you turn to look at Lay. He is holding his suitcase tightly, all smiles and crinkled eyes and looking at you with something that you couldn't quite put a finger on. You ask Lay where he is going, and he replies with a one word answer. You.
So the both of you head towards the nearest ticketing booth, purchasing the cheapest and earliest train to Florence, then getting a much needed drink at a coffee shop nearby.
Over the course of the week Lay went wherever you went, and he showed you the sights you never thought you would see, and you could see the future looming before you, like the thunderstorm in the train, loud and ominous. It buzzed constantly in you ears, muffling reality and shielding your rational mind and replacing it with a hopelessly infatuated one.
You are falling in love.
On the last day of your trip, when interviews and good mornings and all things in needed in Florence ended, you feel like the world was ending. Because it is. You know that you will probably never see Yixing again, and he will, as everyone would, eventually forget you. You know that you'll just be another face in the sea of memories, a bittersweet name on the tip of his lips, a could've-had-been.
You are sitting in the train again, with the book you were reading just a few weeks ago. You had left early in the morning, sweeping Yixing's ebony hair to a side and placing a kiss on his forehead, before leaving the hotel. You know that when he wakes you would have been long gone.
The scene is all too familiar, you sitting in the compartment alone and reading a book you had wanted to finished too many days ago, and you wish Yixing would appear. But you know he isn't, so you open your book.
But it is only after a few pages in when there's a knock on the compartment door, and you see a head of raven peak from the crack. An all too familiar voice rings out.
"May I share this compartment with you? The others are all taken."
All of a sudden the world is launched into a cacophony of colours, screaming and ringing and flashing like the neon signs on the clubs you used to go to. The sky was blue and Lay was always yellow, and you were hopelessly and irreversibly in love.