"Time is too slow for those who wait,
too swift for those who fear,
too long for those who grieve,
too short for those who rejoice,
but for those who love time is an eternity"
- Henry Van Dyke
As the rain hits the tarmac in large, pounding drops I step back into the bus shelter. The wet haze of rain clouds is dampening the glow of Brooklyn's street lamps: in each one the light is cut by a million shards of crystal water, seconds before they thud to earth.
I run my finger across the lens of my glasses- vanquishing the steam and water droplets that have settled there. I search through the numerous pockets of my large, beige duffel coat until I find my mobile phone, exhaling a minuscule sigh as my hand tightens around it. I pull it close to my face before huffing impatiently at the brightly lit numbers. 10:28pm. The bus should be here by now.
I push the phone back into the pocket with un-necessary force. Tightening the blue plaid scarf around my neck, I peer through the dirty glass of the bus shelter to scan the streets. Beer bottles, flyers and crumpled newspaper pages. But no bus. It isn't surprising for the streets to be free from traffic- this is a quiet neighbourhood; full of little restaurants, small offices and luxury apartments. The fact that I am alone in this bus shelter speaks volumes: a place with no tramps is a good place to be getting late-night public transport from.
I am pulled from my revive by a set of orange-tinted headlamps turning the corner. Finally, the bus is here. I gather my briefcase and stand, until the buses' doors have creaked open and I can dash through the rain. The driver is a portly man in his mid-forties, with a small back beard and tired looking grey eyes. He smiles at my attempts to stay dry, or perhaps he is just glad of the company- as I flash my frequent-traveller card I realise the bus is completely empty.
I work my way down the aisle, and choose a seat near the centre of the bus. I sit on the window side- the ends of my ginger, curly hair slipping across the steamy glass, making zigzag patterns- while I place my briefcase on the seat next to me. The bus has already started moving, and I am comfortable enough to close my eyes and rest my head against the window pane, which shakes with the rumble of the engine as if it were the footsteps of some giant monster. Monster. I know one of those. The assistant-business executive of VM&Sons, where I work, has called this meeting- I am to leave now, and it is to stretch overnight to around lunchtime the next day. By that time, my daughter will be up and out with her friends.
My daughter, Sally, is eight. I haven't seen her awake in about two weeks. Of course I poke my head around her door when I get in at night, but she is always sound asleep by that time. My wife, too, is beginning to feel distant. She will always stay awake for me, kiss me when I walk through the front door and tell me what fun she and Sally had today while I eat dinner's leftovers. Then we'll stumble off to our bedroom together, and fall asleep without a word. I won't see them the next morning, either, as I creep around the house; trying to be silent enough not to wake my girls. Then it will begin again.
I barely realise, due to my wandering mind, that the bus has stopped. The doors wheeze open, and in step two figures. I have never been the sort of person to people-watch, but these two young men are hard to ignore.
The first to step on looks quiet average- he is medium height with a head of black hair, feathered at the ends, which reaches just past his ears. He wears dark jeans, a white t-shirt bearing some sort of slogan, a bright blue zip-up hoodie (which is left swinging open and hood-down, despite the rain) and a pair of somewhat feminine rainbow-patterned Converse. I can even see from this far away that his eyes are a shocking blue, the same shade as his jacket- a sparkling azure colour usually reserved for the blinding blues of neon signs.
The man to step after him seems a lot more to take in: he is tall with a slight build, wearing white leather trousers with a silver belt. His shoes appear to be black cowboy boots, and his torso is covered by a silver silk shirt and a black waistcoat, studded with something shiny. I can't tell what colour his eyes were, perhaps because they are surrounded in a foray of silver glitter and violet eye shadow. His short hair is pulled up into a number of spikes, each one topped with silver dye- like a miniature snow-capped mountain range.
Hair and shoulders wet from the rain, they are both laughing as they step on. The taller, sparklier one is ready- pulling from a pocket in his waistcoat a collection of coins which he hands to the driver- the exact fare. The average-looking one seems less prepared, as he fumbles through his jacket pockets while mumbling an apology to the driver. Tall and Sparkly simply laughs, put his hand on Average's shoulder and gives another set of coins to the driver. He then places his other hand on Average's other shoulder and pretty much steers him down the aisle, to a pair of seats across from me and a few rows behind.
As the bus lurches back into life it is silent, other than the distant wail of a police siren. Behind me, visible due to the reflective, mirror-like windows, are the two men; they are sat close together- looking comfortable, but with their faces contorted quizzically into suppressed grins. As their eyes catch one another's the dams cannot hold the water back and they both burst out laughing. The warm sound of it flows around the empty bus, cleansing it in a shower of life. From the view in the window I now see that they are both howling with laughter, falling about in their seats and clutching each other to try and stay upright.
Slowly the laugher dies down and I miss it- it was an enjoyable wake up call. The noise does not stop completely, though, and there is still a little snickering and chuckling from the two boys-turned-men. Unexpectedly, Average speaks while wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.
"I still can't get over the look on his face!" The statement is punctuated with laughter and gesticulation. I turn my head away from them- I don't like to be, or even seem, nosy. My business is my own, and their business is their own. But if they're going to broadcast it around…
"Indeed. I just cannot believe she told him over what was turning out to be a rather pleasant dinner." The statement seems very formal, and does not fit at all with either the tone of Tall and Sparkly's voice (happy) nor the grin on his face (ecstatic). I frown a little- I was hoping that this would be like a comedy show. Some stand up. I really need something cheery.
Another silence and another brief meeting of eyes and they're falling over each other again, and the air is warm with happiness. I smile shyly.
Average shakes his head. "Aw, come off it. You know that dinners with our family never turn out to be 'rather pleasant'- I'm pretty sure that the last pleasant meal I had was a cup of ramen at Simon's house." I feel my head tilt quizzically. 'Our family'? Are they brothers? Adoptive brothers?
"Simon's house? You cheating on me, love?" Oh. Right.
"Sadly not- alas, my manly wiles do not seem to work on him." Another guffaw of laughter. "He wanted my help to pick out something to wear on his date with Maia. Apparently everyone seems to think that I've become some sort of fashion guru since we got together."
Tall and Sparkly raises a thin eyebrow as he grins. "While you have clearly progressed from the rank of 'black-sweater-brown-cords-Valentine-kill-me-my-eyes-are-bleeding', you are not quite up to-", he gestures to himself while I wonder who Valentine is, "this level."
They laugh, but nothing more is said. The silence is companiable and comfortable. My cheeks feel a little warm when I see that Average is resting his head on Tall and Sparkly's shoulder. They're so comfortable with themselves and each other- it makes me a little jealous. The bus wheezes slightly.
After what seems like an advertisement break, a somewhat sleepy sounding Average speaks- his head not moving from where it is nuzzling into the other man's side. "Do you think they'll let us be Godparents?"
"I don't know, love. Clary would like it, but Jace will probably be scared we'll turn his offspring gay."
More silence.
The more I look at the two of them, so happy and content to be with each other, the more I miss my wife and my little girl. If only I could be with them, rather than going to this damn business appointment. They're so much more important. I love them- not my work.
"Magnus?"
"Yes, Alexander?"
"…Love you."
"I love you too."
I press the stop button, hear it ding, and race to the bus door.
As I step off the bus I turn back and look at the couple, finally reading the slogan on Alexander's t-shirt: 'It's the love that matters. Nothing else."
Nothing else.
Alright, story! Wooh! I've been desperate to write something MI and I did! Yay! Sadly a oneshot though. =3
This is set a couple of years after the series. Hopefully noticeable due to Clary getting preggers. :D
Also, this is un-betaed, so all mistakes are my own. There will likely be many. And how. (Probably due to tenses- it started in past and became present. :K)
Just a note- Alec's shirt and shoes are both items owned by a very good friend of mine and his boyfriend. I though they were fitting, yo ~
Also, did you like the name of the business where the guy works? I though it was witty. x3
Anywho, reviews make me happy! So go! Be free! Review ~
Con-crit is appreciated. :D