Lance stands on the platform impatiently waiting for the train. He taps his foot, paces a little, pulls out his phone to check the time, sighs. The train is already ten minutes late. Then just as he groans and resigns himself to slump against the wall, his eyes catch on something on the opposite platform.
It's a smile. Bright and blinding. Ethereal. So overwhelming that Lance can't even focus on the rest of the face for a minute. Then he sees the man—for now that the smile has been reigned in, he can see that it belongs to a dark-haired man—shake his head fondly and pocket the phone he was checking. Wisps of that brilliance linger on the man's face until the trains arrive. Lance doesn't get on his, but when they pull away the opposite platform is empty.
The next day Lance's train is on time, but he lets it pass him by because he's waiting for something else entirely, someone else. Ten minutes later, he sees him. The man with the smile. On the opposite platform. Except today he isn't smiling. The rest of his face is breathtaking too, now that Lance takes the time to notice. Gray-violet eyes, striking eyebrows, a jawline that stands out even over the distance of the tracks. He has a lithe, muscular form that looks strong and supple. But Lance would give all the stars in the galaxy for another one of those smiles. He watches him until he's gone, then gets on the next train.
Hydrangeas. Lance decides the man's smile reminds him of hydrangeas. Bright, attention-drawing; but delicate, precious. Worth every ounce of effort in cultivating them. Lance watches again but the man's smile doesn't reappear. It's replaced by a neutral look as he waits for his train, sometimes a scowl if someone steps too close to him. Lance finds himself drawn to each new expression. He collects them all in his mind, assembling them into a bouquet with hydrangeas at the center.
Lance doesn't know where the florist is in this neighborhood. All he knows is the train station where he takes his transfer. So he gets out of the station for the first time and asks around.
Meticulously crafted bouquet in hand, he takes the stairs to the wrong platform. Up close, the man is just as stunning as he was from afar. Lance approaches.
The man turns to look at him, and Lance—before he slips up and meets those eyes because then he'll surely lose his nerve—holds out the bouquet of hydrangeas. Blues and whites and a pink so dark it's almost red. Slender fingered hands reach out to take it.
There's a becoming blush tinging the man's pale cheeks. His eyes are lowered to the flowers in his hands, but a hint of that smile is playing at his lips.
Lance feels that smile right in his heart.