You did not think you would see him.
The train ride is smooth but you feel as though you're walking through water. Your head spins and vertigo makes you almost grope for support. Suddenly, the train lurches and you stumble into some grouchy old woman who makes some rude remark at you, but you hardly notice.
He is sitting, head down, with his bag in his lap. He clutches it slightly. It is so like him. He hears nothing, you know, with those earbuds in. Of course, you think, gripping a handlebar and stepping clumsily closer, past another woman and a man in a suit and tie, with a case in his hand. He's always listening to his music. Of course. He isn't wearing the white button up shirt and black slacks. Of course he isn't. Like you, he is not 14 or 15 any longer.
You did not think you would see him.
You always meet him as a child or as a preteen, or a teenager. You are 20. So he is nineteen.
Suddenly, he is blinking up at you. His eyes are stark blue, that deep, dark color of the shadowy corners of the sea. Untouched, unseen. He looks confused. Gingerly, he plucks out one earbud, looking uncomfortable. Had you done something odd?
"Can… Can I help… You…?" He asks slowly. You almost melt. His voice, deeper, for he's a young man grown. His hair is a bit longer, too. He wears a grey university sweater over his thin body. You wonder if he has been eating well.
It is then that you realize you are standing over him, staring. Only staring, wide eyed. He is flushing, now, the way he always has. Oh.
"N-no," You stammer, and blush as well. Your thoughts are scattering, as they always, always are when he speaks to you. If you were not so familiar with this, you would probably gasp and grope at your chest. Even now it's hard not to. "Is this seat taken?" You point, struggling not to shake, at the empty space beside him. He glances at it, then you, and you can tell he is considering saying yes. But you know the answer is no, because it is Shinji. He is riding alone.
"No." He says flatly, offers a brief, polite smile.
You sit, trying to appear comfortable. Your own bag is slung over your shoulder, and you bring it to sit beside you. Though he scoots perhaps an inch away, you can feel the heat from his skin. How you long to reach out, as you always do, and tell him, tell him everything . But, almost holding your breath, you do not. This has to go well. It has to go perfectly, you know this. You glance at his sweater and feel something like ice in your veins; the name of the university in stretching, cracking, ironed on letters, is the same one you attend.
"Y-you- you go to the school of arts?" You say it quickly, just as he is about to press the earbud into his ear again. He pauses; you are bothering him, you can feel it.
"I… Just transferred," He says. You seem anxious, and so you slow your breathing, try to look comfortable. You think you do fine, offering a smile back to him.
"Ah, you'll love it." You say, knowing very well that he will. "I've been focusing on piano,"
"Me too," He says, seeming surprised. His smile becomes more comfortable. A step towards genuine. You feel your heart leap; he will likely be in your classes. You'll see him day after day.
Your heart is in your throat.
"I'm Kaworu," You say, and you almost say only that. You always think he will remember. You always hope the name will ring a bell. It never does. "Nagisa Kaworu," You've almost come to despise the name you chose, rejecting your angelic name. You have said it so many times. Shinji smiles; you know, despite his antisocial personality, he craves friends. Attention. Kindness. And you are so willing to give it to him.
"I-Ikari Shinji," He says, nodding his head at you. Oh, I know, you think, and you are smiling, much brighter than perhaps you should be. I know. I know.
You have waited so long for this moment, so many times before, but through your happiness you remember that night you had awaken in your own room, years ago. You had only been ten, but the memories had rushed into you in a vicious nightmare, and you had woken up screaming. It must go well, this time, you think. He looks sheepishly at you, politely smiles, returns to his music. Your hands curl into fists where he can not see them. A hundred failures are slipping wildly behind your mind's eye. You feel your nails dig into your palm. You don't make the mistake to remark; there are no Eva's and there are no angels but I. What could go wrong?
You know what can.
This time. This time...