Hopeful Hearts, Stealing Hearts #4

Ian frowned, too. That announcement had sounded not awesome. Yes, back-to-back blizzards had buried the eastern half of the state, clogging highways and making streets impassible. And yes, the ‘snowpocalypse’ had heavily impacted ‘the T’—as the transit authority was known—whole sections coming offline and stranding thousands without buses, ferries, and trains. That had happened with the Red Line, a subway route that serviced nearly a quarter of a million people daily and extended over twenty-two miles from end to end.

So … if Ian’s train was about to take on stranded subway riders, things were going to get—

“Ho, shit. There’s, like, three hundred people out there.”

—crowded.

Ian leaned over to get a look for himself and saw the platform was packed with hordes of passengers eyeing the train through the swirling snow.

“There are two stops after this,” said their friend Dennis, who was leaning into Marco’s shoulder and gawking, too. “Where the hell are they going to put everybody?”

“Wherever they’ll fit, I guess.” Ian gestured at the two empty seats beside him. “Sharing a few inches with strangers isn’t going to kill us.”

“It might,” Marco countered mildly. “We’re citizens of Massachusetts, Ian. We drive badly on purpose, drop consonants, and are selfish assholes about personal space.”

“There’s so much wrong there to unpack.” Ian ignored his friends’ snickering as the doors at each end of the car thunked open.

People streamed in, coats encrusted with snow. Some found seats, like the tall guy in the dark ski jacket who sat on Ian’s right, but most chose to stand, bodies rapidly filling the long car’s narrow aisle. And the people kept coming, a clear indication the MBTA really was going to cram as many people on board as possible.

“Good morning and welcome aboard the Greenbush line,” said the voice on the train’s speakers. “This train will make stops at Quincy Center and JFK, terminating at South Station.” The conductor paused, then sounded almost amused as he continued.

“Passengers, we understand conditions are more crowded than usual and appreciate your patience. Just, ah, squeeze a little closer. Maybe share the Sports section and make a new friend or two while we get you to your next stop.”

Dennis's expression bordered on dazed. “Squeeze closer? Where?”

“On your lap?” Ian suggested, lips twitching when Dennis visibly recoiled. “What? You grouse all the time about not having time to meet men. This could be your chance.”

That got a chuckle from the guy in the ski jacket beside Ian. “Not happening.”

Ian and his friends raised their eyebrows at the guy.

“Oh?” Ian knew he sounded grumpy. But strangers in this town didn’t talk to each other on public transit and this guy—this kid—had big pale eyes fringed with absurdly long lashes and was making all kinds of eye contact.

“People don’t talk on trains,” the kid said, echoing Ian’s thoughts perfectly. “I’ve been here a year and all I get is ‘scuse me’ or ‘your bag’s on my feet,’ or my personal favorite, ‘move your fat ass.’”

Ian’s lips almost twitched again. “Charming,” he murmured. “Don’t take it personally. Insults are kind of a side-hustle here.”

His seatmate nodded. “Truth. Though you’re talking to me and, so far, no insults.”

“Give it time.” Ian sat back in his seat, then surprised himself by asking, “Where’re you from? You said you’d only been here a year,” he added when the kid stared at him blankly.

“Oh! Well, I move around a lot so I’m not really from anywhere. Last place I lived before here was Chicago and that was for six months.”

The kid pulled a messenger bag onto his lap and inched closer as a woman slid into the aisle seat beside him. Ian spied what looked like several Pride-themed pins attached to the bag’s front flap, then heard a soft, “Ugh, sorry.”

He frowned at his seatmate. “What for?”

“For possibly throwing up on you. I feel like crap.” The kid appeared genuinely pained. “I’m not joking when I say I might barf.”

The woman who’d just settled into the aisle seat side-eyed them balefully.

“Ah.” Ian looked his seatmate over. Being blue-yellow colorblind, he didn’t process some colors the way others did and while he knew the kid’s eyes weren’t dark, he couldn’t guess their actual hue. The distress in them was real, however, as was the guy’s pallor and the sweat dotting his full upper lip.

“Open your coat,” Ian said, “and take off the hat if you can. You’ll feel better if you’re not overheated.”

“Um. Okay.” The kid pulled off the hat, revealing a shock of very light hair that was nearly white to Ian’s eyes, a good deal of which flopped onto his forehead. “I’m Tristan,” he said as he unzipped his jacket. “Figured I’d introduce myself since I just threatened to vomit on you.”

“How ya doin’,” Ian said, “My name’s Ian.”