Title: Come Closer
Chapter title: Sight
Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon.
Notes: Got the urge to try and do something about the block I'm experiencing for 'Dancing Queens'. I started this at about half 1 this morning. It's now half 3. Why has it taken me the better part of two hours to write less than a thousand words? Because I've spent most of the time picking at my split ends, that's why. Disgusting, I know. Ken POV. If Ken's dad's hair isn't blue, pretend it is just this once because I couldn't find anything on google to confirm it for me.
I walked past him again today.
Most days, I pretend that I don't even notice he's there. Except that's silly, because he's always there; same seat, same train, every week day. Sometimes he'll be wearing a school uniform that I've never seen on anyone else, and other times he'll be dressed casually. I don't mind either way; he makes both of them look spectacular. He wears his uniform in a way which I'm sure adults would deem a little bit scruffy, but he really makes it work. Undone buttons expose areas of his tanned skin in such a way that I can't help but sometimes let my gaze linger over him for a few seconds longer than I normally would. He pulls off the casual look just as well; his preferred attire consists of light-coloured jeans which half-hug his legs and an open shirt to show off his torso. He's well-built, probably from years of sport, and if I didn't know any better I'd swear he flaunts himself just because he knows I'll want to stare.
But I haven't stared at him once; at least, not as I've walked past him. Just the occasional glance, which I can easily justify; see, I make a point of getting onto the last carriage of the train. He sits on the carriage before the last one, facing backwards, so when he glances up to see who's coming down the aisle, he sees me. I see him too, because I can always pretend to be looking for an empty seat. This isn't always convincing, as I sit in the same place every day, halfway down the carriage from him and facing in the same direction. My journey is usually spent looking at the back of his head.
That was how I spent my train journey today. Staring at the back of his head, I mean. His hair is something quite extraordinary, and I can never get enough of studying it. Nobody else's hair puzzles me, because it's easy to tell the colour. My hair, for example, is dark blue. My mother's hair is a dull brown, and my father's is blue like mine. But this boy's hair seems to be many different colours at the same time. At a first glance it appears to be an auburn colour, as I walk closer to him it turns to more of a dark brown and when I'm about to step past him it catches the light and turns to a vivid burgundy. Since I can't tell what colour it's supposed to be, I consider my staring excused.
Other times I'll spend my journey leaning on the window of the train at such an angle that I can see his reflection in the window further down. As far as I'm aware, he's never noticed. He just sits there with his feet pointing in odd directions, either staring into space or with his eyes shut, bopping to music blaring out of a pair of headphones. He looks good both ways, but I prefer it when he's not listening to music; the bopping gets awfully repetitive after a while and I almost get tired of watching him. But when he's staring, there's variety. He might gaze out of the window, or he might just face frontward with his cheeks puffed up. There is an infinite number of little changes he can make, and it means that I can look at him without him moving about and interrupting my train of thought.
I sometimes wonder what would happen if he knew I watched him. Worst case scenario: he'd stop getting the train to avoid my stalker-like ways and I'd never see him again. That'd be terrible; it would be unbelievably difficult to find someone else as captivating as he is to look at on the long train journey home from school. There is never anybody else even remotely attractive on that train. I'd surely go mad.
Certain other outcomes I can think of are far more preferable, albeit unlikely. Every day, while I sit there staring at either the back of his head or his reflection, I conjure up a new one. They get me grinning like a mad man every single time and, on the odd, embarrassing occasion, get me hard too. It's on occasions like those that I'm glad he gets off the train a stop before I do. Then there are the days where I'll get on the train after a particularly boring day and, feeling too lazy to think of something new, I'll replay one of my favourite past scenarios in my head. Those are good because they don't require any thought.
Unfortunately, nothing like any of my nice thoughts is likely to develop. It's a shame, because I really want him. There's nobody else like him anywhere, I'm sure of it; he oozes uniqueness and it draws me in. It makes me want to touch the skin he loves so much to display, to fist my hands in his hair, to hear him moan my name and make me a part of him.
I can dream, I suppose. Maybe tomorrow he'll realise how irresistible I am.