ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕪 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕝𝕕, Beomjun

023

At the train station, the chaos is enough to distract Yeonjun from his internal battle.

The voices of commuters swallow the air around him, engulfing him in a whirlpool of noise with the buzz of a hive on a summer's day. People go about their day unaware of the disconcerting melody they create as a whole, footsteps quick and fast, deliberate in their movement. A woman shouts for her child, a little too distant for her comfort, as he jumps from tile to tile. A guy curses at his phone, staring at it before his arm falls to his side in frustration. Another, in the other direction, greets an arrival with open arms and a shrill voice, teary eyes amplified with the glint of light above. All in their own world.

For Beomgyu, it's a lot, so Yeonjun is sure to keep their arms looped as he weaves through the crowd, noticing the overwhelmed and terrified look in Beomgyu's eyes when he glances back to check on him. A miserable-faced man with a loosened tie and holding a coffee walks in Yeonjun's direction, showing no signs of giving way. Yeonjun staves off the roll of his eyes when it's clear it's harder for him to move out of the two, and tilts his shoulders anyway. As he slides out the way of the grumpy, black haired man, Yeonjun brushes into another stranger. His apology hanging in the air when he turns to find the passer-by is already out of sight.

An anxious squeeze of his arm catches Yeonjun's attention and when he looks back, Beomgyu is pressing closer, avoiding an oncoming collision with an arrogant stranger pushing people as they rush off to their destination. His worried eyes flicker over to Yeonjun's and he huffs, dejected, though doesn't voice his distaste. Beomgyu's never been good with crowds, used to the places like the quiet area of Daegu he grew up in. And Yeonjun's aware this is awful to deal with anyway, even if it's something he's accustomed to due to growing up in the busiest city.

He guides them further, familiar with the train station from all the times he'd travelled as a kid, unphased by the bustling scene. This setting is a lot more natural for Yeonjun, and he handles it well. Being an extrovert helps, if he needs guidance he's comfortable asking a stranger, or if a stranger pushes too far he'll confront them. Surprisingly (to some), Beomgyu's the opposite. Beomgyu would struggle first and ask later. He'd wait until his phone was dead and he'd grown ravenous before he'd ask someone for help, and when he did he'd nervously wring the sleeves of his hoodie, speaking with an unsteady voice.

The PA system crackles to life, playing the same monotone voice on repeat but with a different message. Its announcement is dampened by the crowd's incessant hum, uninterrupted as they go about their day.

Yeonjun checks over his shoulder at Beomgyu again. He's still present, not yet drifting to a place past his eyes to cope. He drags them over the crowd before they land on Yeonjun, the worried expression immovable from his face, even as he attempts to smile. Yeonjun offers his own small smile, intending to calm his nerves.

This is going to be a long day for Beomgyu, who hates public transport, so Yeonjun hopes he can stave off his nerves for a little longer--to make the scratchy festering beneath Beomgyu's skin and embedding in his bones pause for just one possible moment.

When Beomgyu takes in a breath, holds it, then releases, gathering himself, Yeonjun continues in their journey. He sticks out a hand stuck out and points it in the direction they're heading, like an arrow on a map. It's a weird habit, but he's found it works. It helps him swerve and weave between a crowd, and those who notice his clear intent move for him to pass by too. It must be something to do with the certainty, people tend to react to it by giving way or admiring it depending on the context.

A screech cuts over the chatter of commuters as a train arrives and a group rushes by, shouting to one another as they aim to catch the train before it pulls off again. People pour out of the carriages and into different directions, their bodies struggling against the ones that move in the opposite way, desperate to escape the crowd's clutches.