Big Book Of Parvill One Shots

Backaches & Heartbreaks (S)

TW: IRL Parvill AU

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You can't remember the last time you were on a train. You do remember that you hadn't enjoyed it; long, tedious, and altogether far too uncomfortable to get work done. Despite that, here you are, standing at the station. The wind tugs at your hair, overcast dusk smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and asphalt. Your arms are folded severely across your chest. Don't talk to me, your body says, and you mean it.

There's a rumbling you feel deep in your chest, and the sound of the train gets closer. Finally. You feel like you've been standing for hours, though as you glance down at your watch you see it's been no more than 45 minutes. Your brand-new dress shoes bite your toes, hinting at what you're sure will be some incredibly painful blisters later on.

Still, they look sharp, and that's what counts.

Sharp. That's what you are. Hard edges, black and red lines, bitter expression, you're sure, though you can't see it. You hope you exude confidence as much as you exude annoyance.

Confidence is the shield; anger the rapier.

And the shoes and slacks and dress shirt and tie are the suit of armor, glinting steadily in the dimming evening light. Sharp. Unapproachable. That's all you've ever wanted to be.

All you've needed to be.

You walk up to the train doors with hurried steps, zigzagging your way through the crowd for first choice. You only have one bag with you, little more than a briefcase. Light, free. No burdens to carry. Not you.

You've settled down in your seat by the time he comes along.

Though he can't be much younger than you, it seems he's been trapped in the trashy college student phase of life - his jeans look like they've seen better days, his hair is a (most likely unwashed) mess on top of his head, and he's carrying his belongings in a worn-out backpack slung over one shoulder.

He catches your eye, and despite the scowl you feel on your face, decides that's an invitation.

"Hello," he says as he takes the seat opposite you, enthusiasm infecting the word.

Your scowl deepens.

"My name's Parv. What's yours? Where are you headed?"

His voice buzzes like a fly caught in a light; persistent, piercing, and above all, aggravating.

You decide to pointedly ignore him. Perhaps he'll catch the hint.

"I'm from England originally, which I don't know if you can tell from my accent, which is so much better than your silly American one - I'm here to meet with some friends. Well, I say friends, but I actually mean band. I'm meeting with my band in California and we're gonna play in some venues. See, the rest of them are taking planes, but I ended up getting--"

"Do you ever shut up?" you demand, your voice icy.

"Nope!" says the man cheerfully. "Everyone wants to hear what Parv has to say. Sometimes they don't know it but they really do want to hear what Parv has to say. They realize eventually that Parv is--"

The anger is crawling inside of you, clinging and even more persistent than this stupid, stupid man. "And stop referring to yourself in third person!"

The man pouts. "But I'm the great Parv!"

"I don't give a damn who you are. You're distracting me from my work."