'til the road and sky align

[ CHAPTER ONE: Departure ]

The rumble of a distant train reverbs on the metal tracks. It shakes the core of the crude train station, and it rattles the hanging, swinging lights. It's a good thing it's empty - well, mostly empty. There's always way too much commotion everytime the lights flicker. Only a lone dipshit sits on the floor, clutching a weathered cup filled with two dollars in quarters, though he's not bothered by the shaking.

The train station is empty. Almost empty. It's never empty.

Max Hermoso doesn't give a shit, though. With no one else, he's free to sit wherever the hell he wants -- which means he can sit by the heaters by the vending machines without being shooed away.

There are fifteen minutes until the next train.

Max shakes his cup to the beat. He hums under his breath, mouthing the upbeat melody of one of his earliest songs. And yeah, that's his life. Fuck you for judging.

Some other dipshit runs into the train station. Business man, by the looks of it. His expensive shoes echo off the tile floor. Well, ain't he in a rush?

Max snorts and continues his small ditty. People used to give him all kinds of shit for his voice. God, the Chi Beta Sigmas used to flock towards him when he sang. Now, people just take a Snapchat video as he sings, and drop, maybe, like, a buck each. It's still something, but there's nothing like two gorgeous women hanging off your arms.

Max kicks Genesis into the chorus, singing now. "I never knew a prettier smile." It's one of his happier songs. . . Well, considering all his other songs were in the same vein as Miss You, a song about a cheating woman.

The man stops.

Max shakes his cup. The quarters clank together. "Maybe, maybe, maybe, I could believe you."

"Hey, I know that so--" The man turns.

Max raises his cup.

The man's face twists into a frown.

Max blinks. Oh, shit. His voice dies down before he could start the next line.

Yale flexes his fingers around the handle of his briefcase.

What the fuck is he doing here?

He looks fuller, grown into his lanky body -- but still, not quite right. He looks older. He looks manlier. His glasses sit on his nose bridge. Looks like new glasses. Different shape and colour from before; it used to be rounder and black. Made him look like Harry Potter. Hah. Funny.

His suit looks expensive. His briefcase looks important. His hair is styled for a change.

He was voted Most Likely To Suceed for a reason.

Yale tilts his head. Awkward Yale. "Uh. . . ."

"Your glasses," Max starts with little preamble. Not even a Hello. He doesn't allow himself time to be shocked. It's Yale. This is a battle between them now; no place for weakness or half-heartedness.

Yale blinks. Older Yale. Manlier Yale. Got silver band on his ring finger Yale. Looks like he's about to puke Yale.

Max raises his hand, pointing. "Makes you look pretentious."

There's something beautiful in Yale's anger. It hurts, it's scorching, and it stabs like a knife; but it's the most beautiful thing. It flies over Yale's expression like a shadow. He's gotten so better at hiding his anger. God, he used to be ready to match punches -- then again, this is a public train station. Neither of them can really afford to go to jail.

Yale breathes in. He cracks a smile. (Well, that's new. He's never done that before.) He squares his shoulders, rearing up to his full height. He breathes out. It sounds like a laugh. His anger is illuminating. "Wow." He looks away. "Still an asshole, are we?"

Yale is so beautiful.  Older Yale. Successful Yale. Got a shiny, little, silver ring on his precious finger Yale. Looks like he's about run away Yale.

"What's her name?"

Yale's eyes burn bright. That's not happiness or excitement. That's anger. He knows exactly what the questions means. "Excuse me?"

Max smiles. "Got a pretty girl back home?" He shakes his head. "Never thought you were the American Dream type. That ring must've cost a fortune."

It's a funny thing to be so petty at thirty-two.

Yale flushes. Aw, look. He's angry.

"What about you?" he asks. His voice barely shakes. That's new. Good for him. Mature, adult Yale. Better than everyone Yale. "Got a girl back home, too?"

How mature, Yale.

Max bears his teeth in a sneer. He'll say it's a smile. "Got lots of girls back home."

Yale blinks. His fingers curl and tighten into fists. He doesn't realise he's doing it. Angry Yale. Got a little ring on his finger to match Yale. "Oh. Yeah?"

Max throws his head back. He smacks against the rough concrete wall with a dull thud. It should hurt. It does hurt. . . a little. A muted pain. Stuffed with cotton balls and can't feel a thing pain. Smoked something and can't feel anything pain.

There was a time when Max had purple hair. There was a time when Max had a band, went to college and smiled at coeds by the dorms. There was a time Yale didn't scowl so deeply, didn't frown like there was something stuck in his gut.

Hey, Yale, why don't you fucking smile?

"What?" Yale snaps. Just fucking smile, idiot.

The train station rumbles as the next train rolls in. It sounds like a departure.

Yale checks his watch.

Max grins, feral. "Leaving me again, babe? We just got back together!"

Yale's look is murderous. He stands, towering. It feels like a departure.

"Unlike you, I am needed somewhere." His words are poison. It tastes like a departure, like New York. He grabs his suitcase. "Hope you have a well night. It was nice seeing you again, Maxwell."

The train rolls in. Yale stands like a soldier on the battlefield, shoulders back, chin up, eyes looking straight forward. He walks like he's needed somewhere. Important Yale. Mature, adult, got his fucking life together Yale. Going home to his stupid, fucking fiance Yale.

It tastes like New York, like North Carolina, like Maine, like Connecticut, like a basement that couldn't fit a party so big, like an auditorium filled with a class from 3:30 to 5.

Max rolls jaw. "No, it wasn't."

Yale turns his upper body. He pauses. He doesn't even fucking stop. He keeps going. Going. Going. Going.

"No, it wasn't," Yale repeats.

It tastes like a departure, but, hey, what's new?