âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Damon Albarn •

I'm seeing Oasis this Friday (😱😱), so my head is majorly in '90's BritPop bands right now – possibly expect Liam and/or Noel coming up.

I'm not a major Blur fan, but I know a damn good-looking man when I see one. And, in this, so do you. Enjoy!

--☆--

1991

When you see him - curled into an Umbro hoodie at the far end of the packed train carriage - you know you recognise his face. Despite the clear desire for privacy behind the dark hood (another peculiarity on this warm, spring day) the soft lines of his skin and curved nose catch the amber light of the setting sun, illuminating him sharply. Still, you see him clearly from where you stand, swaying slightly in the crowded aisle. But where have you seen him before?

You ponder it as you look out the window. Silhouettes of nameless people dance one by one through your mind, jigsaw pieces of once-familiar eyes and noses and lips assembling in ill-fitting puzzles.

But nothing clicks.

Minutes pass. The train jerks and sways. New faces come and go. But, still, you can't put a name to his. You're finding the mystery exciting on your long journey - a welcome distraction from the press of shoulders and elbows forcing you closer to the back of the carriage.

Between stations, you catch yourself stealing glances his way. Twice, your eyes meet. Both times, you flick your stare out of the window beside him, feigning interest in the countryside, bathed in the last of the sun. His reflection floats there in the glass, set against blurred trees and fields - just the edge of his hood and the faint curve of a dimple tugging at his cheek.

Still, you think you're discreet. Nothing but a stranger zoning out on a rush-hour train journey. Nothing unusual. Nothing new. Even as each jolt of the train nudges you further down the aisle. Closer to him.

Then, finally, after numerous stops and shuffles and whispered apologies, you're only a few rows away. Collision.

The train crawls in beside another busy platform, swarms of people huffing and tapping their fingers. You sigh, shuffling on tired feet, and watch the crowd glumly through the window as they begin shoving their way on.

"Oh, sorry," a voice cuts through the murmur of the carriage – low, smooth, and frighteningly familiar.

You look over. Of course, the melody is falling from his lips. It fits him so well, like a half-remembered song. He's looking up to a man in a trench coat, lips parted in apology, but glances towards you. His eyes – blue, impossibly clear – catch the light.

"This seat's for my friend," he says, with easy confidence.

The disgruntled man looks over piercingly, and you freeze, staring at the beautiful stranger. He tilts his head slightly towards the seat, mouth twitching, the ghost of a grin.

"Oh. Yeah," you stammer, stepping forward clumsily. "Er... thanks."

You collapse gracelessly into the seat, still warm from its previous occupant. The man lingers for a second, irritated, but is quickly swept on by the tide of exasperated new arrivals behind him.

They tumble into the aisle, grumbling about the lack of seats, difficult days, and whatever else we humans find to grumble about. The rickety doors slam shut, and the train slowly pulls away. Voices begin to die down as people settle. Beside you, your new seatmate watches the platform recede, presenting you with only the back of his hood.

Deciding that, perhaps, staring at him now may be a tad obvious, you instead look down to your lap, where your fingers fidget with a ring on your right hand.