A Hundred Days | Dan Howell x Reader

Chapter 5.

Maybe it's the English summer,
maybe it's the atmosphere...

The Wombats were your only distraction from the unlikely London heat.

Fuck.

It really was deathly hot on the Underground. Thirty-four Celcius above ground meant that the tube was at least forty degrees during mid-evening rush-hour.

And of course you worked by Bank and of course there was a delay between there and home.
And of fucking course it was on the night you had to pick Eileen up from the airport.

Through the tunnels, a reminder to keep hydrated and to seek help if one was feeling ill was echoing, a distant sound in the midst of your music.

Finally, your train arrived, but unfortunately the transport belonged as much to you as it did to the hundred people gathered around you on the stuffy platform.

You think this is stuffy? Well, it's about to get a hell of a lot worse...

You shuffled onto the vessel along with everyone else, not even securing a space to place your hand, not so much as a single spot of yellow barring remained empty.
Now that was what you called busy!

So, with your nose in someone's hair and somebody's bag jutting between your ribs, you placed your feet in a wide stance (or however wide was possible, anyway), and prepared for the hell you were about to endure.

"Sorry, sorry, pardon me, I'm so sorrry, but I have to get on here".

The stuffed carriage gave a collective groan as yet another passenger, a relatively tall man, jostled his way onto the tube.

A tall man.
With dark eyes.
And a curly lock of dark hair falling down on his forehead.

You inhaled sharply as you glimpsed him.

And then he was standing right beside you.

And he was apologising again.
"I'm really very sorry", he bit his lip and glanced down at you when the crowded train had forced him nearly up against you.

But you couldn't concentrate on what he was saying because your heart was thudding so loudly in your chest it might as well have been sitting in your ears.

Why?

Well, because the freckled young man standing in front of you who you'd struggled to identify for so long as he passed you, was the very person you should've recognised from a single word spoken.

Daniel James Howell was aboard the same line as you and he was so close to you that you needn't even reach out to touch him.

And from the grin that splayed across his features, causing his eyes to twinkle, their corners scrunching up, you could tell he was making some lame joke that he was really quite pleased with.

When he saw you weren't laughing, let alone smiling, his own cheerful expression faded; you pulled out your earbuds.

Looking around without making eye contact, he ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it until it stood on its ends.

"Shit", he muttered, attempting to smooth down the perfectly fine arrangement of hair that had been before he disturbed it, "it really is bloody hot down here, isn't it?"

He was talking to you, likely trying to make the close proximity a little less awkward. He wasn't doing very much good, but at least he was making an effort.

"Yeah", you said, "especially down here, on the Underground".

"With so many people", he added with a groan.