7:30 am on the Yamanote Line. A man hurries onto the train in the middle of the rush hour crush, his blue-black hair still wet from the shower. He stands near the door, briefcase in hand.
Two stops later, another man rides the wave of commuters into the train, his brown hair framing his face. He too carries a briefcase. He too stands, watching the world rush past outside the window.
Another three stops and the first man exits, crossing the street and entering a towering office building that looks like so many others in downtown Tokyo.
One more stop and the other man exits, walking down the sidewalk until he enters a building that could be the twin of the first.
Both men sit at their respective cubicles, picking up the telephone for the first call of the day. It's a tedious call, confirming and re-confirming details that have already been decided by the management and put out in writing, but there's a ritual to it as well. For months now they have been in charge of these calls, and for months, whenever they call a certain other company, the same person answers on the other end. There's a bond that's formed between them over time, forged by the hours spent cross-referencing spreadsheets and checking details off of lists.
When the end of the day comes, they turn off their computers, push in their chairs, and join the crowds of commuters returning home.
The brown-haired salaryman is the first on the Yamanote Line this time.
One stop later, the other man enters the same train. It's always crowded this time of night, bodies pressed together like sardines in a can. A suitcase slips out of a distracted tourist's hand and rolls into him. He stumbles and bumps into the man next to him.
"Sorry," he says.
The man looks up at him sharply with piercing, blue eyes. "It's fine," he replies.
A different sort of silence stretches between them as their eyes meet.
Prince of Tennis, Fuji Shuusuke/Oshitari Yuushi, G, salaryman AU
Two stops later, another man rides the wave of commuters into the train, his brown hair framing his face. He too carries a briefcase. He too stands, watching the world rush past outside the window.
Another three stops and the first man exits, crossing the street and entering a towering office building that looks like so many others in downtown Tokyo.
One more stop and the other man exits, walking down the sidewalk until he enters a building that could be the twin of the first.
Both men sit at their respective cubicles, picking up the telephone for the first call of the day. It's a tedious call, confirming and re-confirming details that have already been decided by the management and put out in writing, but there's a ritual to it as well. For months now they have been in charge of these calls, and for months, whenever they call a certain other company, the same person answers on the other end. There's a bond that's formed between them over time, forged by the hours spent cross-referencing spreadsheets and checking details off of lists.
When the end of the day comes, they turn off their computers, push in their chairs, and join the crowds of commuters returning home.
The brown-haired salaryman is the first on the Yamanote Line this time.
One stop later, the other man enters the same train. It's always crowded this time of night, bodies pressed together like sardines in a can. A suitcase slips out of a distracted tourist's hand and rolls into him. He stumbles and bumps into the man next to him.
"Sorry," he says.
The man looks up at him sharply with piercing, blue eyes. "It's fine," he replies.
A different sort of silence stretches between them as their eyes meet.