Paperman (LietBel)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story. (Specifically, what I don't own in this case is Disney Pixar's animated short film Paperman-look it up, you won't regret it-and, of course, Hetalia.)

New York City

It was probably too late to make the 9 o'clock train at this point.

And, stepping out onto the recently deserted platform, Toris saw that it was true. The last passenger had just boarded: a tall, pale man with a large scarf—an odd choice for summer outerwear, even in New York City, he thought—and the doors had just shut as the train began to move.

He sighed and shifted the heavy stack of papers in his arms. That would be the second time he was late this week. He knew Alfred, his boss, wouldn't mind, and that really, there was nothing particularly fascinating about his job that he wanted to get to, but still. It felt strangely annoying, a tiny part of his highly structured, workaholic life falling out of place.

Perhaps it was for the better, though. His friends—and coworkers, in the case of Feliks—were always telling him he needed to take a break from work, inviting him to parties he wouldn't attend, sending him texts to which he rarely responded.

Then again, perhaps not. He sighed again, suddenly lethargic, and stood quite still on the open-air platform, watching the train pull away from the station. Checking his watch, he noted that he still had fifteen minutes to wait for the right train.

Might as well be productive during that time, he thought, pulling the first paper off the top of his stack and tucking the rest under his arm. He quickly scanned the document—just another one of several dozen (not including the huge stack awaiting him at the office) filled-in form letters his company had to send to potential clients. With a sinking heart, he realized he'd probably spend the entire day stuffing them into envelopes, rigorously folding and refolding the crisp sheets until they were perfectly in thirds, just to give him something to focus on.

Unconsciously, his grip on the papers loosened, and with the gust of wind following another passing train, they scattered like white leaves, flying towards the stairwell. Toris choked back an exclamation (he was quite well versed in Lithuanian swear words) and hurried forward, so harried that he almost didn't notice the young woman hurtling up the stairs at the same time.

He certainly wouldn't have noticed at all, had she not yelled out "брат!", heralding her arrival with a foreign language.

As it was, he barely had time to pull up short to avoid hitting her, she was moving so quickly. The wind, however, was not so merciful, plastering one of Toris's stray papers directly against her face, so that all he could register of her was long platinum hair, whipping back wildly in the force of the gale.

Out of sheer force of habit, he started to apologize, reaching out to pull the sheet off her face. But she cut him off impatiently with a sharp flick of the wrist and a "tch!", instead shoving away the paper none too gently and stuffing it into his hands.

In the process her face was revealed, and Toris was almost surprised at how young and vibrant she looked. She was probably the same age as him, yet still gave off an air of being full of life.

Not like me, he thought as he scanned her delicately-wrought face, the regal features of a princess molded by the brilliant hands of some greater sculptor onto pale, smooth skin, ice blue eyes sharp and alert, and full of some spark he'd somehow lost among the myriad job applications that came immediately after graduation, after the high points of his life were long gone. Not like me.

Peering into the crystalline blue of her eyes, his world suddenly felt so monochrome, so inadequate.

So empty.

"There. Now get the rest of your papers before another train comes," she deadpanned, her voice—a nice one, as voices go, he noted—jolting him out of his reverie.

"R-right, sorry," he stammered, flushing slightly and ducking his head.

"And stop staring at me," she snapped. Her words, while biting, held some smoother undertones of another language, probably northern European. Vaguely he wondered if she was from somewhere near Lithuania.

"Well?" She snarled. "What are you waiting for, standing there like an imbecile?" He didn't move. She rolled her eyes, but knelt down and started scooping up the papers scattered around their feet. "Ці павінен я зрабіць усё тут?" he heard her mutter.

Then he remembered where he was, and quickly dropped down, as if he'd been hit from behind his knees, scrambling to help. "Right, right, sorry, sorry," he repeated, stuttering, face reddening even further. Lord, I must look like such an idiot...

"It's alright," he managed to get out as he saw the lady start back down the stairs to retrieve some of the furthest-flung sheets. "It was my fault the papers went everywhere, you don't have to help if you've got a train to catch."

She turned back to look at him, eyes hostile and full of disdain. "Don't misunderstand me, it was my fault," she stated plainly, as if this were a well-established fact and she were talking to a toddler. Yet somehow it was endearing, rather than demeaning. "And in any case I'm doing you a favor. The next train doesn't come for five minutes yet. And I already missed Brother's train, so it doesn't really matter." Gliding gracefully back up the stairs, her long blue dress flowing out behind her, she thrust the bundle of papers haphazardly into his arms, and he caught them with surprise.

"Oh... thank you, miss...?"

She rolled her eyes. Somehow, the haughty gesture made his heart pound.

The air around them was electric.

They stood there like that, two steadfast soldiers facing the tracks, not speaking, for the next few minutes. Occasionally, Toris would shoot her a quick glance, but she showed no indication of having noticed. Yet somehow the silence wasn't unwieldy, it felt natural. Companionable.

When was the last time he'd felt this way with anyone? He wondered. So completely understood, and by a stranger, no less. Sure, he had friends, but none of them seemed to connect so well with him as the girl standing next to him did. None of them gave him the sense that they knew of and shared his inner turmoil, his secret dreams, or any of the things that he didn't keep on the surface.

So how was it that this girl could?

He was pulled out of his thoughts when the next train pulled noisily into the station, and the girl whipped past him without another word, climbing on as soon as the doors slid open. In her haste, she dropped a small calling card at Toris's feet.

She looked back once, through the window of the now moving train, to where he stood, staring. And she nodded once, her eyes flashing with some unknown emotion, some coded message that only he was supposed to understand. Only he didn't understand it, not yet, at least.

And then she was gone.

Leaning over to pick up the fallen card, he hardly registered what he was doing. What had just happened? What had made him feel so... alive?

More importantly, when had he stopped living in the first place?

He read the name on the card aloud. Natalya Arlovskaya. It felt oddly natural on his lips.

Yet he wasn't even sure if the name was hers. And he still had no idea of who she really was, and how she'd managed to make him feel this way. All he knew was that he wanted to see her again.

He looked down at the last paper in his stack. Interestingly enough, her lipstick had left a kiss upon his page.

He smiled blissfully, and pressed the paper a little tighter against his chest.

It was 11 o'clock, and Toris was bored beyond belief.

He supposed it came with being one of the least senior people in his office. After all, somehow he always got relegated to the most mundane jobs his bosses had to throw at him.

He surveyed the document in front of him: yet another bill to another faceless person. And he sighed, wondering where that girl—the one he wanted to call Natalya, but whose face was the only real piece of her that he had—was now.

He glanced at the lipstick-marked document he had placed on the top of his desk, now slightly crumpled and stained from his tight grasp. He would have to get a reprint of that document, he knew, but for now he was content to look at its vibrant red imprint, one spot of color among the gray and white that covered his small desk. Her name card lay just below the paper, but that was all it had—a name, no number, and no way of reaching the owner.

Looking out the window (he was alternately blessed or cursed to have a window just by his desk), he briefly wondered if she was somewhere out in the city, maybe down on the sidewalk right now, looking up at the monoliths that characterized a city skyline, thinking of him. Then he laughed at himself—for the first time in quite a while—feeling a little bitter. If only he hadn't been such a coward, he might actually have a chance of seeing her again. But this was New York City. Seeing her once would probably be all he got.

He tried to pretend that that hollow, bleak feeling in his chest didn't matter. After all, there was still work; there was still his friends. And maybe he'd find other people, find someone he actually knew well enough to love.

Love. Was that what this was? Was that what he'd lost when she stepped on the train and nodded her goodbye? Or maybe he'd lost it much earlier, when he'd left college and prepared himself to work long hours, bare his soul to his work.

You don't even know her.

Yet somehow he knew it was true.

It had taken him exactly five minutes to fall in love and lose it forever.

"Hey! Whatchya lookin' at, Toris?" His boss' energetic voice found its way into his ears. A second later, his face appeared in front of Toris, grinning cheekily.

"N-nothing," he replied automatically, ashamed to have been caught inattentive. For some reason, Alfred's great enthusiasm irritated him slightly today. He was tempted to tell him to go away, but checked himself. No, it wouldn't do—showing his boss a bad work ethic would be bad. And Alfred was a good boss most days. It wasn't his job to worry about his problems.

His boss laughed. "Right, right. I get that doing the envelopes is boring. Sorry dude, but somebody's gotta do 'em, right?" He widened his blue eyes apologetically, then moved away quickly at Toris's nod.

Sighing, he was about to turn away from his futile scanning of the skyline when something in the studio window of the building across the street caught his eye. A familiar flash of white blond in the sunlight, like spun gold. A scarlet accent to a pale face that had been seared painfully, lovingly into his memory.

No, it couldn't be. All he was doing now was wishing. It would not do, to get his hopes up.

But he leaned over anyway, peered a little closer. Yes, it was. Against all the odds, it was.

Here she was again.

He watched her sit down primly, alone in some brightly-lit waiting room, and pull out a book from the folds of her infinitesimal skirt. If she'd just turn her head a few degrees, would she see him waving? Would she even remember who he was?

Unconsciously, he grabbed the first paper on his desk and started to fold as he watched her, wishing her blue eyes would see his again, and that maybe, just maybe, that message she'd been trying to convey would come through a little clearer.

He ended up with a paper airplane in his hands.

He stared down at it, fascinated at the speed at which it was made. It couldn't be too hard to hit a picture window with an airplane, could it?

Would she see this and find him?

Quickly glancing around the office, he made sure no one was watching, then reached over to the window and pushed it up. A few of the closer employees frowned slightly at the increase in noise, but when they realized it was just reliable little Toris, they hunched back over their work, figuring he deserved a break. And Alfred's back was turned as he conversed with another worker on the floor.

His hands almost seemed to take on a mind of their own as they positioned the plane on the window sill.

Oh well, what the hell, he thought, and let the little craft fly.

Of course, it didn't fly straight, and was blown away quickly by the rush of a passing truck below. Undeterred, he flew another one, which also fell flat. Then another and another, all little winged carriers of his hopes, all swooping low or gliding lopsidedly, none reaching their intended target. One by one they drifted away in the swirling winds of the city. He saw the lady shift slightly in her seat, as if becoming impatient, and started folding faster.

For the first time since his very first day at work, he felt excited to be where he was, like what he was doing actually mattered.

He reached for another paper, then realized that the only sheets he had left on his desk were those he was supposed to be folding and stuffing in envelopes. Biting his lip, he studied them for a moment.

Those could always be reprinted. He grabbed the entire stack and kept going.

He knew people were staring, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care. Nothing they did mattered, as long as he could reach this girl, get his message across. He hadn't felt so free in ages.

He was down to five sheets now, he had to make these count.

One…

Fell flat the second he launched it.

Two…

Was blown away by a passing gust.

Three…

Slipped out of fingers he hadn't realized were trembling.

Four…

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alfred starting forward, looking slightly alarmed to see Toris leaning halfway out the window.

Five…

The sheet with her lips gracing the white paper.

He hesitated. In the window, he could see her getting up, getting ready to leave. This could be his last chance. No, this was his last chance.

He let it loose with a prayer to the heavens.

And he watched it fly straight, closer, closer…

And then plummet straight to the sidewalk, with the rest of his broken dreams.

He watched her walk out of the waiting room, greet another woman, and vanish into the office.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He felt something warm slide down his cheek, and found belatedly that he was crying.

"Toris. Toris!" He looked up into worried blue eyes. Alfred again.

"You okay, dude? Ya know, if you weren't feeling well today, you could've just called in sick," he exclaimed, flashing his customary megawatt smile. Toris nodded mutely, but didn't return the grin.

"Tell ya what," Alfred continued, "take the rest of the day off. I'll have Kiku or Feliks finish with the papers. Don't worry about reprinting them, we'll take care of it. Just… stay healthy, okay?" Toris nodded again.

Lord, he really was an idiot. He couldn't believe he'd convinced himself fate was on his side. Of course it wasn't. It was all so futile, so stupid.

He wiped away a few stray tears, tried to smile. Alfred patted him on the shoulder.

No one else looked up as he closed the window and silently walked out of the office.

Out on the sidewalk, he heard a clock tower chime in the distance, summoning people to noon mass. It tolled, each note throbbing and melancholy, as if it knew how sad and forgotten it sounded to Toris's ears and wept all the more for it.

He'd failed, yet again. Twice he'd seen her, twice she'd vanished before he could find a way to reach her. Stronger, better men than he wouldn't have just let it happen like that. But what was he supposed to do? He had no one, was no one. What happened to him wasn't the world's concern.

Still it didn't feel fair, that he couldn't even manage to find one bright spot in his monotonous, colorless life.

He watched the building across the street with new eyes. Then he turned abruptly and started to walk away. The girl was gone; why was he so upset? It didn't matter, it did not matter. He might as well give up now.

Beginning to stride forward, he almost missed the flash of white that appeared in the corner of his vision.

But then it flew straight into his hands.

One of his discarded paper airplanes, the one with a lipstick mark accenting one of the wings, whipped into his hands by a passing wind.

He stared at it for a moment, then threw it with all his might as far away as he could possibly send it, and continued on in the opposite direction, suddenly feeling exhausted. Faster and faster he moved, as if by doing so he could leave all his problems in the dust.

Something whipped by him again and plastered itself against his leg. He ripped it off. It was that same offending airplane, come back to mock him for his loss. He tossed it behind him, ignoring the wrenching ache that came with it.

Two more stuck to his leg. He shook them off.

And then a swirling mass of white bombarded him, sticking to his chest, forcing him backwards. A few passerby stopped to stare, then continued on their way, figuring that all the wackos in the world congregated in New York City.

Helplessly he tried to swat them off, but the small crafts seemed to have gotten a mind of their own as they bore him up and down streets and alleyways. He was practically borne aloft in the swirling mass of white, which obeyed no winds but the hands of Fate.

He neared a streetlight, and clung to it with all his might. He watched as one of the planes—the one with the red marking—detached itself from the others and flew away. The other planes wrenched him away from his hold and continued to push him forth to some unknown destination.

Something in him wanted to scream. Hadn't he had enough disappointment for one day?

But the planes were relentless, and on he tumbled.

Secretly he wondered what it all meant. For a girl he had just met once, Fate seemed to be handing him a pretty tall order.

But who was he to judge?

Natalya had stopped in front of a small flower stand when she saw it.

She'd been wondering whether that fellow she met at the train station liked sunflowers, like her brother did. Not that she cared or anything. It's just that he looks like the type who can't find his way out of a paper bag and perpetually needs cheering up, she thought. Yes, that was it. That was all it was.

Yet she still couldn't get him out of her head. Her sister, Yekaterina, had noticed this quickly during their appointment, and started teasing her.

"Are you thinking of someone? Someone other than Brother?" She smiled innocently, as if she hadn't dropped a bombshell on her younger sister, who hadn't even realized why she was smiling like a fool.

She was thinking of a man other than Brother. Something was obviously wrong.

Damn his kindness—in her experience, no one was kind to you in the city unless they wanted something, yet this man asked for naught but polite conversation, and even that she had been unable to offer him—and endearing incompetence. Damn the way he treated her like someone who actually mattered as a person, something only her brother and sister cared enough to do. Damn the way her heart—the one she had taught herself to freeze after she became an adult and refused to let her heart be broken again—fluttered like a caged dove in her heart at the wistful look he'd sent her as she looked back.

She didn't even know his name, and she was going soft for him.

All of these thoughts resurfaced in a jumbled mess when she saw a paper airplane sticking out from a bundle of red roses. As she looked on, it fluttered upward and danced in the air around her head, a capricious little cupid in the stultified city air.

Her eyes widened in slow comprehension.

Unbelievable.

But she knew what she had to do.

He'd thought it couldn't be done. Yet here he was now, on that very same train platform, staring into bright blue eyes that challenged his as an equal.

The moment felt timeless.

She looked down at the airplane in her hand, the crisp red lipstick marking still unblemished against the clean white paper. Then she looked up at him.

"You're not brother," she stated, her voice deadpan and flat. If he didn't know better, he'd have said she seemed almost disappointed.

But behind it all, she was smiling.

That was enough for him.

Translations:

брат – Brother (Bel.)

Ці павінен я зрабіць усё тут? – Must I do everything around here? (Bel.)

And, to my American readers: happy Thanksgiving!

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