before sunrise. | steven grant x reader

Abstract: He thinks ten, twenty years into the future, lets his mind wander. A job he’s starting to lose interest in, a marriage that hasn’t even happened yet losing its energy, and him regretting the things he didn’t do all those years gone by. In the midst of it there’s this - a train leaving, you, Vienna. Something so sweet he just missed out of fear.

Words: 2.1K

Content: fluff, meet-cute, please don’t get off the train with strangers

A/N:pictures are not meant to depict the aspect of the reader, i tried to keep it as neutral as possible - june 16th, the day jesse and celine met, could i really pass on the opportunity to write a little au with our beloved steven grant? yes i am aware of the utter irony of ethan hawke playing the male lead, no i absolutely do not care - i wrote this in a rush and it is not edited

also on AO3

It is so incredibly difficult to focus on the book in your hands when the couple sitting across the aisle from you keeps arguing.

They’re speaking German, you’re sure, and he keeps waving his newspaper around to emphasise his words - until she smacks it right out of his hands, the sound so loud it rings in your ears and convinces you to get up at last, recovering your bag and quickly walking away from them.

Row after row you look around until you manage to spot an empty seat across from a man with curly dark hair, his gaze cast down towards the book on his lap. You put down the bag, quickly glancing at the man that returns your gaze - a quick nod of acknowledgement, both of her and of the absurdity of the situation, before returning his attention to his book, allowing you to try and resume your own reading.

It ends in failure once more, as the wife gets up with an angry noise and more muttering and mumbling in German, the man following her shortly to continue their argument across the entirety of the train.

You follow them with your eyes, and notice the man doing the same, eyebrows arched and lips slightly parted - after the couple passes you, he makes another quick eye contact with you, mouth moving in a silent uh-oh at the woman closing the door of the car in her husband’s face. You snort quietly, shaking your head before looking down at last to the page you’d lost your sign.

“Do you have any idea what they were arguing about?” his voice is low, with a strong British accent, and you train your eyes up towards him, temporarily dazed. You see his eyes widen a bit, just a hint of panic in his gaze before he clears his throat, stuttering a bit. “Do you speak English?”

“Yeah,” you reassure quickly, leaning towards him. And then, “no, I’m sorry - my German is not very good,” you confess, and he sighs, nodding slightly before leaning back, his gaze turning towards the window and the scenery outside. You smile to yourself, arm resting on the empty seat at your side. “Have you heard that as couples get older they lose their ability to hear each other?”

He blinks in your direction, fazed, lips parting again.

“No,” he muses, finding a smile starting to bloom on his face. “Really?”

“Supposedly, men lose their ability to hear high-pitched sounds,” you explain, the fact sprouting from your memory out of nowhere. “And women eventually lose hearing on the low end. I guess they sort of nullify each other, don’t they?”

“Must be nature’s way of allowing couples to grow old together and not kill each other, I guess,” he notices you grinning at the corner of his eyes as he takes in the information, and mentally slaps himself for his own words. So he clears his throat, awkwardly shuffling in his seat to face you before tipping his chin up. “What are you reading?” he’s noticed your eyes falling down towards the book, but cannot help himself attempting to salvage this half-conversation, possibly keep it going. There’s something enthralling about you, and he’s spent so long on that train that he just cannot let the opportunity for good company slip past him.

You hold up your book, an old battered copy of a French novel. He nods, humming, and you smile again.

“How about you?” he picks up his book - a textbook, really, the Ennead in gold foil blinking back at you. Your eyebrows arch in curiosity, but you do not comment on his reading choice.

Still, your lips part, and you’re about to ask a question when the door of the car slides open again and the couple comes back, still arguing, still loud. You both cringe at the sound, following their return to their seats with your eyes before once more looking at each other.

“Listen, I was thinking of going to the lounge car sometime soon,” he offers, eyeing the couple. “You wanna go?”

“Yes, please,” you exhale in relief, immediately standing up and stuffing the book in your bag. Then you pause, frowning to yourself before clearing your throat. “Uh, nice to meet you,” you extend your hand in his direction while he’s still getting up, and it takes him a moment to catch on.

“Steven,” he blurts out, holding your hand for a few instants. “Sorry - I’m Steven, nice to meet you, too.”

  —

Steven is absolutely mesmerised.

He’s looking at you sitting in front of him and cannot seem to think straight. There’s something in your mannerism, in the way you speak, that has him eating out of the palm of your hand.

And surprisingly enough, he doesn’t feel the need to measure every word he says, to turn the words over and over in his head before actually saying them - he can just talk, and you’re sitting there with your glass of water and empty plate sitting askew on the table listeningto him.

“So, where are you headed?” you ask all of a sudden, and that bright smile of yours leaves him dumbfounded for a moment.

“Ah, back to London - I’m starting working on Monday, so I’ll get a flight from Paris,” he outright beams. “Been visiting a friend in Italy for a few days, borrowed a few books for my lessons, then decided to take the long way home - do some sightseeing from the window.”

“You’re a teacher?” there’s genuine curiosity in your words, head resting on your closed fist. He nods, and you eye the book poking out of his backpack. “Egyptology?”

“Yeah - I used to want to be an archaeologist,” he confesses, and your eyes light up with newfound curiosity. “I’ll have to admit, I’m not made for field work,” he gives a sheepish smile, which you return quickly. “What about you?”

“I just got my PhD and decided it was time to allow myself to travel across Europe for the first time,” you shrug lightly. “I’m not really thinking about work these months - not until I go back home, anyway. Next stop is Vienna.”

“And what do you want to do, then?” he asks, and your eyebrows arch carefully, attempting to not let your smile take over. He mutters something under his breath, quickly shaking his head. “Right - sorry, sorry. No work, got it,” you grin at him, nose scrunching up with the motion. “So why allow yourself? How come you never travelled around Europe before?”

“I just -” you pause, sighing as you drop both hands on the table. “I felt this constant pressure of just doing good, you know? Like -” you pause again, clearing your throat a little as the confession builds up - it’s been so easy to talk to Steven in the past few hours. “My parents have never really spoken of the possibility of my falling in love or getting married or having children. Even when I was young, they wanted me to think about a future career, to focus on what I wanted to do.”

“Did they expect a lot of you?” he frowns lightly, a slight sense of guilt building up in his chest.

“I mean, you did get a PhD,” he points out, his head tilting ever so slightly, causing a curl to fall across his forehead. It makes you want to reach across the table and sweep it back, so you move your hands back and onto your lap. “Andyou’re visiting Europe - isn’t that something someone great would do?”

“No, that’s the thing - it wasn’t demanding, they just assumed I’d be someone great,” you chew on your bottom lip absent-mindedly. “I’d say to my dad I wanted to be a writer and he’d say journalist. I’d say I wanted to have a refuge for stray cats and he’d say veterinarian. I’d say I wanted to be an actor and he’d say TV newscaster. It was this constant conversion of my fanciful ambitions into practical money-making ventures - it was a subtle pressure they probably didn’t even realise was there.”

The laughter leaves you before you can fully register it - he seems to have this ability of making you feel at ease that feels so rare, so difficult to find in such a short time.

“I suppose,” you muse, nodding slightly before taking a slow, deep breath.

“Maybe the problem is that if you have parents that never fully contradict anything you want to do and are basically nice and supportive, it makes it harder to officially complain. Even if they are wrong,” he offers, and you nod again, the smile starting to make your cheeks ache in the most welcomed way.

“Europe is my way out of thinking I owe them - or anybody else, for the matter - anything,” you declare at last, and watch him straighten a little, as if absorbing the pride in your statement. “It’s a slow process, but luckily it’s a big continent,” he grins at your statement, and almost goes in to reply when the train starts to slow down.

“Oh,” he slouches down again, smile faltering. “I think this is Vienna.”

“Yeah, it is,” you rest back on your seat, sighing quietly. “I wish I’d met you earlier - I really like talking to you,” you murmur, and his eyes widen a little as if in surprise.

“It was really nice talking to you, too,” he confesses, voice lower.

“God - I hardly talked to anybody in weeks,” you mutter, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “The perks of travelling solo,” you click your tongue then, and reach over to grab your bag resting on the empty surface of the table between the two of you.

It hits Steven like a flash: he doesn’t want it to end. Not like this. Not right now.

His hand shoots out on its own accord, and he’s resting it over yours over your bag, quickly looking up at you just as you open your mouth to speak again, and for a moment you just stare at each other.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, but doesn’t move his hand.

“I have an admittedly insane thought,” you retort instead, face flushing at the mere idea - because you don’t want it to end, either. “And I know it might come off as absurd, but it’s one of those things that will haunt me forever if I don’t ask you.”

“What?” he’s somewhere between perplexed and concerned, his hand shifting so his palm rests under yours, fingers curling gently around your own.

“I really want to keep talking to you,” you admit, and his quick smile caught him off guard as well. “I mean, I have no idea what your situation is, but I do feel a sort of… connection.”

“Yeah, me too,” he agrees, and you find yourself exhaling in relief.

“Good,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “Because I really want to hear about your job, and that book, and how Italy was and -” you shake your head to clear it from the rambling ready to fall from your tongue. “Why don’t you get off here in Vienna with me?”

“What?” he smiles at the thought, but there’s some hesitancy in his expression.

“It’s Thursday, right? You don’t start until Monday, and we can just see the city today and you get the next train for Paris tomorrow,” you explain, shifting a little on the seat as people start to unboard. “You’ll still make it in time for your flight, and we’ll have some extra hours.”

He thinks about it - reallythinks about it.

On one hand it’s outright insane to even consider it: getting off a train with a stranger in a city he doesn’t know, with no plan as to what to do or where to go.

On the other he can’t bear the thought of letting this -  you  - slip through his fingers, of watching the train leave the platform with you walking away, your back on him, bag slumped over your shoulder.

He thinks ten, twenty years into the future, lets his mind wander. A job he’s starting to lose interest in, a marriage that hasn’t even happened yet losing its energy, and him regretting the things he didn’t do all those years gone by. In the midst of it there’s this - a train leaving, you, Vienna. Something so sweet he just missed out of fear.

You’re still looking at him, eyes wide and expectant, a newfound giddiness as you eye the window and the people still leaving, nibbling at your bottom lip, waiting, waiting.

Steven smiles, his chest lighter, his head clearer.

“Let me get my bag.”