The 16 Bus

Arriving in Winnipeg, Evan Park grapples with isolation and anxiety, finding a flicker of unexpected connection and unease at an art workshop led by the effortlessly warm Noah Cardinal.

The bus air, thick with the damp smell of old coats and the faint, sweet decay of winter, pressed in on Evan Park. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, the vibrations a low thrum through his skull. Outside, Portage Avenue slid past in a blur of grey brick and smeared neon. It was January, and Winnipeg had already presented its full, unapologetic self: an endless stretch of flat, frozen prairie sky, and a wind that bit through layers as if they weren't even there. He’d been here three weeks. Three weeks of temporary administrative work, of instant coffee in a mug that wasn’t his, of trying to map the city in his head with Google Maps open on his phone, the glowing blue dot a constant, mocking reminder of how lost he still felt.

His apartment, two blocks off Sargent Avenue, was too quiet. The floorboards groaned in the night, sounding less like an old building settling and more like a warning. He’d unpacked most of his boxes, but the walls were still bare, the cheap paint a pale, indifferent beige. He hadn’t put up the posters he’d brought from home – a faded print of a Shibuya crossing, a band poster from a concert he’d barely remembered attending. It felt like admitting he was staying, and he wasn't sure he was. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.

Every interaction felt like a tightrope walk. At the temp job, he’d caught the eye of a coworker, a woman with kind, tired eyes, and her smile had felt… too much. He’d nodded, mumbled something about the printer jamming, and retreated to his cubicle, the warmth of his ears a tell-tale flush. He’d spent the rest of the morning replaying the moment, dissecting her smile. Was it pity? Was it a genuine attempt at friendliness he’d somehow botched? His mind a perpetual, exhausting echo chamber, analyzing gestures, tone, pauses, inflections until every innocent interaction became a minefield of potential missteps.

It wasn’t depression, not really. Not the heavy, crushing kind that pinned you to your bed. It was more like a constant hum, a low-grade static behind his eyes, dulling the edges of everything, making colours a little less vibrant, laughter a little softer, hope a little harder to grasp. Anxiety, though, that was a constant companion, a small, cold knot in his stomach that tightened whenever a new email arrived or his phone buzzed. It was why he’d picked this place, this unfamiliar city – a fresh start, a clean slate, a chance to escape… something. He wasn't entirely sure what he was escaping, only that the need to run had been a desperate, clawing thing.

The art workshop flyer, tacked to a coffee shop bulletin board, had felt like a bizarre anomaly in his carefully constructed routine of work and quiet evenings. 'Community Canvas: Express Yourself.' He hadn't painted since high school, a brief, embarrassing foray into acrylic landscapes. But the idea, the sheer illogicality of it, had pulled at him. A tiny, fragile thread of curiosity in the hum of static. So here he was, on a Tuesday evening, stepping off the bus a few blocks from a brightly lit community centre, the cold air hitting his lungs with a sharp, invigorating shock that briefly cut through the haze.

Inside, the building smelled of lemon polish and a faint, hopeful scent of something baking. He followed the signs, his worn canvas sneakers squeaking on the polished linoleum floor, until he reached a large, brightly lit room. Easels stood like skeletal sentinels, canvases waiting, paints laid out in vibrant, inviting tubes. The air, heavy with the sharp tang of turpentine and the earthy scent of wet clay, was a shock to his senses. It was… loud. Not with shouting, but with the buzzing murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the occasional burst of laughter. Too many people. He paused, gripping the strap of his messenger bag, his throat tight.

And then he saw him. Noah Cardinal. Evan’s gaze snagged, like a loose thread on a sharp edge. He was standing near a large wooden table, a vibrant smear of yellow and blue on his canvas apron. His voice, a low, easy baritone, cut through the room’s din without being loud, drawing people in. Noah was leaning over a student’s work, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he pointed to something on their palette. His hands, even from across the room, looked strong, capable, with long, artistic fingers that moved with a fluid grace. He wasn’t just talking; he was moving, a natural, unforced choreography of leadership and warmth.

Noah moved between the easels, a casual authority in his posture. He carried himself like someone who belonged, who had always belonged. He was laughing now, a full, unrestrained sound, at something a volunteer with bright pink hair had said. His hair was dark, almost black, cut just long enough to curl softly around his ears, and he had a scattering of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose that Evan could just make out even from this distance. He had a strong jawline, a focused brow, and eyes that seemed to miss nothing, yet held an open, welcoming light.

Evan felt it then, an unfamiliar, electric jolt, like static electricity discharged directly into his chest. His breath caught, a shallow hitch. He wasn't usually affected like this, not by people, not by strangers. It was more than just noticing someone attractive, it was a sudden, visceral awareness, a complete reorientation of his internal compass. The knot in his stomach, usually cold and anxious, now felt… warm. Not comfortable, not exactly, but a strange, unfamiliar heat, like a slow ember igniting. It was a pull, undeniable and unsettling, a curious blend of admiration for Noah’s ease and a stark, raw unease at the contrast to his own tight, self-conscious existence.

Evan watched, unmoving, as Noah circled back to the wooden table, picking up a brush, examining the bristles. A volunteer, a woman with a no-nonsense bun and sharp glasses, approached him. Her name was Deborah, he remembered from the flyer. Evan watched them from a discreet distance, pretending to study a half-finished ceramic vase on a nearby shelf, the rough texture of the clay cool beneath his fingertips. Deborah pointed to a new batch of watercolour paper. Noah nodded, then gestured to a different stack, explaining something quietly, his voice too low for Evan to catch the words.

Deborah’s response was clipped. “Are you sure, Noah? That’s for… the advanced group.” Her tone, though polite, had a peculiar, almost imperceptible edge. It wasn't overtly hostile, but it carried a subtle dismissal, a slight narrowing of her eyes that Evan caught. It was a quiet questioning of his judgment, his capability. Noah’s smile, though still present, seemed to thin, just a fraction. He didn’t argue, simply picked up a sheet from his preferred stack, smoothed it with a thumb, and placed it on the table for the students to use.

Evan’s breath hitched again, this time with a different kind of tension. A prickle of heat spread across his scalp, a flash of something sharp and protective. It was so subtle, so easily missed, but Evan, an expert in reading between the lines, in dissecting every social cue, felt it acutely. That faint, condescending note in Deborah’s voice, the implication that Noah might not know best, that his choices needed a second-guessing. It wasn’t right. An outsider, an observer, he felt a surge of indignation on Noah's behalf, quickly followed by a hot, shameful flush of guilt. He was just watching, doing nothing, a silent witness.

This was a familiar pattern for Evan, the awareness of injustice coupled with an inability to act. It fueled the quiet fury in his chest, making the strange, warm pull towards Noah even more complex. It wasn't just admiration now; it was a burgeoning sense of loyalty, of an unspoken defense. The emotional entanglement was sudden, unwanted, and entirely his own creation, born from an unasked-for witness to a micro-aggression and a fascination that had no logical basis.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, startling him so violently he almost dropped the ceramic vase. “Hey! New face, right? Evan?”

Evan jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned to face Jordan Patel, a whirlwind of energy with a perpetually rumpled hoodie and a grin that seemed to take up half his face. Jordan had introduced himself briefly at the sign-in table, a friendly burst of chatter that Evan had barely registered. Now, Jordan was holding a half-eaten granola bar, crumbs clinging to his stubble. “Yeah, that’s me,” Evan managed, his voice a little hoarser than he’d intended.

“Jordan. You made it! Awesome.” Jordan gestured around the room with his granola bar. “Noah’s good, right? Total guru. Last week he got me to draw a still life of an old shoe and I swear it almost looked… artsy.” He winked, then took another loud bite of his bar. “What are you gonna tackle first? Landscapes? Portraits? Or are you a secret abstract genius?”

Evan felt a weak smile tug at his lips, a genuine one this time, or close enough. Jordan's energy was infectious, a buoyant counterpoint to his own internal hum. “Uh, I’m not sure. Haven’t painted in… years.”

“Perfect!” Jordan exclaimed, undeterred. “No bad habits then. You can watch Noah. He makes everything look so easy. Like he was born with a paintbrush in his hand. Or maybe a chisel. Guy’s got serious talent.” He glanced over at Noah, who was now demonstrating a brushstroke to a small cluster of students, his movements precise and confident.

Evan followed Jordan’s gaze, his eyes drawn back to Noah. He watched the way Noah’s dark hair fell across his brow as he concentrated, the slight flex of his forearm as he guided the brush. He felt the familiar warmth spread through his chest again, a silent, almost painful ache that mingled with the fleeting lightness Jordan’s chatter had brought. Jordan’s playful interactions were a welcome distraction, but they also underscored Evan’s isolation, emphasizing the emotional distance he felt from the easy camaraderie surrounding him. He was still watching, still observing, still on the outside looking in.

Later, as the workshop wound down, Noah moved through the room, offering quiet encouragement, helping clean up. He paused near Evan’s easel, where Evan had managed to create a series of hesitant, smudged lines on a fresh sheet of paper, an attempt at a simple still life that looked more like a crime scene. Noah didn’t laugh. Instead, he picked up a discarded brush, dipped it in a nearby pot of water, and with a single, smooth stroke, softened a harsh line, transforming the awkward shape into something resembling an actual curve. “Don’t be afraid of the water,” Noah said, his voice a low murmur, close enough that Evan felt the faint current of air as he spoke. “It helps things flow.”

Their eyes met. Noah’s were a deep, calm brown, steady and direct, and for a fleeting second, Evan felt completely seen, completely exposed. His ears burned, a familiar physical manifestation of his internal chaos. He managed a short, jerky nod, unable to speak, his throat constricting. Noah offered a small, knowing smile, the kind that didn’t demand a response, and moved on, his presence lingering like the faint scent of charcoal.

Evan packed his bag, his hands fumbling with the zipper. The brush Noah had used, still damp, sat next to his smudged palette. He picked it up, the bristles soft against his thumb. It carried a faint trace of turpentine, and something else, something subtly warm and clean. He dropped it into his bag, feeling a strange mix of desire and fear, a nascent hope flickering in the cavern of his quiet isolation. He craved connection, but the idea of inviting anyone into the messy labyrinth of his thoughts, his anxieties, his overwhelming self-consciousness, felt like scaling a sheer cliff face with no ropes. The city lights outside blurred, a thousand distant windows, each holding a different, unknowable life. He wondered which one of them might someday intersect with his.

The 16 Bus

Two young men in an art workshop. One, Evan, looks down nervously at a smudged palette. The other, Noah, gently reaches over Evan's shoulder to dip a brush in water, a subtle, caring gesture, bathed in soft, dreamy light. - Slice of Life Boys Love (BL), Gay Romance, Anxiety, New Beginnings, Art Workshop, Emotional Connection, Winnipeg Setting, Protective Instincts, Character Driven, Short Stories, Stories to Read, Boys Love (BL), Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-Boys Love (BL)
Evan Park, new to Winnipeg, navigates the isolating routines of a temp job and crowded city buses. He attends a community art workshop, where he's immediately drawn to the charismatic lead, Noah Cardinal, while also observing subtle social dynamics and his own internal struggles. Slice of Life BL, Gay Romance, Anxiety, New Beginnings, Art Workshop, Emotional Connection, Winnipeg Setting, Protective Instincts, Character Driven, Short Stories, Stories to Read, BL, Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-BL
• Slice of Life Boys Love (BL)
Arriving in Winnipeg, Evan Park grapples with isolation and anxiety, finding a flicker of unexpected connection and unease at an art workshop led by the effortlessly warm Noah Cardinal.

The bus air, thick with the damp smell of old coats and the faint, sweet decay of winter, pressed in on Evan Park. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, the vibrations a low thrum through his skull. Outside, Portage Avenue slid past in a blur of grey brick and smeared neon. It was January, and Winnipeg had already presented its full, unapologetic self: an endless stretch of flat, frozen prairie sky, and a wind that bit through layers as if they weren't even there. He’d been here three weeks. Three weeks of temporary administrative work, of instant coffee in a mug that wasn’t his, of trying to map the city in his head with Google Maps open on his phone, the glowing blue dot a constant, mocking reminder of how lost he still felt.

His apartment, two blocks off Sargent Avenue, was too quiet. The floorboards groaned in the night, sounding less like an old building settling and more like a warning. He’d unpacked most of his boxes, but the walls were still bare, the cheap paint a pale, indifferent beige. He hadn’t put up the posters he’d brought from home – a faded print of a Shibuya crossing, a band poster from a concert he’d barely remembered attending. It felt like admitting he was staying, and he wasn't sure he was. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.

Every interaction felt like a tightrope walk. At the temp job, he’d caught the eye of a coworker, a woman with kind, tired eyes, and her smile had felt… too much. He’d nodded, mumbled something about the printer jamming, and retreated to his cubicle, the warmth of his ears a tell-tale flush. He’d spent the rest of the morning replaying the moment, dissecting her smile. Was it pity? Was it a genuine attempt at friendliness he’d somehow botched? His mind a perpetual, exhausting echo chamber, analyzing gestures, tone, pauses, inflections until every innocent interaction became a minefield of potential missteps.

It wasn’t depression, not really. Not the heavy, crushing kind that pinned you to your bed. It was more like a constant hum, a low-grade static behind his eyes, dulling the edges of everything, making colours a little less vibrant, laughter a little softer, hope a little harder to grasp. Anxiety, though, that was a constant companion, a small, cold knot in his stomach that tightened whenever a new email arrived or his phone buzzed. It was why he’d picked this place, this unfamiliar city – a fresh start, a clean slate, a chance to escape… something. He wasn't entirely sure what he was escaping, only that the need to run had been a desperate, clawing thing.

The art workshop flyer, tacked to a coffee shop bulletin board, had felt like a bizarre anomaly in his carefully constructed routine of work and quiet evenings. 'Community Canvas: Express Yourself.' He hadn't painted since high school, a brief, embarrassing foray into acrylic landscapes. But the idea, the sheer illogicality of it, had pulled at him. A tiny, fragile thread of curiosity in the hum of static. So here he was, on a Tuesday evening, stepping off the bus a few blocks from a brightly lit community centre, the cold air hitting his lungs with a sharp, invigorating shock that briefly cut through the haze.

Inside, the building smelled of lemon polish and a faint, hopeful scent of something baking. He followed the signs, his worn canvas sneakers squeaking on the polished linoleum floor, until he reached a large, brightly lit room. Easels stood like skeletal sentinels, canvases waiting, paints laid out in vibrant, inviting tubes. The air, heavy with the sharp tang of turpentine and the earthy scent of wet clay, was a shock to his senses. It was… loud. Not with shouting, but with the buzzing murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the occasional burst of laughter. Too many people. He paused, gripping the strap of his messenger bag, his throat tight.

And then he saw him. Noah Cardinal. Evan’s gaze snagged, like a loose thread on a sharp edge. He was standing near a large wooden table, a vibrant smear of yellow and blue on his canvas apron. His voice, a low, easy baritone, cut through the room’s din without being loud, drawing people in. Noah was leaning over a student’s work, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he pointed to something on their palette. His hands, even from across the room, looked strong, capable, with long, artistic fingers that moved with a fluid grace. He wasn’t just talking; he was moving, a natural, unforced choreography of leadership and warmth.

Noah moved between the easels, a casual authority in his posture. He carried himself like someone who belonged, who had always belonged. He was laughing now, a full, unrestrained sound, at something a volunteer with bright pink hair had said. His hair was dark, almost black, cut just long enough to curl softly around his ears, and he had a scattering of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose that Evan could just make out even from this distance. He had a strong jawline, a focused brow, and eyes that seemed to miss nothing, yet held an open, welcoming light.

Evan felt it then, an unfamiliar, electric jolt, like static electricity discharged directly into his chest. His breath caught, a shallow hitch. He wasn't usually affected like this, not by people, not by strangers. It was more than just noticing someone attractive, it was a sudden, visceral awareness, a complete reorientation of his internal compass. The knot in his stomach, usually cold and anxious, now felt… warm. Not comfortable, not exactly, but a strange, unfamiliar heat, like a slow ember igniting. It was a pull, undeniable and unsettling, a curious blend of admiration for Noah’s ease and a stark, raw unease at the contrast to his own tight, self-conscious existence.

Evan watched, unmoving, as Noah circled back to the wooden table, picking up a brush, examining the bristles. A volunteer, a woman with a no-nonsense bun and sharp glasses, approached him. Her name was Deborah, he remembered from the flyer. Evan watched them from a discreet distance, pretending to study a half-finished ceramic vase on a nearby shelf, the rough texture of the clay cool beneath his fingertips. Deborah pointed to a new batch of watercolour paper. Noah nodded, then gestured to a different stack, explaining something quietly, his voice too low for Evan to catch the words.

Deborah’s response was clipped. “Are you sure, Noah? That’s for… the advanced group.” Her tone, though polite, had a peculiar, almost imperceptible edge. It wasn't overtly hostile, but it carried a subtle dismissal, a slight narrowing of her eyes that Evan caught. It was a quiet questioning of his judgment, his capability. Noah’s smile, though still present, seemed to thin, just a fraction. He didn’t argue, simply picked up a sheet from his preferred stack, smoothed it with a thumb, and placed it on the table for the students to use.

Evan’s breath hitched again, this time with a different kind of tension. A prickle of heat spread across his scalp, a flash of something sharp and protective. It was so subtle, so easily missed, but Evan, an expert in reading between the lines, in dissecting every social cue, felt it acutely. That faint, condescending note in Deborah’s voice, the implication that Noah might not know best, that his choices needed a second-guessing. It wasn’t right. An outsider, an observer, he felt a surge of indignation on Noah's behalf, quickly followed by a hot, shameful flush of guilt. He was just watching, doing nothing, a silent witness.

This was a familiar pattern for Evan, the awareness of injustice coupled with an inability to act. It fueled the quiet fury in his chest, making the strange, warm pull towards Noah even more complex. It wasn't just admiration now; it was a burgeoning sense of loyalty, of an unspoken defense. The emotional entanglement was sudden, unwanted, and entirely his own creation, born from an unasked-for witness to a micro-aggression and a fascination that had no logical basis.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, startling him so violently he almost dropped the ceramic vase. “Hey! New face, right? Evan?”

Evan jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned to face Jordan Patel, a whirlwind of energy with a perpetually rumpled hoodie and a grin that seemed to take up half his face. Jordan had introduced himself briefly at the sign-in table, a friendly burst of chatter that Evan had barely registered. Now, Jordan was holding a half-eaten granola bar, crumbs clinging to his stubble. “Yeah, that’s me,” Evan managed, his voice a little hoarser than he’d intended.

“Jordan. You made it! Awesome.” Jordan gestured around the room with his granola bar. “Noah’s good, right? Total guru. Last week he got me to draw a still life of an old shoe and I swear it almost looked… artsy.” He winked, then took another loud bite of his bar. “What are you gonna tackle first? Landscapes? Portraits? Or are you a secret abstract genius?”

Evan felt a weak smile tug at his lips, a genuine one this time, or close enough. Jordan's energy was infectious, a buoyant counterpoint to his own internal hum. “Uh, I’m not sure. Haven’t painted in… years.”

“Perfect!” Jordan exclaimed, undeterred. “No bad habits then. You can watch Noah. He makes everything look so easy. Like he was born with a paintbrush in his hand. Or maybe a chisel. Guy’s got serious talent.” He glanced over at Noah, who was now demonstrating a brushstroke to a small cluster of students, his movements precise and confident.

Evan followed Jordan’s gaze, his eyes drawn back to Noah. He watched the way Noah’s dark hair fell across his brow as he concentrated, the slight flex of his forearm as he guided the brush. He felt the familiar warmth spread through his chest again, a silent, almost painful ache that mingled with the fleeting lightness Jordan’s chatter had brought. Jordan’s playful interactions were a welcome distraction, but they also underscored Evan’s isolation, emphasizing the emotional distance he felt from the easy camaraderie surrounding him. He was still watching, still observing, still on the outside looking in.

Later, as the workshop wound down, Noah moved through the room, offering quiet encouragement, helping clean up. He paused near Evan’s easel, where Evan had managed to create a series of hesitant, smudged lines on a fresh sheet of paper, an attempt at a simple still life that looked more like a crime scene. Noah didn’t laugh. Instead, he picked up a discarded brush, dipped it in a nearby pot of water, and with a single, smooth stroke, softened a harsh line, transforming the awkward shape into something resembling an actual curve. “Don’t be afraid of the water,” Noah said, his voice a low murmur, close enough that Evan felt the faint current of air as he spoke. “It helps things flow.”

Their eyes met. Noah’s were a deep, calm brown, steady and direct, and for a fleeting second, Evan felt completely seen, completely exposed. His ears burned, a familiar physical manifestation of his internal chaos. He managed a short, jerky nod, unable to speak, his throat constricting. Noah offered a small, knowing smile, the kind that didn’t demand a response, and moved on, his presence lingering like the faint scent of charcoal.

Evan packed his bag, his hands fumbling with the zipper. The brush Noah had used, still damp, sat next to his smudged palette. He picked it up, the bristles soft against his thumb. It carried a faint trace of turpentine, and something else, something subtly warm and clean. He dropped it into his bag, feeling a strange mix of desire and fear, a nascent hope flickering in the cavern of his quiet isolation. He craved connection, but the idea of inviting anyone into the messy labyrinth of his thoughts, his anxieties, his overwhelming self-consciousness, felt like scaling a sheer cliff face with no ropes. The city lights outside blurred, a thousand distant windows, each holding a different, unknowable life. He wondered which one of them might someday intersect with his.