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Miyuki holds his phone in front of him as he navigates the unfamiliar airport, tapping a quick text to inform Furuya that he’s landed. He shifts the small duffel bag around his hip to his backside, sliding his hand along the strap diagonal across his chest. He’s only staying a week, so he gratefully skirts the luggage claim and makes his way toward what he thinks is the main entrance. He traverses the building slowly, following vague signs and the general flow of traffic. He’s not really sure where he needs to go anyway, since he has to wait for Furuya to give him a meeting place.
He’s staring critically at a convoluted map of the airport when his phone buzzes against his palm. He lifts it up, smiling at the familiar name on the screen, and reads the contents of the message. Furuya has listed a couple of landmarks for Miyuki to use as a guide and described himself briefly. For all that Miyuki knows the lilt of happiness in Furuya’s voice, and the way it cracks low when he’s sad, or the raspy whisper just before he falls asleep, Miyuki has no idea what Furuya looks like. Armed with directions and an idea of who to look for (highlighter yellow sweatshirt, because apparently Furuya has gone above and beyond the call of duty for him), Miyuki sets off with new purpose.
It takes him several minutes (and a bit of backtracking) to get to the right place, but he’s cheered when he spots the blindingly yellow shirt. He smooths a hand down his shirt, resettles his bag, and takes a deep breath. He’s a little nervous, now that he’s here. Sure, he’s spent days talking to Furuya in the past - oh god, year or so? - but meeting someone face to face is always different. He steels himself (it’s only Furuya, no need to panic) and makes his way across the open space to Furuya’s casual lean against the wall.
The closer he gets, the more details he can discern about Furuya’s appearance. The most obvious thing is how tall Furuya is. Long and lean, he probably made for one hell of a gawky teenager, but Miyuki’s pretty sure it’s worked in his favor in the long run. He notes the straight, dark hair, the pale skin, the hunched shoulders and hands shoved in his pockets. His body language screams uncomfortable and Miyuki smiles at the memory of Furuya talking about his dislike of crowds. He can’t make out much of his face, except that there’s nothing immediately exceptional about it.
He’s just a few steps away when he gets the first inkling of just how screwed he is. Furuya is… fucking gorgeous, to put it plainly. His face is smooth and maybe a little heart shaped, with naturally down turned lips. His eyes are dark and particularly angular, framed by the swoop of his bangs. Miyuki doesn’t really have a type, but damn, if he did he’d want it to be Furuya. It’s a little ridiculous, actually, how badly Miyuki would like to lean up and kiss that pout away.
One of Furuya’s thin eyebrows hitches up a tick and the corner of his lips curls upward in a tiny, crooked smile. Miyuki’s train of thought stutters to a halt. He’d ranked Furuya “nearly ideal” before he ever saw him, but it’s probably time to upgrade him to “absolute perfection.”
“You’re staring,” Furuya says quietly, interrupting Miyuki’s internal praising. His eyes snap up to meet Furuya’s, brain screaming a litany of oh shit’s at being caught ogling, and he laughs nervously.
“I’ve never seen this shade of yellow before,” he jokes lamely, gesturing at Furuya’s shirt. He gulps, face warming in embarrassment, and decides he absolutely needs to go cool his head (among other things) before he makes a bigger fool of himself. He pulls his bag over his head and drops it carelessly to the ground between them.
“Can you watch this? I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” he chokes out in a rush, bolting before Furuya can answer. The nearest bathroom is thankfully mostly deserted, save for an older gentleman standing by the urinals. Miyuki ducks into a stall, falling back against the door and clamping his hands over his face.
This is ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. He’s struck with horrified embarrassment when he realizes that the disembodied voice who he has poured out all of his deepest, darkest, most humiliating secrets to belongs to one of the most attractive men Miyuki has ever seen. He fans his face with both hands, breathing slowly and deliberately. He can handle this. Furuya is very dear to him and it doesn’t matter what he looks like. It’s been a mantra in his head ever since they’d planned this visit - “it doesn’t matter what he looks like.” Hell, he’d prepared himself for any scenario except “unfairly handsome.”
It doesn’t help that Miyuki has been battling with a vague, shapeless feeling of attraction to Furuya in the recent months. Even unaware of his appearance, Miyuki had started to sense the first glimmers of a crush whenever Furuya laughed softly or wished him goodnight or sighed his name. How many times in these past few weeks has he hung up his phone only to roll around on his bed, giddy with laughter?
Miyuki groans quietly, slapping his cheeks. Just his luck that of all the people in the world he had to drunk dial and spill his guts to, he’d manage to find Prince Charming. He takes a few deep breaths, settling his racing nerves as best he can. He needs to deal with this, even if it might kill him having to look at Furuya’s stunning face every day for a week. Maybe it won’t be so bad once he gets used to it. A guy can dream.
He exits the stall to a thankfully empty room and steps to the sink to pat water over his heated cheeks. He frowns at his reflection in the mirror but there’s nothing he can do about the pink tinge to his face. He straightens up, looks his reflection dead in the eyes, and grits his teeth.
“You can do this Miyuki Kazuya. He’s just pretty,” he mutters to himself. Pretty, and sweet, understanding, dryly hilarious. Miyuki groans, pushing away from the sink and marching himself out of the bathroom. Without giving himself time to wimp out again, he walks deliberately up to Furuya. He slaps on a smile and sends a silent prayer to any deity listening in that he survives this week without wrecking a good thing.
“Hi,” he says brightly, holding out his hand, “I’m Miyuki Kazuya.”
“Furuya Satoru,” he answers, voice warm and pleased as they shake hands. Miyuki feels his face going warm again, melting the stupid grin on his face down to something tender and genuine.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Miyuki says softly. Torturous or not, Miyuki wouldn’t give up the smile that lights across Furuya’s face for the world.