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Thirty-six thousand feet above sea level had been Kuroo’s new, almost permanent home since he got promoted. His frequent flyer miles racked up to an amount he would never ever anticipated.
Prior to this job, flying rarely came across his mind. His folks both at the company and from the volleyball club would inquire from time to time about going somewhere with him, made possible by an aid from the steel birds in the skies.
His replies to them were usually a “no” in a form of a chuckle and a toothy grin.
It was spring that he got leveled up as the head of the department. His boss congratulated him with a firm pat to his shoulder, and a sincere old-world smile. Kuroo bowed to the older man, showing his respect and thankfulness for this new opportunity in life.
Before leaving Kuroo back to his desk, the aged chief told him from this day on he’d no longer be bound to the ground. The ancient pair of the old man’s eyes seemed to say something else contradictory; a hint of off-putting somberness emanating from those stares.
Kuroo wouldn’t be tethered to the world under the endless blankets of clouds. He would be one with the stars. He would be this and that, only ultimately, he’d still be tied to the organization he worked for.
You can be glad for the money you’ll earn. But don’t forget we’re all just nuts and bolts in a big machine.
His co-worker, sitting two rows across from him, spoke of this so-called wisdom during their alcohol-fused Friday night hanging out at the izakaya restaurant two stations away.
A synthesized glockenspiel-like beep evoked Kuroo to pull out his BlackBerry Bold 9780 from the chest pocket of the light grey suit he was donning. An email from his higher-up wishing him a safe trip to the assigned destination. Kuroo answered back, writing with all the formalities one could conjure up.
The phone itself was the costliest he had ever owned, prompting him to buy a case and a small sheet of plastic film to cover the screen.
Not for a moment with his past phone, an all-black flip phone with an obnoxiously loud camera noise and a blinding flash, that he’d take care of it as much as this one.
Another reason aside from the price, might just be that it was the firm’s phone and not his. Tucked away in his briefcase, the flip phone was still there — acting as a back-up and his lifeline to friends from his past.
Kuroo slid the mobile back into the pocket. Stillness and the near absence of people populated the airport he was in. The plane he had to be on was at least a couple hours away from reaching him.
It was also a red-eye flight. I’m gonna be sleeping all the way , he had planned. In the leather box-shaped bag, among all the documents and pens, was an inflatable wrap-around pillow waiting to be blown into life.
This particular trip was a 5-hour trip. His presence at the gate was required at around eleven-fifty P.M. He had already checked in, his boarding pass printed out and kept readily in his bag.
Kuroo had no problem with being on time. In all his years at the company, he was only late once from the train arriving late. Half of the corporation was also late on that uneventful day too.
Standing up, Kuroo flexed his muscles to ease off the numbness from sitting. The occasional, smooth female voice of the announcer blared throughout the PA system broke the monotonous nature of the surroundings.
He paced around, unsure of what to do to kill time.
If he was an avid reader, he’d be reading as of now. Kuroo was not and would likely never be. The honor of being bibliophile fell to a few of his pals from Karasuno and Fukuroudani.
He hadn’t met anyone from those two schools for far too long. Reality was, he hadn’t seen a single person he played volleyball with since he began working. They were familiar with Kuroo expressing words of disappointed sighs whenever they asked him for a meet-up.
Kuroo had been granted the means to fly, its cost was the lack of others.
Click, click, click, as the heels of his loafers made contact with the sterilized seamless floor tiles. He could nearly see the reflection of his, blurred and faded.
A sigh, and he unlocked his bag open to get his black, dressing in a red rubber case, 5.5th Gen iPod Classic. An excited smile from Bokuto was one of the many pictures lodged in his memories on the day he was given the MP3 player. Those from different schools were also there.
A parting gift for good luck! Bokuto beamed, all while jabbing his elbow into the waist of Kuroo. His name was etched in the back, both in Japanese and English. He thanked Bokuto and the guys for it, giving them his warm embraces so as to remember them.
Yesterdays came and went.
Kuroo plugged in the earbuds into the player, placing the left and right side in the respective sides of his ears. Holding the iPod in his right hand, he scrolled and scrolled to look for songs to listen to.
Most of the music he had could be categorized in the genres of rock and electronic, with a few tracks from the masters of classical music.
Eventually, he chose Dreams by Fleetwood Mac — the 2004 remastered version.
The mid-tempo nature of the song made Kuroo tap his right foot along with the rhythm. He dropped the player, softly, inside the right pants pocket. From a not-too-far distance, the fluorescent light of the mini convenience store seemed to invite Kuroo to come to it.
And who he was to deny the taste of a near late night light meal and a cold can of UCC blended coffee.
Kuroo grabbed his bag, marching towards the store with a specific pace set to the pace of the song. The store clerk, male with buzz cut hair and a scar on his left eyebrow, greeted him as he entered. He smiled back, just to not be rude.
He went through each aisle, inspecting what could be the alternative to the instant noodle. Kuroo had swore to himself on refraining from eating them.
These past previous nights he had been preparing for this flight and the various meetings to happen after he landed, that he turned to the magic of three-minute and it’s ready noodles.
The song came to an end, and he replayed it again.
Red adzuki bean paste sandwich and a can of coffee made the cut. Kuroo paid in cash, getting the change and grabbing his meal with one hand. If he could hold an entire Mizuno ball with a lone hand, a sandwich and a can would be no match either.
He made his way back to his seat. The PA announced again, not of his flight. Setting the bag on one of the chairs, interconnected with its fellow brethrens, Kuroo came to a quick conclusion to not sit down just yet.
Tearing off the seal of the sandwich, he munched right into it. A satisfied moan lightly came out. Seconds later, he opened the can of coffee. The caffeine-filled liquid touched the taste buds, right before making their way down to the stomach.
He finished both of them with an astonishing speed. It was a habit, really. He used to do it all the time after practicing or competing.
The plastic seal and the can were disposed of in their own bins. A quick look at his cheap Casio wristwatch told him he still had all the time in the world.
The song ended again, and he chose another one: King of Rome by Pet Shop Boys. Slow, electronic drum beats lead the track, accompanied by strings played on a synth and a soft leading male voice.
On the display board nearby, his flight was shown as being on its way. I really should’ve brought a Jump , Kuroo pondered. He watched the statuses of other flights, varying from “on-time”, “delayed”, “boarding”, “gate closed”, and on and on.
Kuroo had lost count of how many planes he had been on. How many seats he had sat or slept on. How many continents he had crossed. How many microwaved-meal disguised as a home-cook meal he had eaten.
How many times he had to say “I can’t go” to old friends.
Going back to the seat, Kuroo listened to more songs — jumping between genres. How funny, that one of the tracks was a recording his volleyball confidants left for him. Hiding in plain sight of those recorded voices, was a confession of love to him. The voice was calm and confident; lying beneath it was anxiety and uncertainty.
He didn’t have the time nor the chance to say yes or no.
Tearing up just a little, he wiped the tears away. Kuroo selected a track, a little more upbeat this time.
He kept on waiting for his plane to come.
And when it was his time to board, this space he was occupying would be vacant again. Tomorrow and the days and nights after, occupied and empty.
The PA spoke. It was his flight this time. The airport display listed his flight as “gate open”.
Kuroo switched off the player, putting it and the earpods — wrapped around the case, back into his bag. Holding the briefcase firmly, he made his way to the boarding gate.
Click, click, click, as he marched on to where he had to be.
Click, click, as he moved further and further away.
Click, as he wasn’t here no more.